MH: Whose work do you look to for inspiration?
AM: I went to art school and architecture school, so I picked up a range of influences: Land artists, minimalists, performance artists, experimental filmmakers, technologists, utopians, visionaries, and provocateurs. Film-wise, I continually enjoy unabashed poets and symbolists like Jean Cocteau, Maya Deren, Joseph Cornell, Hiroshi Teshigahara, and Alejandro Jodorowsky.

MH: Where do you find sources of inspiration outside of the art world?
AM: I read a lot—fiction, poetry, non-fiction, “the news.”

MH: Give us an example of how the inspiration to create a new work begins for you.
AM: It often involves chance encounters, for example I recently read an article about Vishnu devotees in India who routinely sacrifice their hair by shaving and leaving it at temples. In the past this hair was burned or used to stuff mattresses, but today it fuels the global market of hair extensions. Something like 40,000 impoverished pilgrims—adults and children, sacrifice their hair every day; it’s all they have to give. Since it’s long and untreated with chemicals it’s considered the highest quality, fetching premium prices for the sellers. Something about this stuck with me, something almost like an image. I haven’t done anything with it yet, but it’s in my mind waiting for another ingredient to appear, and then a chemical reaction will happen, launching a new work. It won’t literally be about hair, or Vishnu, etc. However—I do enjoy imagining rooms, cargo containers, whole ships filled with hair for an ancient God!

MH: You seem to like making work that has a fragmented or otherwise broken narrative aspect, what is it about moving image work that seems to lend itself to narrative so immediately? Do you fight or embrace this?
AM: Yes, narratives are so immediate, no matter how disparate the compositional elements involved seem to be. I do embrace this—sometimes layering narratives like textures—like vertical stacks or architectures; juxtapositions and simultaneity in layered space. Tarkovsky used the phrase “sculpting in time.” He was describing working with inner-time, the inner-time of an image, a frame—but also how images need space to unfold, and to evolve. This sometimes involves slowness, but not always.

MH: Why do we always want to abstract temporality as artists?
AM: Maybe we’re infected with a time-virus … tempophilia? Actually, I think it has something to do with the intensity of our interactions with time. Perhaps we want to capture some real—as in, a communicable aspect of those experiences. Sometimes the abstraction is more palpable, more comprehensible (and probably more fictive) than the incident that triggered the “capture-impulse” in the first place.

MH: In viewing your work, I have come to think that you are either a very convincing costume and set designer, or you have access to vintage film reels. If the latter is correct, where are you sourcing this footage from and what do you generally look for when choosing a film clip for your work?
AM: I have a time machine! Well, actually that’s kind of true, in that archives are a kind of time machine. I’ve been working with found footage for a while, coming from lots of places—public and personal archives, random finds, even gifts. It’s a very intuitive process, full of “accidents.” I look through lots of footage and things jump out—interesting things, strange things, small things—an animal, a color, a hand, a gesture.

MH: Are you also shooting your own footage? If so, on what formats?
AM: Yes, I shoot original material in a range of formats—16mm, HD video, sometimes even 8mm, or with an iPhone, if necessary!

MH: Dark imagery seems to be a common thread, both in the compositions you choose for your video work and in the nature of the sounds throughout your audio work. Is this a choice to tie the work together thematically, or are you just drawn to this style?
AM: Yes, I see where you’re coming from, but we might have to have a longer discussion about “dark.” I don’t think it’s a thematic or stylistic decision so much as just how the materials feel after having been handled, cut into, stretched, scrutinized, or dreamed about. They become heavier—with anxiety, love.

MH: Maybe we are reading too much into this, but how obvious do you want the underlying theme of mortality to appear in your work? Is this something that all your work approaches in some way?
AM: I would probably describe the work as concerned with ephemerality—something involving distance and transformation—noticing the real and sometimes monumental impact of something fleeting. In my early 20’s I studied Butoh with Japanese, European, and South American teachers; there was something there that resonated with me, that I wanted to work with, and probably do.

MH: I really enjoy your choice to have the narration in The Hour Between Dog and Wolf and Black Box Recorder spoken by what seems to be a computer program.  It lends a universality and gravity to the words in some way. What was the thinking behind this decision?
AM: That’s precisely it, I needed a kind of distance, a removal. To some extent Black Box Recorder is about what a machine might show us about ourselves; the voice needed to be artificial yet deeply human at times. Hour Between Dog and Wolf required a similar kind of narrator—an uncanny voice. You might recall the film opens in “somewhere that is also happening.”

