I pursue the impossible. I transform fleeting and ephemeral events into lasting and tangible objects. I embody unseen forces in material to slow time and expand a moment. I often focus on the instances when sunlight splits open to reveal its spectrum. I think of these as small schisms of time and space.
Alison Kudlow inhabits the space between science and mythology and celebrates the unknown and the unknowable
How did your tryst with art begin?
I was always making things as a kid. My mom would joke that I was way better at entertaining myself with makeshift crafting supplies – paper towel rolls, cotton balls, scraps of fabric, and my dad’s wood glue – than with any toys she ever bought me. In junior high and high school, drawing and painting and later sculpture, felt as natural to me as breathing. I’d get lost in the process of making, entering a mental space free from time and worries and practical constraints. But when I was selecting colleges I was too scared to focus on art. I wanted to be able to make a living and take care of myself, so I studied more practical things.
However, in my senior year I was lucky to meet a woman – my professor in a video class – who was, and is, a practicing artist. She was basically the first adult I felt like I could really relate to, that I could imagine myself growing into. She was the person who made me understand that being an artist was a real option.
Tell us about the evolution of your practice over the years.
In 2012, I moved from Los Angeles to New York, leaving behind the life I had built and all of the work I had made, primarily paintings, in the prior 14 years. I was still acclimatising to my new studio overlooking the East River, still figuring out what I wanted to make now, unburdened by any of my prior work, when I saw a ray of sunlight refract through a bowl of water and land on my table to form a crude hologram of a piece of loosely hung swaying fabric. I wanted to hold that moment, but instead I helplessly watched this tiny projection slowly transform and then fade away. I noted the time and made a point of returning to the studio to watch this event re-occur, in slight variations, day after day. Finally, I made a sculpture of what I saw in the light. It was the first sculpture I ever made and I have basically been continuing that same investigation ever since.
What inspires you? Take us through your process and continuous frameworks of reference.
I pursue the impossible. I transform fleeting and ephemeral events into lasting and tangible objects. I embody unseen forces in material to slow time and expand a moment. I often focus on the instances when sunlight splits open to reveal its spectrum. I think of these as small schisms of time and space – revelatory peeks into the inner workings of the light that always surrounds us but that we often fail to see.
I observe sunlight entering my studio. When I see a moment of refraction I document it in a drawing or photograph. The visual language I arrive at via this process acts as a foundation for my sculptural practice. When I make sculptures I listen to the material, asking it to show me how it likes to move. I create a set of pressures such as heat, gravity, or time to which it reacts. I want the resulting works to be a bit mysterious. I hope that they reveal that they are the result of a process of intense investigation but I also want them to refuse to provide answers. The work celebrates the unknown and the unknowable, the space between science and mythology.
I have been thinking a lot about time. I have always struggled with the notion that time always moves forward and at the same speed. I have been reading about the history of time – how we arrived at our current construct – and about alternative theories, ranging from Henri Bergson’s ideas about time as durational to more futuristic notions of time as malleable. In my studio I like to think of time as liquid.
What is the primary role of an artist? How do you describe yourself in the context of challenging people’s perspectives via your work and art?
I hope my work slows people down, that they are compelled to stop and look without trying to name or categorise what they are seeing. I think, fundamentally, looking at art stretches our minds and helps us arrive at a shared language of poetics.
How does your audience interact and react to the work?
Ideally people take their time and look closely. Some people really want to touch the work. I like that I create that desire in them – that’s the power of materiality. People ask a lot of questions. I think the work confuses and surprises them because they are seeing materials that they may recognize but they have never seen act that way before. My work makes them uncertain and perhaps provokes wonder.
How do you balance art and life?
My day job is very separate from my art practice. I’m a user experience designer. Basically, that means I spend all day in front of a computer or phone screen trying to figure out the best ways for computer and phone screens to relay information. Whereas, in my studio I don’t even have wifi. In the past, I have tried working in the arts. I was an art assistant for years in LA and I found that really draining, though it did teach me a lot. Now I like the two being super separate. It’s sort of a Clark Kent and Superman situation.
How do you deal with the conceptual difficulty and uncertainty of creating work?
Isn’t the whole thing so strange?! I work a job to earn money that I, then, mostly spend on playing with rather expensive materials in a rather expensive space to make objects that have absolutely no use. I love it and I can’t imagine not doing it, but I also am not blind to how utterly illogical and ridiculous it all is.
For the most part, pursuing art is a tremendous source of joy in my life. But it’s certainly a long game. I have been making art my whole life and it is still not a viable career for me. I don’t know if it will ever be. That’s true for most artists I know, even those showing in museums. Historically, our need for day jobs has been something we are not supposed to talk about. I think that’s changing as artists are becoming more outspoken about how the current model isn’t working for most of us and generally our culture is more open to the idea that having an artistic voice shouldn’t require the privilege of independent wealth.
Personally, I just try to achieve a balance that allows me to make a living and make my work and still take decent care of my body and my relationships. I consider that success.
What were your biggest lessons and hurdles along the way? Which is the most memorable moment?
I wouldn’t say I have had any major hiccups, but I have learned a lot. I have been lucky to have many mentors who have offered themselves up as sources of advice, inspiration, and, when needed, consolation. I have found artists in general to be generous in this way and that’s been vital to my ability to keep at it. I think the strongest advice I have gotten has been to just focus on making the work, to not wait for a show or an opportunity, but just to make the art as ambitiously and conscientiously as I can at all times.
What are you looking for when you look at other artists’ work? Who are your maestros?
I look at so much art – that’s the luxury of living in New York. I’m looking for work that is thoughtful, distinct and materially rich. There are so many artists I admire, but a few at the top of the list for me are Ruth Asawa, Louise Bourgeois, Nancy Holt, Hilma af Klint, Barbara Chase Riboud, Lynda Benglis, Roni Horn, Lygia Clark… I could keep going all day. I have read about many of them a lot, but I especially like when I can read their words.
How does your interaction with a curator, gallery or client evolve? How do you feel about commissions?
A good relationship with a curator is quite intimate. I have been lucky to work with people who really invest in getting to know my work over a long period of time. They read my essays and visit my studio regularly. We send each other images and texts. And then this beautiful, trusting relationship forms. That’s so valuable because they retain the ability to see my work from outside of it and so can offer tremendous insight when it comes to questions of display or of how I want to frame the work conceptually, of what I want to reveal and what secrets I’ll let the work hold.
What are you working on now? What’s coming next season?
I have a show up now through the end of the year. It’s a two person show with one of my closest friends and favourite artists, Katherine Finkelstein, curated by Doppelgänger Projects, who I love working with. It’s been such joy to share that work and get feedback on it. After the show comes down I’m looking forward to some time out of the spotlight to just refocus on making. I’m moving into a new studio at the beginning of the year and I think that will be a refreshing chance to approach space in a new way and play with my language of installation and display.