REVIEW: Touch by Ericka Lopez

“Please do not touch the art.”

In most museums, art exhibits or galleries– at least that I have attended– that message is posted loud and clear. But at Touch, an art exhibition by Ericka Lopez housed in the Institute for the Humanities Gallery, touching the art is encouraged.

Lopez was born with limited vision and today is completely blind. As a result, her art-making process comes through the sense of touch and her memories of color. The exhibit houses three different types of pieces: mixed-media sculptures, ceramics and punch-rug textiles. 

I walked into the small square room with some trepidation. The exhibit is housed in the Institute for the Humanities Gallery, a square room on the first floor of Thayer Academic Building. I went during the middle of a weekday, so the gallery was understandably quiet. What drew my eye immediately were the circular mixed-media sculptures hanging on the wall. Each one looks different, and are colorful amalgamations of yarn, beads, buttons, fabric and even keys. 

Multi-media sculptures at Touch, by Ericka Lopez. Courtesy of Madison Hammond.

It felt unnatural to touch an art exhibit. I gently reached out, and realized how much the texture of the piece added to the experience. The plastic beads and bundles of string contrast each other visually, but they contrast even more in texture. These everyday objects take on a new life in these pieces.

I moved on to Lopez’s punch-rugs. Each of these pieces follow a cohesive color scheme, and with the eye look a bit plainer than the multi-media sculptures since they don’t include as many mediums as the sculptures. (Don’t worry, though; there are still plenty of beads and buttons here).

Punch-rug pieces from Touch, by Ericka Lopez. Courtesy of Madison Hammond.

Despite being completely blind, Lopez uses color masterfully. According to Amanda Krugliak, the exhibit curator, Lopez has figured out how to distinguish different colored materials based on touch and scent. This unique method is part of what makes Lopez’s pieces so creative and imaginative; the exhibit is unlike any other that I’ve seen. It pushes the boundaries of the future of art.

I decided to try closing my eyes before touching each of these pieces– and this is how I suggest enjoying most of the exhibit, but these pieces especially. Lopez places different textiles in intentional patterns to create a landscape that comes alive as you feel it. 

In the center of the room, Lopez’s ceramic pieces sit atop two tables. The deeper meaning behind these pieces escaped me at first. I stared at the beautifully glazed coil pots before scanning the QR code to read about the pieces, where I learned that the warped and lopsided shapes come from Lopez hugging or holding the pots before firing. The relationship between the body and the art, the artist and her pieces, is what makes these pieces meaningful. 

Ceramics at Touch, by Ericka Lopez. Courtesy of Madison Hammond.

Accessibility within the arts can seem tricky. How can one convey a two-dimensional painting to someone who can’t see the painting? But exhibits like this, which also include exhibit descriptions in Braille next to the pieces, show that visual art can interact with more senses than just sight. For someone like myself, who is not visually impaired, the addition of the physical texture and sensory experience of touching the pieces made the exhibit feel so much more personal. Maybe more art should be made to be touched.

Touch is open 9-5, Monday through Friday, until December 13.

REVIEW: Hometown Hero (Chink): An American Interior

As I stepped with socked feet onto the fabric-covered flooring of installation piece Hometown Hero (Chink), I was struck with an eerie and unshakable sense of familiarity. No, not from the hand-upholstered, Confederate flag recliner, or the country karaoke sounding from the plush TV – save for the artist’s face in the video recording, the 3-part installation itself was essentially free of any immediately recognizable, East-Asian motifs. So why did my experience feel closer to a revisit rather than a shocking introduction? I told myself that it must have been the culturally ingrained, practiced motion of taking one’s shoes off before entering a living space, or maybe the intimately homey experience of padding around a carpeted floor with the TV streaming white noise.  

The fact that the entire space is hand-sewn jumps out at me; under artist Valery Jung Estabrook’s skillful hands, everyday “soft” objects turn steely, while “hard” objects are revealed to have soft and sagging underbellies. The “lazy boy” recliner decorated with the image of a Confederate flag displays these juxtapositions most prominently; though the surface is composed of velvety chenille, soft-to-touch and associated with comfort, the repellent flag imagery strongly dissuades the viewer from touching the furniture.

Even so, the recliner dominates the space, sending chilly tones throughout the warmly lit interior. Other striking plush components include the ‘pillow guns’, a set of three flaccid rifles mounted to the wall, and the ‘Born & Bred Beer’ beer cans casually littered on the recliner’s side-table. Chenille fabric, what the majority of the installation consists of, is immediately distinguishable through its tufted, caterpillar-like texture and iridescent appearance. These characteristics make the textile a popular choice for sofas, baby blankets, and other items that make direct contact with the skin. Needless to say, I was fascinated with the artist’s approach to materiality and her manipulation of sensory elements with chenille that served to contradict and even amplify the viewer’s psychological responses to derogatory imagery.

In a reflection about the title, Hometown Hero (Chink), Estabrook refers to the painful addition of the racial slur as a necessary component “… in order to have an honest discussion about the America that I know.” Her statement propelled me towards a question that I, and likely many others, have faced constantly while navigating ‘the Asian-American experience’: why the America that we know appears so dependent on the home that we say we know. I do not share Estabrook’s experience growing up in rural southwestern Virginia; what I do share are similar feelings of alienation upon being subjected to the white gaze – even at home, we are foreign spectacles singing along to the jaunty tunes of assimilation, while America reclines in a chenille chair, crushing ‘Born & Bred Beer’ beer cans in silent assent.