Alina’s work stood out to me for its surreal quality and suggestion of a mysterious narrative. At first glance, her painting “The Laundresses” could read as a tranquil domestic scene, but the longer you look, the more unsettling it becomes. There’s a Cubist-style mixing of angles—some buildings seen from below, some from above—and without a horizon, that blue could be sky, sea, or both. The wind pulls the women’s laundry in contradictory directions, turning white sheets into marks reminiscent of seagulls, although no birds are present. And why are so many women performing this labor in otherwise empty streets, all wearing the same blood-red gowns? The longer I looked, the more disconcerting the scene felt, as if portending something darker. 

That foreshadowing is fulfilled in “The Cranes,” which digitally alters the painting almond beyond recognition. What was once a receding street of homes now resembles a ghostly tower rising toward a bloated moon. The sense of gothic horror is underscored by dozens of dark marks that echo the pattern of the white sheets, but this time more explicitly depict birds flocking across a rippling gray sky. In the foreground, more birds interact in a mix of outlandish sizes and ambiguous poses. A pair of the titular sandhill cranes strut dead center, while other species of birds flap their wings in aggressive confrontations all around. Knowing that this piece builds on the painting, I immediately understood it as following chronologically, in which case things have not gone well for the laundresses’ village. Did the humans somehow cause their own downfall, leaving scarred streets for other species to fill? Or, given the aggressive movements of all these birds, did the natural world violently reclaim this place? 

With Alina’s work in mind, I was then drawn to Richard’s traditional oil pastel. His vibrant colors suggest a wholly natural environment that is rich in life, with texture suggesting water, greenery, flowers, or changing leaves. A lone wading bird presides over the composition, serene and elegant. It seems there’s no tension or confrontation in the absence of humanity—except, of course, for the presence of the human artist and his audience.

—Karie Luidens, Visual Arts Editor