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Who Is Tyler Gwozdz? Who Is Jeff Elrod? Through dwale, I came across the anagram weald —another archaic term, this one from the Old English meaning 'forest. There is something very Medieval about the pictures—do you have any favorite hits from Medieval or Renaissance art? The Unicorn Tapestries at the Cloisters are among my favorites. Have you ever visited a psychic? The emblems in the Monument weald paintings are based on a suite of symbols from early Tarot card games from the middle ages— the cup, coin, branch, and sword—motifs that have historically stood for the various planes and experiences of earthly existence, essentially what is known as the human condition.

My interest in these symbols is rooted in an inquiry that is decidedly humanist, but the avenues that we take to define and discover meaning and purpose in life are endlessly fascinating to me, and for some that includes divination. I believe in the transcendent power of art. Do you grow any plants or herbs? What kind of power do plants have over humans? How do you channel this power? Most of the imagery of the Jimsonweed were gleaned from this source. The Jimsonweed plant is ubiquitous in Los Angeles—they grow wild and widespread, cropping up in wastelands and off of freeway on-ramps.

In the spring, they populate the Arroyo River path near my home and studio in Pasadena, where I often walk in the evenings. From there, I borrowed a few seeds and planted them on my hillside. All of the plants in these paintings belong to a world of remedies, poisons, sacraments and aphrodesiacs that alter, enhance, or destabilize the human experience in one way or another—for better or worse.

There is a lovely sense of restraint in your work—what would happen if you totally let go? My painting process is slow and precise. That said, I always leave some room in the work for aberration, and for changing course along the way. Sometimes, that happens quite dramatically, and other times those decisions are subtle—faint marks and ghost images visible through the layers; a record of how they were made. If I totally let go All images courtesy of the gallery. So the year-old Chicago native came up with publishing open edition fine art posters——the printing process of which allows him to sell his pieces at an approachable price point for the people he wants to reach.

And you can peruse Nava's current stock, here. The artist's fascination with these subjects started from a young age, where she often found herself noticing the disconnect between actual food and what ends up on your plate for dinner. Now, Surdam looks to illuminate grotesque realities in the present day from the inside out—literally. Staging raw ingredients from liver to fish and even raw birds just to name a few , the artist offends the viewer's appetite while simultaneously drawing us in for more.

The graphic artwork is juxtaposed against elegant backdrops with torn-out pieces from vintage American cookbooks and hidden butt plugs. In their final form, the images leave the viewer in an ultimate state of illusion.

NO TIME TO DIE COUNTDOWNS

Unable to look away once it has caught your attention, her works challenge the idea of beauty and the preconceived notions of perfection to its modern interpretation of truth. Though only two hours outside of New York City, the center feels far removed from urban life. On spaces of soft dirt, one travels a garden spanning the entire grounds. While such opaque guidelines for decorum may open the door to all kinds of fun, a darker message rests beneath the surface of the cardstock. More until there is no more therefore reads as a series of entendres—a literal celebration until the close of the night; the last hurrah of irreverent opulence; a contemplation of the blank slate of a new covenant.

Underneath the stars in a forest that toed the line between utopia and dystopia, guests wandered through the loosely packed dirt trail to uncover the conceptual vision of the artists, performers and curators. Atop a purpose-built cottage, three performers in red-feathered suits play dissonant string instruments. Haunting frequencies emanate from speakers placed in the flowerbeds and bushes that ring the pedestrian avenue.

On the sides of the house, women lay bare wrapped in cellophane. A site squeamish to most, they lay perfectly still with their eyes seemingly never blinking. Fresh drops of dew from the recently trimmed grass collect on the rough transparent plastic wrap that covers their skin. The immediate juxtaposition between this and the aforementioned feathered free jazz trio forces audience members to question what the rest of the night will hold.

Deeper into the woods, the cultish ambiance intensifies. New and eerie sounds of mysterious origin mix with the birds' strings, a saw scratching at the metal of the violins and a violent echo reverberates across the trees. One cannot help but feel both excited and disturbed. A man with limp shoulders and neck convulses at the knee, droning from his throat and staring straight ahead with empty eyes.