MH: Sound is such an important part of your work, it really makes me want to see your video work in a proper venue, so that I can sit in the dark with your imagery and be enveloped by the sonic elements through a professional sound system. It’s an experience you just can’t really get online. Is this something that troubles you, or is it just a necessary evil of these hyper-technological times we find our selves in?
AM: Yes that’s tricky. There are rich subtleties in the soundtrack, and it’s actually quite powerful when properly experienced. But, I do think some sense of that comes through, even online. I think it’s important to reach your audience, and obviously people realize they’re not getting the full experience online, or maybe even at a festival. But, it stimulates the appetite, as they say.

MH: Who are some lesser-known contemporary moving image or sound artists we should all be viewing or listening to?
AM: Lately I’ve been enjoying work by Chinese sound artists Xie Zhongqi and Yin Yi, as well as the Japanese noise/performance artist Fuyuki Yamakawa. The corporeal and chaotic aspect of Yamakawa’s work is great. This summer I happened upon Karen Mirza and Brad Butler’s film The Exception and the Rule, and thought it was very well done.

MH: When can we expect to see your work in New York?
AM: Soon, I hope! I’m looking for a good opportunity.

MH: What projects or exhibitions do you have in the works for 2014?
AM: Several new projects—a film about abandoned technology in the Chihuahuan desert, a public sound installation commissioned in Houston, site-specific installations in Ireland and Japan, and new “studio-editions” in limited edition vinyl and prints.

MH: Thank you very much for your time!

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Courtesy of the Artist.

I was born in Russia but I live in Sweden. My art is the story of my life, it is my feelings that choose the colors. The main source of my inspiration is nature, where color plays the lead role.

larissaromanova.com

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Courtesy of the artist.

Versatility summarizes my artistic development and personality. I am experimenting with various techniques, and mixing colors and materials, aiming to convey a mixture of suggestive color and expressionist brush works to generate feelings and emotions. My work is generated by spontaneous gesture-driven brushstrokes, transparencies, and the superposition of layers. The dripped paint technique evokes melancholic memories mixed with future expectations.

I am very attentive to how different people react when seeing a certain piece of art and how they relate my work to past memories of their own. What intrigues me the most is the whole idea of a physical suggestion that sometimes leads people to process images, as if viewing a kind of short film about their past.

noravelazco.com

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Leah Oates: How did you become an artist and did you know early on that you would be in the arts or did you begin as something else?  Where there other artists in your family?
William Crump: Growing up I always knew that I wanted be an artist. I went to school for painting. My uncle, Walter Crump, is an amazing artist living and working in Boston. He was more or less my example for leading the artists’ life. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know that I would have had the same outlook as I do today. That same thing can be said about the friends and artists I surround myself with. It took me a long time to find my way in NY, but once I did, I realized I wasn’t alone. After I received my B.F.A. I went to Boston thinking I would continue on with a Master’s, but I was so poor and miserable I seriously considered doing something else. It was during this time I had begun to visit NY, where a few friends were living and making work. I quickly realized there was nothing for me in Boston, and so I moved to Williamsburg in 1998. It was there that I met a couple of friends that I’m still close to today. We’ve clawed our way up as artists ever since. I would say I’ve been “all in” since day one, despite the many rejections, epic failures, and burned bridges along the way. I keep working. There is nothing that can prepare you when you are young for just how hard it is and how committed you have to be from the start.

LO: What are the themes of your work and what inspires your work?
WC: The images I’ve presented here represent something of a new direction for me. My work and my themes began evolving over the last year. I’ve made a commitment to liberate ideas about painting from my sketchbook. I don’t feel like I could have made the work I am making now without having spent time working with other mediums. All of it has led me to this point. More than anything else, my goal with painting is to start fresh and to look at this next decade as wide open. The starting point here, with the work I’m currently making, is to rebuild things. By that I mean using all that I’ve done before as the foundation for building off of new ideas, making something new from what has come before.

