Feeling bad about one’s self is not the same as being an artist, a critic had written in a review of her last show, slouched metal sculptures deformed, which—despite being massive, looming and architectonic in scale—read popularly as bodies, frequently her own.
She had worked handily on them, that was true. She wondered to what extent the “she” she possessed had to do with these corporeal misreadings. Though figures they were, bodies they were not. She had sought to foreground the background but all she got back was noise.
