Alois Kronschlaeger swung a frame from its resting position flush against the wall to a perpendicular orientation. It was one of many hung “salon style,” as he said, against the high wall of his studio. Each was stretched with mesh, and woven through the pores were rigid, geometric designs of colored wool, pulled taut. The frame that the artist manipulated was attached to the wall with hinges, allowing it to be moved. As he did, light from the window-lined wall adjacent to the frames streamed in, meeting the meshwork patterns, filtering through and casting various states of shadow onto the white ground behind them. Depending on the degree of separation between the frame and wall, some shadows were sharp and crisp, others more indistinct, blurry and a lighter shade of grey. It was like looking at a field of sun dials, each in conversation with a different sun.
I was, and still am, a recently graduated Master’s student with a degree in art history, and it was my first time meeting Alois in person. A few days earlier the artist had circulated an email to my program’s list-serve looking for a freelance writer to help maintain his blog. Having written for several online publications and wanting to keep my mind active while searching for more permanent employment, I began the requisite preliminary Google-sleuthing in order to determine if we would make a good pair. My search led me to a short clip posted online by Blouin Artinfo where Alois set one of his multi-colored cubes in motion. These forms, of which Alois has produced several, are composed either of colored metal or faceted wooden rods, with every side of every rod hand-colored with Chinese calligraphy ink. As the cube spins, the colors not only change, but flicker between a rigid coherence and a fizzling indistinctness – order and formlessness. Most striking, and perhaps most disturbing for reasons I will explain soon, are the brief glimpses that the viewer receives of a perfectly articulated rectangle – a frame (fig. 2). This is the module for the cube itself, and should be taken as the building block for the entire sculpture – it is the part that (we assume) echoes in the whole. I was, however, frustrated and unnerved by my inability read it in this way. The unit – the rectangular frame – when seen clearly through the depths of the lattice appears strangely two-dimensional, while the lines of virtually every other horizontally-oriented rod recede into space according to the laws of perspective. The module is a paradoxically two-dimensional element in a three-dimensional structure, the juxtaposition of which creates an effect similar to the “dolly zoom,” a popular tool for suspense in horror movies where the camera zooms in (flattening), while the dolly runs backwards. Here in the colored lattice, two different readings of space collide giving the impression that we are watching the collapse and expansion of space itself. Even more unsettling, however, is the fact that as soon as the rectangular module discloses itself, and just as we recognize it, we lose it again as the cube continues to spin. We are hopelessly out of synch, out of step, a reminder of the belatedness of perception.
Alois’s play with the parameters of spatial representation and time within a structure that recalled an architectural model resonated with my own research interests in school. One area that fascinated me was the humble architecture of the pavilion. From English landscape gardens through World’s Fairs and Biennials, these little structures have a persistent association with spatial-temporal compression and often provide sites for imagination and virtual travel. Time has a habit of speeding up in these structures, echoed in the protracted life-span of the architecture itself. Or alternatively, time can weigh heavily, as evidenced by a book Alois would later show me documenting derelict Russian bus stops in isolated locations. Convinced of an overlap in our areas of research I sent Alois an email with my resume and a handful of writing samples, and was pleased when he asked to meet the following week.
Now seated in his workspace at a long table running the length of the room, Alois and I commenced a meeting that would last approximately four hours. The coffee flowed abundantly, and a delicious lunch was prepared by Alois’s wife Florencia. We discussed the editorial position, my background, and he introduced me to his new work – the before-mentioned wall-mounted frames. Throughout our conversation he moved in front of the wall, pushing frames in, pulling others back, removing some and replacing them with others that were in progress, all the while the composition of shadows on the wall shifted. He was preparing these pieces for an upcoming show at Cristin Tierney Gallery, and we would eventually decide that it would be the project of this blog to chart their development as the exhibition approached. We would meet once every Monday for a studio visit to discuss the trajectory of Alois’s work. Over time I will observe that though the materials of wool, mesh, and frame would remain consistent, Alois’s constant experimentation with size, format, and weaving techniques created a conceptually diverse, though visually unified, body of work. As an art historian, it is my job to respond to the work-in-process and develop terms that will allow us to think through it, while productively situating it within art historical conversations. As a result, the trajectory of this blog, following as it does the movement of an artist’s creative process, will be open ended and fluid, subject to my responses to the changing conditions of the work. I will also allow the possibility of segues for reflection on topics not necessarily related to Alois’s practice, but perhaps engendered by my observation of the work and conversations with the artist nonetheless. My first project will be to further describe the framed work that I encountered on the wall in his studio and offer a critical language suited for them.