MIGRATIONS
by
HONG HONG
BFA, State University of New York at Potsdam, 2011
A Report Submitted to the Lamar Dodd School of Art
of The University of Georgia in Partial Fulfillment
of the
Requirements for the Degree
MASTER OF FINE ARTS
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MIGRATIONS
by
HONG HONG
APPROVED:
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Major Professor
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Date
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Preface
As an artist, I am inspired and driven by the autonomy of material and
process. My works are relics of investigations into the nature of different
substances. Formally speaking, three themes anchor my explorations: repetition,
alchemy and simplicity. Intersections between them are places where the most
interesting outcomes tend to unfold and grow. Ultimately, I seek various ways in
which inert substances can, through repetitive making, morph and resonate
different meanings within the viewer’s mind.
Our ability to interact with art is not separable from the way we generally
experience reality. For this reason, I gravitate toward familiar and humble
materials, such as paper and graphite. We interact with them on a daily basis, and
both tend to exist within specific and fixed parameters of perception. I am
constantly looking for opportunities to reinvent preconceived notions about the
world through manipulations of the materials used to construct it.
My practice exists within the confines of process. Through process-based
explorations, I observe a substance’s behavior and understand its physicality,
which then becomes elemental components in the production of my work. My
relationship with a particular material ripens during periods of accumulative
generation, and new perspectives are harvested. Thus, process serves as a
catalyst in a regimented studio routine based on extended experimentation and
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rigorous making. Furthermore, process is used to isolate conceptual overlap in
separate bodies of work. Working in different mediums and ways allows me to
“play” with new ideas and “sift” through old ones, ultimately freeing me from formal
and conceptual elements that bare little relevance to my work.
In my work, I use simple materials and methods to evoke time-based,
sensory encounters of other realities. The experience of the viewer is essential,
providing the completion of art through his or her corporeal impressions. During
moments of contemplation, common materials acquire the ability to transcend their
dormant, everyday state of existence, exposing the splendor within the ordinary
and the sublime that is forever part of the mundane.
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Personal History/Influences:
My experiences as an only child in a first generation immigrant family
induced a strong desire to seek commonalities between my experiences and those
of others. My parents and I emigrated from China to America when I was eight
years old. Soon after, we relocated several times across the United States.
Things that typically provide a sense of personal identity and interpersonal
connection, such as tradition and language, seemed temporary and ephemeral.
Without a way to meaningfully relate myself to my environment and the ability to
bridge that gap, I was adrift and lost. These unpredictable circumstances
continued into my late adolescence and eventually manifested in two primary
concerns. One, I want to understand this world, in particular its order and
tendencies. Two, I want to know what common denominators of experience, if
any, exist.
My interests eventually led to the discovery of an interdisciplinary field of
study known as complex systems. I first encountered the idea of complex systems
while researching the natural phenomena of murmuration. A murmuration is a
collection of starlings in flight. It also happens to be a complex system in which
the interactions of individual agents (birds) follow three rules: 1. Try not to get too
far away from your neighbors. 2. Try not to get too close to your neighbors. 3. Try
to move in the same general direction as your neighbors. This set of simple,
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regulated relationships produces astounding behavior that would not have been
predictable through an analysis of individual birds and rules alone (Fig 1.)
Fig 1.
The study of complexity seeks to understand ways in which high numbers of
individual components formulate themselves into a structure that creates patterns,
uses information, and, in some cases, evolves. The Complexity Theory maintains
that agents within complex systems follow a set of simple rules in their
interactions with each other. What may seem like unpredictable and unplanned
results eventually gives rise to regularities. This theory recognizes that complexity
emerges from simple components and regulations, and that all complex systems
are networks of interdependent parts that interact according to specific rules.
Much like biological evolution, complex systems are able to continually generate all
types of dynamic patterns that sustain life, such ecosystems and solar systems.
