Description of an Artwork from Memory
Josie Mai

The painting is small, seemingly quiet. A white painting on white paper. You could miss it if you glanced away, distracted from something bigger and louder. If you glimpse more than a couple seconds, the patterns register on your retinas. Like a snowflake, a doily, the shapes spread intricately and are held together by some fragile force, a sticky spiderweb, evidence of a careful laboring.

The image sits on the surface of the paper and climbs. There is a gravity spreading across the surface, white paint puddling on a browned purple swatch of color, the colors of gauze on a fresh bruise. But like the gauze, the white paint is extremely ordered, intentional. Evident tension. Organized energy.

Three towers almost touch. Two quilted columns buffer a densely packed middle. The bookends resemble two alternating quilt patterns, Mother’s Dream and Grandmother’s Favorite. Stretching a bit higher is the midsection, congested and carefully crammed. Slightly recognizable objects, placed on shelves that mimic the alleged solidness of the rigid quilt grid. Bottles, figurines, precious objects? Some sort of collection on display.

But the paint is cold and stark in its whiteness. Aren’t quilts and collections dripping with color, meant to wrap souls in their warmth and comfort? This is more like viewing a spiderweb. At first there is wonder, awe at the intricacy of such an endeavor, but then there is a realization. The web is functional. The web has a purpose. The web is a net designed to snag unwitting creatures, to then be wrapped and devoured. The spell is broken as you blink quickly and look away.

Description Looking at the Same Piece

The quilt patterns look precariously-stacked milk crates. They connote milk crate because of scale--my eyes go inside the midsection where I see slightly recognizable objects, objects that could fit inside a milk crate. Things seem to occupy their space, take up residence. They are put in their places deliberately. But the gaping empty squares appear to be waiting for some object to enter in, to find a home.

These void areas are the only visages of warmth--their hues not as stark as the rest of the white areas. They simultaneously push out towards me and recede, cavelike.

The entire image is unevenly bordered by a whirlpool of directional brushstrokes, a kind of forcefield holding the image in suspension. Much like a spiderweb that isn’t visibly attached to a hard edge.

Like a curious child, I want to poke a square from its stack, anticipating a great crash just so I can get a chance to rebuild and start the process over again. I want to pluck an object from its shelf and put it sneakily into my pocket, hoping its absence would go unnoticed.