The artist who lives next door to us spent childhood summers at her relatives’ farm outside Chute-à-Blondeau, Ontario. She remembers the dizzying vastness of the blonde fields and of the frescoed chapel where they went for Sunday mass.
She moved from Saginaw, Mi. to New York City in 1985. Renting a loft apartment on the Bowery with funds from a part-time publishing gig, she immersed herself in the West Side art scene.
One thing led to another–the poetry of Rilke and the literature of Paul Bowles, the mysteries of alchemy and flying birds, the vast spaces that filled her memory–and finally ended up at the gallery of Chelsea pioneer Albert Insinger.
Rather, finally began there. Because next there were notices in the New Yorker, and shows at the Viewing Room and the Graham Gallery. Residencies in Malta and Germany, the MacDowell Colony and at Sleeping Bear Dunes. Dark periods, light periods, and now what might be called a materialist period where she explores the potency of the incidental by-product.
Like, for instance, this studio Buddha (porcelain and unraveled cat toy).
It’s not an official Mary McDonnell piece, but it might as well be.