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Furthermore, they are not limited to the natural world. Examples of complex
systems also include economies, cognitive neuroscience, and the worldwide web.
The study of complexity provided a way to understand and navigate
different environments around me that seemed to be in a constant state of flux.
Furthermore, these ideas deeply resonated with me because I was already
exploring them in my studio practice. At the time, I was creating a series of largescale, graphite drawings that depict swarm-like formations (Fig. 2). This particular
body of work as well as its accumulative process reflected many characteristics
and conditions inherent to complex systems. The study of complexity eventually
emerged as the theme and framework of my investigations.
Fig 2.
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Catharsis: Swarm
My early work consists of a series of large-scale paintings and drawings.
They document the gradual disintegration of faces through repeated and layered
mark making. At the time, I was interested in the human body’s capacity to act as
a metaphor for collective experiences of limitations, loss, and regeneration. In
these pieces, repetition is used as a formal element to unify the surface of the
painting. There is also an intuitive awareness of movement – the brushwork is
dispersed in such a way that individual marks float toward the viewer as if caught
in a cloud or a windstorm (Fig. 3)
Fig 3.
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During the first year of graduate school, I began to grow increasingly
disenchanted with my subject matter and disconnected from the process of
painting. Around that time, I was introduced to Tara Donovan’s installations.
Donovan’s work astounded me because of its ingenuity. Stripped of most colors,
her installations consisted of repetitive material compositions and arrangements
that transformed dormant gallery spaces into otherworldly environments.
Donovan’s usage of routine objects, such as Styrofoam cups and glue, isolated
and revealed the dynamic potential within each substance (Fig. 4).
Fig 4.
Donovan’s willingness to experiment with different materials assimilated
itself into my studio practice: I created my first three-dimensional work. Composed
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of hand-cut and machine-shredded paper, the sculpture resembled a diffusing nest
or swarm (Fig 5.) The paper’s physical qualities, specifically its elongated shape
and fragility, influenced me. I was interested in a hybrid between organic growth
and industrial construction as I worked on this project. I sought both a feeling of
fluidity in the work as well as rigor in its construction. Though it does retain certain
characteristics found in previous bodies of work, significant differences also
emerged.
Fig 5.
Repetition and accumulation of mark remained as unifying formal elements.
Indeed, each slip of paper became a physical mark, suspended and animated in
space, mimicking the floating brushwork found in my paintings. The figure, as the
central theme of all previous explorations, vanished, along with the use of oil paint.
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Additionally, associations with the natural world and use of readily available
material became apparent. Furthermore, over the course of this project, I became
interested in physical phenomena, such as tornadoes, beehives and murmuration.
In many ways, this moment is the single most important step in my graduate
work. It marked the first investigation of a new material, during which I used
process as a method of extraction. The jump from painting to sculpture sifted out
habits and ideas that no longer corresponded with my sensibilities. Building a
three-dimensional sculpture engaged my capabilities in a different way, and it gave
me a new perspective from which to evaluate my interests. This methodology of
working would underline the rest of my graduate career.
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Experimental Work: Migrations, in graphite and paper
Graphite:
After the completion of the paper swarm, I continued to research
murmuration and other natural phenomena. During this, I discovered Wayne Levin’s
black and white photography. Levin’s work documents eerie and mesmerizing
scenes of underwater life. These images are magical: crashing waves become
ethereal clouds and schools of fish, swirling spaceships from faraway lands. I was
attracted to Levin’s work because of its endlessness and simplicity. In Levin’s
grayscale world, “thing” and “place” are often not immediately recognizable or
separable ideas (Fig. 6). These images appear as though after-tastes:
impressions, distant, yet hauntingly familiar. Drawn to his imagery, I was inspired to
construct expansive, mysterious spaces. Beginning to use the metamorphic
potential of process and material as both a boundary and a hurdle, I decided to
return to two-dimensional work to see what patterns and developments, if any, this
jump could mine.
