MURRMUR: Blurs and Senses, curated by the Assistant Curator of Commerce + Publications Egbert Vongmalaithong at the Institute for Contemporary Art in Richmond, VA, is the second iteration of an exhibition and research framework that addresses reading and publication. The first iteration, MURRMUR: Misread Unread Read Re-read Misread Unread Re-read, was hosted at the ICA last year. On the current show, Vongmalaithong notes, “The artists included all have a nerdy and distinct relationship to publishing. This exhibition aims to augment and experiment with known forms of publishing by considering the scraps of our musings and turning that language into something material.”
I was intrigued by the promise of a show about publishing that would trouble language, the written word, and communication. The printed exhibition material further poses the questions: “What drives our impulse to discard? What drives our desire to keep? How do the traces of what no longer remain affect our experience of the present?” These questions outline an interest in material culture and accumulation, while also proposing a celebration of detritus.
I walked to the third floor of the museum’s bright, modernist space. The crisp, oddly shaped room has dramatically high ceilings, a wall of frosted windows, and glistening floors. In contrast, the works I found felt touched, grounded—literally and metaphorically, as there was sand on the slick tiles. Prior to arrival, I prepared myself for the aesthetic of information. I envisioned expertly made vitrines containing splayed notebooks, shelves of xeroxed zines, a cacophony of serif fonts, and a bookcase cluttered with volumes. Perhaps there would be large-scale wall lettering as a nod to text-based conceptual artist Lawrence Weiner. I saw nothing of the sort, except for the Lawrence Weiner homage, which I found in some form on the windows in small, curly white text. It was snippets of poetry, but not from an artist. It was the curator’s writing.
A few excerpts:
denture cleaner
Carrot, onion, celery
Probiotics
a pasta shape you’ve never eaten before
And:
Perhaps these are clues,
cues for thought: we’re entering
the mouth of human depth!
And maybe it’s not human, after all
And:
Debris is everywhere…
How wonderfully odd.
I concur that the included works investigate for lack of a better word “stuff,” but it does so in no two ways alike. The show provides no unifying material or form, and no singular subject matter. There is nothing tight, restrictive, or pun-intended, binding. Instead, I receive lyrical relationships between material, artist, context, and means.
There is nothing tight, restrictive, or pun-intended, binding. Instead, I receive lyrical relationships between material, artist, context, and means.
Central in the space is a handmade tent structure composed of blue, green, and orange tarps held together by 4×4 wood planks. The work, made by ssSssssssssss, a study-friendship—what beautiful language for collaboration— between Ashkan Sepahvand and virgil b/g Taylor. The work, spread (embassy) (2024), is a structure that housed an unknown ritual or performance, but now serves as the remaining display of an abandoned celebration. Peering inside the open flaps I saw the following: glass pebbles, burlap bags, clips with real paper money, fake flowers, a gold doormat, sunflower seeds, a toy globe, metallic duct tape, fabric, wadded up maps, leopard print ribbon, silver serving trays, yellow powder-coated chains, empty glass bottles, shredded bags of unmixed cement, decorative plastic fruit, stuffed ziplock bags, and netted twinkle lights.
This list, while not exhaustive, does relay the sensation created: all of these items are equated in this staged space. Without material hierarchy it is a visual feast that can’t be fully taken in or observed in entirety. The unshelled sunflower seeds are no more or less important than the holographic banknote hanging above what appears to be an altar. All visual planes are worked up to the same degree. Trays, bottles, and flowers fill the sand floor; open paper bags and abstract paper mache forms occupy eye level; meanwhile, dangling ribbons adorn the overhead space. The relationships between materials appear casual but selective.They are stacked and tangled, yet still indicate reverence. The associated wall text from the artists further illuminates and obscures: “We come from the East. We go to the West. From a loaded Periphery, we fantasize of an empty Center. We prepare a Structure for Exchange. Here-ish, we share Words, Gifts, and Gestures.”
Adjacent to ssSssssssssss’s effusive generosity is James Hannaham’s work. Engaging text most overtly in the show, Firmament Unstable, Declares Chicken (2024) takes the form of a fleeting video without sound. On three vertically-mounted monitors is continuous, scrolling text at various speeds. Headlines written in italicized English appear, then disappear upwards: “Aspiring Despot claims victimhood”; “Artificial Intelligence Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah”; “Deadly Tragedy Inspires No Reforms Whatsoever “; and “Imaginary Conspiracy Distracts from Proven Conspiracy.” They just keep coming. My visual field flooded, I read rapidly. I smirk, then smile, then chuckle, then sigh. It is no surprise that this emotional journey is crafted by an artist who is also a lauded writer. Any one blurb would suffice for a headline in The Onion—praise in my book—but in mass, the spoof sugar rush sours as the fantastical headlines begin to read as subtext to actual daily news.
