Ross's Manifesto/Essay/IMA Piece

Ross's Manifesto (Drawing/Statement)

My manifesto drawing is a commentary on isolation.

I think it can be, when honed properly, a form of meditation, a jumping point toward creativity. I refer not only to the isolation of the human individual, but the isolation of various elements (in nature, art, and society), as well. It is true that we are communal creatures. And that any machine is but a product of its parts. Sometimes, though, the only way to truly discover something is in the absence of all else. It can provide clarity. An outside perspective. Sometimes, an idea is floating within plain sight but cannot be seen through the flotsam. Missing or finding inspiration can be a matter of degrees.

I admittedly come to such themes being, myself, prone to isolation, with a mind that works best in solitude. I’ve never understood why that is the case. Upbringing, genetics, a mixture of many things. That solitude often interconnects with my rural environment, with nature, to the point where the two become rather inseparable.

The poem in the ‘drawing,’ by Norbert Krapf, was cut from a newspaper (‘Branches’). It draws heavily upon natural imagery, referencing little moments, little epiphanies. I changed certain words (to make them relate more to personal experience), drew bold lines, like literal arrows, to places these things may have/could have happened … all of this while I, sitting alone, contemplate the possibilities and moments made possible by the stillness. I observe. And absorb.

And since isolation, of course, involves the self, it becomes a very personal experience. From ideas to emotions, the inspiration found in everyone’s moments of stillness will be different.

Ross - Excerpt from Essay "What is Appropriate?"

I chose this particular essay because it relates to how, in the appropriateness of public works of art (such as memorials), decisions are made to represent a collective ... yet, with everyone having a different perspective, how is this possible? In some ways it is the opposite of my manifesto (which involves the removal/isolation of one's self from the collective in order to acquire inspiration).

I think, when it comes to memorials in America, the general public wants something noble, something far-reaching ... as long as it’s not something too ambiguous. As long as it makes a clear, resounding statement. Basically, the opposite of what Eisenman’s Berlin piece offers, “only the disorienting experience of space.” I just can’t imagine something like that working in Indianapolis (to use a relatable example). The Soldiers and Sailors Monument and the Indiana War Memorial are successful (that is to say: accepted) because they are in the classic Greco-Roman style. They are ‘traditional’ in their approach. Age-old. Built with an architectural language that is silently understood by everyone. They occupy prime physical space, but they do not invade your space. In some grandiose way, they protect it.

That begs the question of whether the public only wishes their memorials to be life-affirming. Inspirational. Like light offerings to offset the darkness of death (because the majority of memorials seem to involve war/death in some way). When there are so many threats, perceived or real, physical or psychological, mental or emotional, financial or political … in our lives? We do not want to be threatened by memorials, as well. We want them to be reliable. A bedrock. Perhaps that is why our memorials tend to feel so safe.

Ross - IMA Selection - "New York, New Haven, and Hartford," by Edward Hopper (1931, oil on canvas)

Edward Hopper’s work often carries a gleam of loneliness, a sheen of isolation. There can be many people in his paintings (like in ‘Nighthawks,’ his most famous work), but they aren’t necessarily ‘all there,’ not necessarily making connections. They are like islands. In this painting, ‘New York, New Haven, and Hartford’ (oil on canvas, 1931), even with the presence of the railroad, the house, the barn (all structures with imply the presence of humanity), the overall setting exists outside the line, residing in the space between ‘here’ and ‘there.’ It is a noble ‘nowhere.’

For there is an unmistakable ring of isolation, highly romanticized, I feel, by the slanting, golden light of sunrise (or it could be sunset). There is also an air of intrigue. The people are completely absent, this time. But evidence of them is not. We know there is a story to this place. We know it once had (or still has) a life of its own, but we are only passing by … and will never truly know.