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Fig 6.
At this project’s inception, large sheets of paper were tacked onto the wall.
Access to three materials was established: graphite, paper and erasers.
Additionally, specific time was allocated for creation. Aside from these perimeters,
I was simply, in my studio, responding the Levin’s images in a visceral, intuitive way.
Drawing preserves mark and its own history much more easily than other methods.
It offers a direct, unobstructed relationship between the hand, the pencil, and the
substrate. Taking advantage of the immediacy of drawing, I discovered and
navigated relationships between the materials. What eventually resulted is a
series of large-scale drawings, Migrations, that simulate and imitate movements of
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swarm-like formations. Completed through extended periods of labor, these
drawings are the result of obsessive mark making as well as a steady
accumulation of additive and reductive processes (Fig. 7).
Fig 7.
This body of work narrates an exploration of, through repetitive mark
making, interactions between the macro and the micro, the community and the
individual, the whole and its parts. The drawings are tapestries of intertwining
marks that alter in size and direction but never deviate in basic shape. Woven
together, the whole is both a summation of and a progression from its separate
parts. This is reflected in distinctly different reads and reactions, dependent on
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the distance between audience and drawing. From afar, the drawings resemble
blurry apparitions. Up close, they transform into a labyrinthine network of
methodical marks. The scale of the drawings is significant for another reason:
they are meant to evoke a sensation of enfoldment in the viewer as they examine
the drawing, which establishes a relationship between the work and the body.
The conceptual framework of complexity is beginning to solidify in my
material and process decisions. Much like the paper swarm, these drawings are
constructed with readily accessible substances and simple methods. Graphite is
not a precious commodity, unlike oil paint and marble. It was chosen as a medium
due to its availability and corporeal simplicity. Similarly, the process used to
generate these drawings is very straightforward: vary the size of the mark and
create as many marks as possible in one sitting. I sought to build complex
realities and evoke intricate relationships with simple forms and methods.
Throughout the creation of this work, I was physically searching for and working
within the limits of process and material.
Due to the nature of its creation, Migrations evidence passages in and of
time. The body of labor is preserved as an artifact of making. Additionally, the
imagery of the drawings is self-referential: the marks slowly disperse across the
page through a slow, accumulative process, and this is evident to the viewer as
they approach the work. Furthermore, the visual language clearly references and
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expands upon that of Swarm. It seeks to mimic the movement of natural forces,
such as murmuration and weather formations (Fig. 8).
Fig 8.
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Paper:
After the completion of Migrations, I became dissatisfied with the
relationship between material and hand. The absolute control I exerted over mark
making, whether it was addictive or reductive, seemed too immediate. An interest
in paper both as a surface and as a substrate naturally led to a curiosity about the
process of papermaking itself. My love of material and process also contributed
to this. A series of experimental, small-scale paper works soon ensued.
Papermaking itself is enthralling because of the specific experience of
metamorphosis it offers. Various stages (soaking, cooking, beating, dyeing,
pouring, peeling, etc.) are satisfying due to their alchemic and ritualistic nature.
Through them, the physical qualities of a natural material are completely altered,
yet the intrinsic nature of it is not compromised in any way. This attribute echoes
that of other complex phenomena, such as the hydrologic cycle. The hydrologic
cycle describes the continuous circulation of water on Earth. In this cycle, water
assumes numerous forms, such as vapor and gas, while the chemical integrity
remains intact. Like the hydrologic cycle, papermaking is a self-sustaining cycle:
unwanted sheets can be rewetted to generate new ones. These characteristics
appealed to me greatly.
As I explored the craft of papermaking, I learned about different types of
paper and their qualities. I was drawn to Japanese fibers, such as Kozo and
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Gampi, because of their delicacy and transparency. Japanese paper’s sensitivity
to its surroundings gave it the ability to take on more dynamic, animated traits than
opaque, thick Western fibers. Specifically, I was interested in the way process,
light and atmosphere so easily impacted the appearance of Japanese paper and
paper forms.
