In his meticulous photograph there is something primary, physical like a bone cracking out of skin. » Yaara Shehori The photographs & text were originally published in "The Hottest Place In Hell" magazine, May 7th, 2015 Victorian ornithologists and botanists would have heartily commended Susan Hipgrave’s remarkable series of hand-painted plates.
I work with it in terms of size and placement, and then begins the slow and meditative practice of putting paint to porcelain.
I obsess about how fine a line I can do; ultimately, I love seeing all the little black lines that I’ve painted come together to create an image.’ Despite the striking maturity of her work, Susan has been working in ceramic art for less than a decade.
Mariah holding baby Jesus and already visioning his future death, alongside the bird as some kind of prosthesis accessory, exposing the unsaid – here, someone died in the hands of a very living someone.
Someone could not woke someone up from its fainting, from its death; that’s almost indecent and yet I believe him; I believe this quest for beauty in all places that supposed to be covered with dirt.
I was immediately sorry I hadn’t thought of it myself, that I hadn’t stolen him from life, into my story.
A young man with burning eyes (that’s the way it is, sometimes similes flares in your head, later it softens).
“This is me and my brother”, he said to me simply when describing the relationship between the young man and the bird; two non-identical twins who rolled out to the farthest edges: man and bird, live and dead; and suddenly the layers I’ve counted faded into dust.
That sentence he said, reminded me of Jacob Biton’s poetry who wrote about himself and his brother Dogan facing their grandma’s death, the big mother.
And they are are also the ultimate recycler known for thieving and collecting found objects for their nests.