This series of paintings, drawings, and mixed media works, titled; Gathering Ground mines themes of spiritual rebirth, reconstruction, and longing. In reexamining my work and reasons for becoming an artist, I began with the idea of literal reconstruction of materials, and the suggested reconstruction of nature and the human spirit.

As far as inspiration, I had a moment while viewing Monet’s Cathedral paintings, at the Musée d’Orsay over the summer. Those few paintings, grouped together, under glass, clicked with me in a way that I didn’t expect. It wasn’t just that they were beautiful, but they reminded me of what a radical shift that time period was in art history, and how artists can define themselves by breaking away from what’s going on around them.

I try to keep a critical eye on what is going on around me, and whether or not it’s a passing phase or someone breaking new ground by pushing things forward. It’s still early in this decade, and the century for that matter. We’ll see where things go and who is taking the risks. In that regard, I’m always influenced and inspired by my artist friends and the exchange of ideas that we share in critique. There is a motivation that comes from having an honest dialogue with other artists who I respect, and that keeps me pushing myself to make better work.

LO: What is your working process? Do you plan things out or play in the studio?
WC: At this moment I’m doing all I can to keep things as unplanned as possible. That is not to say that I don’t work off of ideas in my sketchbook, I do. It’s just that the execution of my current work allows for play and experimentation. The work I’ve made previously has been planned down to the last detail. It’s only been in the last year that I’ve been open to letting the process guide me. I have a long way to go, but I’m happy with this approach. If anything it’s sped up my thought process, and opened up new possibilities in my studio. The biggest change in the way I’ve been working has been in my drawings. I’ve begun to draw from pure mark making. No planning. It’s been challenging to keep these pieces purely spontaneous and undefined. I’ve wanted to move as far away from a figure or a narrative as possible with this series. Each time I sit down to begin one of these drawings I have to remember to ignore all my impulses regarding defining space, composition, line, color, etc. A friend recently mentioned that I’m finally moving towards abstraction … Not sure about that, but I’m certainly moving away from everything else.

William Crump, Untitled no.3 (Spirit)
collage on paper, 16″ x 20″, 2012

LO: Each artist is so different in how they approach their work. How do you approach the creation of your work?
WC: The first thing I do when approaching these paintings, is to try and leave all distraction outside of the studio. It’s about keeping my focus and discipline. There are times when I want to dive in head first, but that can lead to not seeing your work with a critical eye. I spend a lot of time arranging and rearranging the materials I work with until something new happens. Experimenting with new materials has been key for me lately. Cut glass or wrapped linen. The older I get, the more time I spend with my work, I realize I’m not as interested in what the viewer thinks. I remember reading about Albert Oehlen wanting to be taken seriously as the decade changed and his work shifted. That struck a chord with me. If anything is brought into the studio with me it’s just that, “Take your work seriously, think about the long road.” This approach has been more rewarding and has led to a broader exploration in my practice. I just keep trying to push myself, and my ideas into a new place.

LO: Why do you think art is important for the world and why is it important for you as an individual artist?
WC: That is an extremely broad question and could be answered a million ways. I’m sure that artists in any part of the world would relate their answers to their own experiences. I feel that having the drive and the will to be an artist is something I was born with. It has been the force that has given me purpose and direction. It’s either just in you, or it isn’t. I won’t try say that I have a definitive answer as to why art is important to the world. I suppose in some sense, it’s about giving perspective to the times we live in. We look at the artists of the 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s through some great historical lens, but that time wasn’t very long ago. I only hope artists right now will think about the decade they are in, and how they will be remembered. Are you part of something important? Are you really doing something groundbreaking or original? You had better get busy. This goes not only for the work being made around us, but also for the words and actions the artists too. It’s about shifting ideas in our culture and being in the forefront of influence and social change. I think the artists, when we are at our best, our most playful, our most ironic or spiritual, truthful, bitter, etc., are reshaping the times we live in while also knocking down walls. The next generation can then build on those new ideas and move things forward.

LO: Has being a dad changed your work if at all?
WC: It has, but I don’t talk about that anymore. I’m keeping my personal life is just that, personal.

LO: What advice would you give other artists who are emerging?
WC: I did it all wrong from the beginning, so what can I say? I mentioned some things related to this in the previous question, but if I know anything at all it’s this: Stay hungry. Just don’t ever stop working, no matter how successful you do or don’t become. Time is your best friend.

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