Like spread (embassy) (2024), the videos overwhelm me not just with volume but also with speed, leaving me just shy of comprehension. By the time one text appears and the reader synthesizes information, or better yet, laughs knowingly, it is already gone. In this work, speed is a primary rhetorical tool, only second to humor. The pacing offers comedic timing, but also recalls the 24-hour news cycle and the sensation of lagging behind in current events. Graciously, I can pick up a printed takeaway that contains the headlines to peruse later. Disturbingly, the zany paradoxical headlines are evergreen.
Beside Hannaham’s dizzying headline slot machine is the serene, grand work of Zeynab Izadyar. Taking advantage of the extreme verticality of the space, the sculpture is a cascade in form and image. Curtain-like, boughed fabric drips from the top of the gallery down to the floor. Folds reveal and hide a blurry photograph of a waterfall and a rainbow printed on fabric. The imagery of rushing water along with the implied movement of the undulating fabric is contrasted by the sculpture itself, which is oh so still. I think of Zoe Leonard’s You see I am here after all (2008), a growing display of the same vintage Niagara Falls postcard gridded on the wall. There is a parallel in imagery of course, but also like Leonard’s work, I find that the familiar, cliché photograph becomes secondary to the sheer volume of what is in front of my eyes.
Further complicating the work, shapes in soft peach are darned on to the spilling fabric. Each contains hand-printed drawings and red text. The organic, pale forms register as a sewing pattern used to make a jacket and pants. Within the pattern are drawings of flowers, tulips to be specific, along with seeds, bulbs, and shedding red petals. Beside a cross-section of a red bulb I find an outlier, an anatomical line drawing of a pregnant human figure. The figure is labeled “MOM,” the fetus “ME.” True to the rest of the exhibition, text provides moments of insight but also poses more questions. Labeled “Making Roots,” one stitched shape states, “The roots start growing out of the base. They establish themselves in the dirt and take nourishment out of the diet, the mother bulbs get ready for winter.” Pinned on the nearby wall, a complete suit pattern is outlined. Employing instructional language, the work is a call to regeneration.
Nearby, Lauren Francescone’s work is reserved and formal. It is also void of words entirely. In the color palette of terracotta, cyan blue, bright white, and teal, the ceramic pieces are all in slight relief and exist in gradations of reflective and matte glazes. Accumulation exists in this work as these somewhat recognizable forms make up a collection, but not in a Mark Dion-y way. The generalized abstractions invoke everyday spaces like kitchens and living rooms, but notably, the most intriguing pieces recall the act of reading. Flat planes suggest book shelfs or book ends. High on the wall is a round floating disk that recalls a period, a clock, the moon, or a sundial. Regardless, it marks time. The wall installation is also punctuated by curved lines, which serve as a framing mechanism or perhaps an emotional cue, like parenthesis or raised eyebrows. Other passages in the work offer sequential narratives in relief with semi-representational forms, which remind me of a pictograph or braille. Close viewing of these tactile ceramics provide the opportunity to marvel at craft but get me no closer to understanding the objects that stand before me.
This show is a reminder that the desire to understand is reasonable, but shouldn’t always be satiated. The charm and power of the exhibition is that it doesn’t make a case or shore up an argument. There is no thesis or singular thread. Subsequently, connections between the works feel relational, fragile. There is room for curiosity, miscommunication, and skepticism. Rather than reading the room like I would read a well-formulated paper, viewing the work feels like taking part in a whispered game of telephone; the story morphs and grows with each retelling. ssSssssssssss’s quickly assembled structure shares a speed and energy with Hannaham’s rapidly moving videos. Hannaham’s upward scrolling text draws attention to the verticality of Izadyar’s work. Izadyar’s interest in growth and life cycles has an affinity with Francesone’s time keepers. These tangential motifs and themes are loose, open, yet interconnected like the netted constellation of twinkle lights atop ssSssssssssss’s temporary structure. Without the drive to fully comprehend or consume the work, I am given the opportunity to permeate it, just for a while. I get the chance to join the uncertainty and unfolding. This is what reading feels like.
