August 2020: Elspeth Schulze - Week 1
Elspeth Schulze is an interdisciplinary artist originally from Grand Coteau, Louisiana. Through ceramic, textile and sculptural processes, she explores the complex relationship between material and place.
website: elspethschulze.com
ig: elspethschulze
It’s a strange time to be planning a thesis show. I’m in a 2.5 year MFA program at the University of Colorado in Boulder, slated to finish this fall. When campus closed in March, I packed essential studio materials and tools into two tupperware bins and drove to Tulsa, Oklahoma. My husband Shane is also an artist and has been based here for the past couple years as an artist-in-residence at the Tulsa Artist Fellowship. I’ll be joining the fellowship in January, and had planned to make the move after my thesis exhibition. Now, I’ve decided to stay in Tulsa for the fall and finish my final semester remotely. I have a temporary studio to work from here, that will see me through the fall. It seems like the right time to be in one place, to weather our worries together.
I’m in the ceramics department at CU, and my fellow grads and I were working towards our thesis exhibition this November. Those of us who plan to stay on track will still finish our work and defend it remotely this fall. We’ll exhibit the work in the spring, once the University of Colorado Art Museum reopens to the public and resumes programming.
I imagined this summer to be one of material testing and high production, but instead it has been full of closed work spaces and uncertainty. I have access to work space once again, and as everyone gears up for the semester, it’s been hard to navigate the studio. I feel so fortunate to be in a supportive grad program right now, making work. But the world has changed in so many ways since March that I have trouble connecting to the work I had in progress. We are so much in the middle of this time that I don’t feel ready to respond to or process what is happening through my work. And so what happens now? Do I move forward with work I began before, or do I start over in this strange, between place?
I’ve been planning a series of hinged, folding plywood panels- reminiscent of room dividers. I’ve worked with plywood panels often over the past couple years, using a combination of digital fabrication and manual studio processes. These panels have usually interacted directly with the architecture present: either leaning on or coming out from existing walls. With this work, I wanted to take the panels away from the walls and turn them into self-supporting structures. By hinging shaped plywood panels together and arranging them in a zigzagging shape on the floor, the panels become architecture in their own right- influencing the way a viewer navigates and considers space.
These panels would have holes and slots cut through the faces, with sewn forms and cast objects intersecting each panel. I like the idea of screens that at turns conceal and reveal, like a confessional. I want these panels to invite and impede viewers- here, giving a clear view of the other side, there, a hazy impression.
Creating interior, partially enclosed spaces feels relevant, still- as does the idea of an impeded view punctuated by small moments of clarity. But making this work asks for a certainty that I have trouble locating. In the past several months, I’ve lost and gained access to work spaces multiple times. Will I be two panels into production, and lose access once again? If I do, there is no room in my studio apartment for this scale of work. There is nowhere to sand plywood or pour plaster- no place for my industrial sewing machine. This uncertainty makes me feel at once isolated and connected to everyone around me- How do we move forward while the ground feels so uncertain underfoot?