I Will Always Count the Windows Collection
In the spring of 2024 I created this collection of paintings while processing the grief of losing Ibby Rivers, a friend I had been getting to know over a few seasons. Ibby was a swimmer, hedonist, poet, fellow Gemini Moon, a total sensation in a jumpsuit. Then, suddenly, gone.
I consider this body of work my 'grief paintings.' Returning to them layer upon layer provided relief that shifted between cathartic to meditative, following wherever the grief led.
This work became a conceptual continuation of former paintings dealing with the temporality of the body. In those works, Nodules and Drift, I considered the physical experience through my lens of disability and autoimmune diseases, contemplating the slow deterioration of physical form. In my attempts to make sense of the sudden death of someone seemingly perfectly healthy, the same age I would turn that summer, I abstracted systems or conditions of the heart that might lead to such unexpected failure. Abstraction acted as a balm for what I could never know.
Ibby's poetry, particularly I Will Always Count the Windows, below, inspired this series. Creating work anchored in their words introduced my exploration of meaning-making between visual and written forms of expression, leading to the works found in Drawings & Words as well as the Wax & Wane: 8 Spells Collection.
Click on the images below to further explore details of each piece.
I Will Always Count theWindows
By Ibby Rivers
The heart, too, is porous
—Maggie Nelson
Already—what have we done?
Like a lemon, halved and left
to dry on the counter,
a wheel to nowhere. What
are we doing? A chip of log
smoldering but never
burning out, the cat too old
to clean itself entirely.
Completion, a tin myth.
When I look at you, I see
a house I don’t deserve.
A faucet’s running
without cease, water speaking
through the walls like
an aunt or a close friend.
She, the pipes, the water, the aunt,
will always cup life to my
lips, and I will always
count the citrus windows
ribbed with pith—message
of some sort in the symmetrical,
shrinking pulp. Teacher? Auntie?
Already I wonder. It appears
I love too much
to see cat to grave,
coal to ash. Or, is it love
that aerates the organ,
punching holes in the sod
to bleed the thing
of building pressure.