As a maker, I could not predict the physical outcome of my tinkering
because paper fibers exert a will of its own. This lack of clarity doused the
process of papermaking with a sense of mystery, which was particularly satisfying.
Moreover, paper’s chameleon ability to reference other substances, such as skin
and hides, and to evidence passages of labor made it the ideal material for me to
investigate. Furthermore, I was drawn to the surface of the paper itself – it is
essentially a web of beaten fibers, bound and attached to one another. This type
of pattern is reminiscent of the kind found in murmuration, beehives and fish
schools. Furthermore, it parallels the type of imagery of my drawings and paper
swarms.
I began to highlight the pattern of paper fibers by adding various
substances to the paper fibers as they were drying. I responded to, amplified and
contradicted the natural grain of paper through drawing, in graphite and pen, on
top of the dried sheets. In both Swarm and Migrations, there was an obsessive
layering of material and mark, and this tendency easily translated into my paper
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explorations. Several sheets were layered together to blur the abstract marks and
images contained within each sheet. Additionally, I began to poke a myriad of
holes in the paper to increase the passage of light through paper. The forms I
created contained the sense of movement and dispersion that had been a part of
my previous explorations (Fig 9).
Fig 9.
After making several collections of small samples, it was apparent that my
desire to evoke physical phenomena required a larger platform. In papermaking,
fibers are suspended in a vat of water. This mixture is scooped and drained
through the screen of a papermaking mould and deckle, leaving behind a layer of
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interwoven paper fibers. The second half of my explorations revolved around
attempts to redesign and enlarge the structure of the traditional papermaking
mould and deckle. Alongside structural analysis and design, I was also
investigating new ways to make paper.
These explorations culminated in a series of large-scale paper installations
that distinctly differed from the small paper samples they originated from (Fig 10).
They were made through non-traditional papermaking means and equipment.
Because of this, they retained physical qualities specific to the processes and
contraptions used in their creation. Rather than being scooped from vats of water
and left to drain, Kozo fibers were poured from buckets and bowls directly onto the
papermaking mould and deckle. This change maximized the roles water and
formation aids play. In traditional papermaking, water is used to bind the fibers
more strongly to each other. Formation aid is added to water and Kozo to slow
the drainage of fibers so that thinner sheets of fiber can form. However, by
pouring fibers onto the mould and deckle, water and formation aid dictated the
patterning of fiber through interactions between their vastly different viscosities.
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Fig 10.
The pouring method causes an uneven distribution of fiber, giving the
papermaker more control over paper’s transparency and openness. The Washi I
made was fragile and mapped with natural openings. I realized for the first time
that paper was capable of acting as both a veil and a portal, both obscuring the
space behind it and inviting the viewer to understand that space. I began to
consider materials and space around the paper as much of the piece as the paper
itself. Wall paint and sheets of Washi were installed in various ways to explore the
possible relationships between multiple materials and planes. Interestingly,
Washi’s sensitivity to fluctuations in atmosphere increased as the paper grew in
size. Its varied response to changes in air circulation established a relationship
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between the viewer, the work, and the space the work is contained within. In
different installations, I strived to widen the spectrum of interaction between paper,
space, and viewer.
My relationship with material and process matured through the production of
these small-scale and large-scale works. By experimenting within the limitations of
one substance, I slowly understood its behavior and magnified certain
characteristics inherent to it. This way of working and these interests fuelled the
creation of my thesis work.
