For those of you who follow this blog, you're probably aware of the serious crushes I've developed for those who are wildly talented amongst the fairer sex, and of the tribute I've paid to those who bare it all for the sake of art, even when crassly superimposed, spread eagle, in front of a Klimt.
And similar to this lady, I've lurked in admiration and adoration over Monica Canilao's work wondering what goes on in her head when she assembles her art. Does she pause in reflection over a cigarette or a quick one-hitter while nibbling on thin mints? (This used to be my thing. The cookies.) Does she take bike rides through the streets of Oakland to come home filled with thoughts of crafty masterpieces? What drives her?
I can only imagine, as her sparse interviews with Fecal Face or Juxtapoze or studio visits won't suffice.
The opening reception for her first New York solo show entitled “We Are Dust” will be held at Williamsburg's Cinders Gallery this Friday, April 30.
“The past is not something you can choose to leave behind. It guides your hand and sways your gaze, it is blood and tears and bliss. Paint chip trails and ghost images are left behind in abandoned places, lived in to death and pieces. Every life leaves an imprint. Plants shoot out roots and break through foundations, found under the floorboards. You rub your eyes clear for the first time and see the war paint that has always been there, running rainforest colors across your cheeks.These past histories unearthed are not a thing that you've lost, it's a veil sitting just behind your eyes, weaving, running, somewhere just beyond the treeline. These Old faces are your faces, and Your hands have built things without permission. Every tiny effort feeds and is recycled… The universe is so large that all we can do is hold on and take care of one another… because In the end We are just dust and more dust.” -Monica Canilao
