Found in Translation: Diana Antohe at Staple Goods
Diana Antohe’s solo show, the difference between looking and forgetting at Staple Goods, is a mashup of languages: paint and thread, drawing and object, English and Romanian. Robert Frost is credited with coining the aphorism, “Poetry is what is lost in translation.” I’d like to gently push back on that sentiment. Sometimes there is poetry in the effort to translate, and the willingness to engage with something we don’t completely understand.
The exhibition consists of 13 works, most of them two dimensional, though some nudge toward sculpture. Staple Goods is an awkward exhibition space with a corner door entrance that challenges the white cube aesthetic. It’s a small gallery, with daylight from a large picture window that sometimes washes out color. This show (closed now), rose above the gallery’s homely bones. The work’s soft-speaking, domestic-feeling work was actually served by it.
The first piece on the long exhibition wall is a cross-stitched rhomboid, roughly the dimensions of a piece of construction paper. The peculiar shape feels accidental, a byproduct of the tension created by the needle work pulling the rectangle askew. This serves the piece by undermining the expectation of right angles, much like the entrance to the room. It transforms the rigidity of the rectangle into a more homey shape. The top corners of the piece are tacked snugly to the wall with elegant pins nearly hidden in the stitching. The two bottom corners lift slightly away from the wall, suggesting rigidity of the textile. This decision, not forcing the rectangle shape which I imagine could have been done by securing the bottom corners, was a good one. It gently declined the art norm of right angles and honored its own form.
Uppercase and lowercase letters form words, or what might be words, or what might be nonsense. It took me a moment to conclude that I not only couldn’t read words, but the arrangement of letters was unfamiliar the way German or Spanish wouldn’t be and yet they contained bits of English words “tin” and “mine.”
There is a subtle illusion of layering, uppercase letters overlapping words in lowercase overlapping asterisk stars in various yellows. Behind the stars is the background, color blocks in a variety of blues. The counters—the holes in letters like a, B, and q—are filled with their own hue, distinct from the background outside the letter, another school-age coloring approach. It’s fitting then that the distinct but muted colors remind me of lesser-used Crayola crayons in the iconic 64-count box. Later, I learned from the artist that the piece was based on a colored pencil drawing. The title—tin mult la tine, te tin la mine (in this holding pattern) / I hold you dear, I hold you close to me (1. in acest ciclu de asteptare 2. in acest suport fist)—was in both English and Romanian.
There is a genre of household textiles—once common, once handmade, sometimes place specific—that have been replaced by generics, disposables, or rendered obsolete for other reasons. Tin mult la tine recalls one of these, a placemat or dresser scarf or something else. The feeling is domestic, personal, a thing made with care. The piece resembles a utilitarian object but doesn’t look practical. Instead it’s meant to hold meaning.
Next to tin mult la tine is a vertical painting of a cat lying on its side on a boldly patterned rug. Typically, I would be thrilled to see a painting, a piece that speaks my own language. But this felt like running into an American neighbor in Krakow. I didn’t want to speak painting; I wanted to struggle with the native language of the show. There are five paintings in the show, executed in vivid color and high realism. The one I appreciated the most in this context was Tei in Hyde Park because it mixed media, forming a bridge between imagistic painting and textile, between picture and object, like running into an American neighbor in Krakow who gets you invited to a traditional Polish dinner because—surprise!—she is bilingual.
The base of the final work in a clockwise circuit of the gallery is lightweight pink fabric. It reminds me of a pillow case though it’s too large to be one. Inside the yellow trim there is a colored pencil drawing of a linden tree. The emo words stitched in a circular pattern felt familiar. They are lyrics to the ABBA song “SOS.” “How can I even try to go on when you’re gone…” The title of the work, Dragostea din tei, was also familiar. “No way,” I said aloud. The artist was gallery sitting, politely leaving me alone to look at the work. But I broke the silence and asked about the title. “Is it titled after the song?” “Dragostea din tei” is a 2003 Romanian pop song by the Moldovan band O-Zone. It was big that summer in Europe where I was living, then surfaced two years later in the U.S. as the “Numa Numa” song featured in a viral video. The artist was as surprised to learn I knew the song as I was to see its title, which translates to “Under the Linden Tree,” on an artwork.
A few hours later, I watched the Super Bowl halftime show featuring the American artist known as Bad Bunny who performed in Spanish and emphasized Puerto Rican history. Some English-only feathers were ruffled so much so that the organization Turning Point USA put on an “All-American Halftime Show.” Is it an insult to speak—or cross-stitch—in a language other than English? Here in this country? No, of course not. That’s stupid. So what do we do when we face a language or art form that confounds us? There are many options. We can enjoy abstract elements like color or melody. We can ask questions like, “What is the significance of the linden tree (or sugarcane)?” Systemic exclusion to resources is unethical and a widespread problem. But in language and art forms, what we don’t know can be understood as an invitation. While English and painting are my first languages, I welcome a break from them.
My excitement about recognizing a corny nostalgic pop song led me to set down my task as an art writer and engage in a lively conversation with the artist about Eastern European aesthetic tendencies, like the impressive ratio of end table to tchotchke and doily. She poured me a cup of Romanian elderflower soft drink she had procured for the opening and shared a memory of drinking it as a child in Romania, and I felt more deeply connected to the art, the artist. This too—to inquire, expand, and connect—is the point.
Top photo: tin mult la tine, te tin la mine (in this holding pattern) / I hold you dear, I hold you close to me (1. in acest ciclu de asteptare 2. in acest suport fesut)
Thread on cotton 16.5 x 14 inches
Photo by Emily Farranto
Bottom photo: Embroidering the Threshold