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Day-Rain: Thesis Work
In my thesis installations, I am investigating, and expanding upon Washi, a
type of paper originally made in Japan. My interest stems from paper’s ability to
contain complexity, like documents of personal memory and experience. Over
time, paper also sustains elaborate systems, such as civilizations through
collections of historical records. In its many reincarnations, paper has played the
role of substrate, vessel, shroud, and membrane. Interestingly, despite fluctuations
in its function, the process of making Washi and its corporeal simplicity has
changed very little since its discovery. Contradictions inherent to paper and
papermaking support the conceptual rudiment of my explorations: simple elements,
through repetition and variation, can generate all-encompassing structures of great
intricacy. Indeed, complexity not only acts as the conceptual framework to my
thesis installation, but also permeates my work on several levels.
Driven by a desire for the sustainability of my craft and a yearning for the
monumental, I engineered and manufactured a modular paper mould and deckle
for large-scale sheet formation. It is a composite of small units that can be
assembled into a variety of shapes, allowing for site-specific proportions.
Furthermore, it is easily transported and stored. This is important to me because I
wanted to create a way of large-scale papermaking that was self-sustained,
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mobile, and cyclical. Much like complex systems, the units of this paper mould and
deckle obey specific rules in their interactions with one another to create a larger,
more evolved whole.
Additionally, I worked outdoors and employed natural forces during the
generation of Washi sheets. Sunlight expedited the paper’s drying time, which
shortens long production periods. Water, channeled through modified buckets and
hoses, allowed me to alter and direct the layering and patterning of fibers in very
specific ways. Rainstorms interrupted and complicated the structures formed by
hand, injecting a dose of necessary chaos to the repetitive nature of my mark
making. The natural cycles I am interested in actually penetrated and manipulated
my work.
Because things such as rain accumulation and humidity directly impact my
work, my studio practice requires ample experimentation and careful planning: I
oscillate between intense weeks of preparation and days of spontaneous creation.
The process begins with the soaking, cooking, beating, and dyeing of fibers. Small
samples are made during this time to determine color palette, composition, and
texture of bigger pieces. When I have a site and color palette in mind, I set aside
a specific period for the creation of Washi. The schedule is dependent on the
current weather. In the final stages, I set up my papermaker in an outdoor area to
pour. Pouring typically takes a day, and there is a 24-hour window of opportunity
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to manipulate the sheet as it dries. The paper retains a sense of mystery, even as
I make it.
In the final work, sheets of Washi are suspended with thin fishing line from
the ceiling. They hover inches above the ground, appearing as though apparitions.
Soft light spills across and through the paper, highlighting its delicate and
ephemeral nature. The distance between the Washi sheets acts as an invitation
to the viewer to walk through and, for brief moments, to be enveloped by the
installation. As the viewer walk between two sheets of paper, they respond to his
or her physical movements, parting and closing in subtle undulations. This
establishes a relationship between the viewer’s body and the installation, which is
something that I have always been negotiating in my work. The paper’s
movements also lend the installation a sense of life and precariousness. Despite
separation between two sheets of Washi, they create and coexist in a cohesive
space. Their undulations are symmetrical, and one does not move without some
type of response from the other. Moments during which the second sheet can be
viewed through the first, possible because of the transparent nature of handmade
Kozo, integrate them.
Upon closer examination, the Kozo fibers in these sheets of Washi
reference organic systems, such as galaxies and weather formations.
Furthermore, The manipulations of fiber and retention agents leave behind patterns
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reminiscent of tides, murmuration, gravity and other physical phenomena. They
simultaneously capture the serenity of a moment while referencing its delicate
relationship with a chaotic, turbulent whole (Fig 11).
Fig 11.
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Conclusion:
My practice can be seen as the mining of the potential inherent to the
materials I am working with. By understanding a substance’s behavior, I can
assign predetermined rules for construction that allows the material to “grow” and
“multiply”. I am interested in the ability of inert material to encompass meaning
beyond its immediate, accepted forms and outside of a viewer’s ordinary
experiences with them. I seek to create sensory-based encounters that act as
both hybrids of and bridges between material and immaterial realms. Simple
materials and methods are used as metaphors for imagined, complex realities. My
work is an ode to the will and integrity part of all substances and processes that
construct this world.
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