East Meets West in Katherine Tzu-Lan Mann’s Teeming Masses of Life and Systems

“I think of my work as landscape oriented or having to do with landscape painting,” says Katherine Tzu-Lan Mann of her complex, visually arresting paintings. The work is abstract, but Mann’s use of botanical imagery, glimpses of what looks like sky, orientation and the general ebb and flow of mass across the picture plane both reference and evoke the natural world. Being in nature and capturing it are vital to Mann’s practice and she often paints en plein air near her home in Basye, Virginia.

“I’m not as interested in thinking about landscape in terms of perspectival space. I like thinking of it in terms of teeming masses of life and the systems that make them work together. In the Shenandoah Valley for example, I’m not just looking at the mountains in the distance, I am actually looking at what is immediately below my feet. Weeds and bugs and how those are combining and knapping together.”

Mann, 35, who is half Taiwanese, spent her early childhood and the summers of her teenage years in Taiwan. During those latter visits, she studied traditional Chinese shan shui (“mountain water”) sumi ink painting. Although Mann is very much a product of both Eastern and Western traditions—she majored in Studio Art at Brown University and pursued an MFA from the Maryland College Institute Hoffberger School of Painting, where she is currently an adjunct professor—this rigorous early training and approach formed the foundation of her practice and is evident in the work today.

According to Mann the shan shui tradition is not quite as doctrinaire as it might appear to Western eyes. “You have to perfect a lot of skills and hone your fine muscles before you get to individual expression, which actually isn’t that different from traditional western painting education. Yes, as a teenager, studying traditional painting, meant copying the teacher’s work so at that point there wasn’t much room for individuality. But while the tradition of Chinese landscape is very much steeped in the past and learning from masters, there’s still a lot of personality and emotion that might come into that.”

Mann starts every work with what she refers to as a “pour”. After laying her paper—sometimes a sheet, sometimes it is collaged or woven—on the floor of her studio, she haphazardly pours buckets of watered-down acrylic or ink onto the paper. She likes the lack of control of the pour, not planning or knowing what she’ll end up with is both freeing and challenging. It takes several days, or sometimes even weeks for the water to evaporate leaving a bloom of pigment staining the paper. “The stain feels ephemeral, natural and in a way kind of elegant and it would be very easy to stop there, which is what Morris Louis did. But then I would just be doing what he did, so I like to combine it with other things that feel like they don’t fit with that type of visual language.” The stain, a product of what Mann refers to as a “chance operation” becomes the starting point for the work. It’s an interesting turn of phrase almost oxymoronic, containing both accident and determination. It could also refer to Mann’s approach as well as to the melding of Western and Eastern painting traditions.

Mann’s works are large. Her intention is to create an immersive experience for the viewer where they don’t just see something, they also experience it, or at least get a whiff of its essence. This is very much in keeping with traditional Chinese painting where it’s not about producing a replica of nature, but rather the idea of nature. Mann also produces large site-specific installations which allow her to ramp up this sense of immersion. Most of her installations are paper that’s been cut and woven and then nailed directly into the wall. Sometimes these are interspersed with wall paintings, some of which spill onto the floor, veering into 3-D as they colonize space beyond the picture plane. With “Palimpsest” from 2012, Mann produced an entirely three-dimensional piece composed of hanging paper.

Mann pairs great swaths of paint or ink next to areas busy with finely drawn detail, the veils of the initial pour are tempered by impasto passages. Sumi ink washes and delicate etchings meet and hold their own against bold bursts of lush color. Collaged or woven paper offer interesting textural contrast to the smoothness of the plainer areas. In looking at Mann’s work, one is struck by how it is charged with energy. It radiates outward in explosive splinters or undulates across the surface in sensuous mounds, or swirls around like bits of confetti.

With “Fable” (2014) Mann combines painting, silkscreen, collage and etching to create a ravishing work of extraordinary complexity and visual power. An abstract tour de force of composition, juxtaposed texture and color, spatial dynamism and rhythm, the painting exudes confidence and nerve. From a formal standpoint, it’s visually dazzling. It’s also curious looking and we can’t help wondering if what is there is an actual thing, and so our interest is piqued twice. It’s as if Mann is provoking us to think in two different directions at the same time.

“Double Bed” (2017) takes inspiration for its compositional elements from murals in the ancient Roman Villa of Livia. A lyrical work, it thrums with energy, albeit a quieter kind. The diptych composition is suggestive of traditional space with a repeated shape that conveys arched portals, or perhaps these are the beds of the title. Earth and sky can be read into the left side, but Mann pulls us back into abstraction on the right, with overlapping vertical bands of color and pattern. The pine tree at the center evokes nature as do the greenish, blue and yellow hues. These are punctuated by patches of paint and gaudy little multicolored daubs that add visual interest and help preserve the abstract integrity of the work. The swirling ribbons and funny little squiggles add a lightness to the piece—the visual equivalents of a soft, spring breeze.

Mann’s work is a virtuosic balancing act between formal elements, technique, images and movement. There is a lot going on, but Mann never loses control. She flirts with chaos, allowing it into the work like a dash of piquant seasoning to add spice to the more placid areas, but it never takes over. “I like combining something that is inherently and easily, naturally beautiful, like a pour of paint with something that feels a little more ham-handed or clumsy.” This bravura visual yin and yang enlivens and enriches Mann’s work and keeps the viewer on their toes.

Krista Townsend's Visual Paeans to Nature...and Painting

Looking at Krista Townsend's work, you would be surprised to learn that she trained as a medical illustrator. It is a rigorous course of study that combines advanced biology and anatomy courses with classical studio art training. Observation, dispassion and accuracy are required. This all seems a far cry from her exuberant and free visual paeans to nature. Learning about her process and looking closer at the work, you begin to see that the connection between the two is actually quite strong.

Every day, rain or shine, Townsend hikes with her dog in the woods outside Charlottesville. She goes to the same area day after day, observing her surroundings and experiencing nature—the sights, smells, sounds, weather, etc. These repetitive excursions, which suggest a kind of meditation, ensure a deep connection to her subject matter and become the inspiration for the work she produces in the studio. "I immerse myself in the landscape. I want to capture that experience of nature and offer it to the viewer," says Townsend. She takes photos on the trail, but these function purely as compositional tools; she relies on her memory to provide the rest of the information.

Already a keen observer, thanks to her science and art backgrounds, Townsend has augmented this skill through the repetitive regimen she follows. She's become particularly attuned to the natural world and portrays it with depth and sensitivity. Her work is not just a visual representation of nature, but an authentic account of the experience of interacting with it. This kind of attention to observation and the desire to convey a truth to the viewer is very much akin to the process and aims of medical illustration. But the way her paintings look couldn't be more different from the doctrinaire approach of those scientific renderings. With her highly keyed colors, slashing line and gestural brushstrokes, Townsend's works convey a joy, not just in nature, but in the act of painting itself—you can tell she revels in it.

The works pulse with energy and Townsend's process is very physical, her great arching strokes suggest the arc of her arm applying paint. Townsend is constantly moving as she paints—stepping back to regard the canvas, crouching down to work on the bottom, standing up again to reach an upper corner. A large mirror hangs on one wall of her studio, maybe 15 feet away from her easel. She is continuously checking it to see how her work reads from a distance.

Some of her paintings, Moss and Sticks, for example, are like deconstructed landscapes with the rectangular daubs of paint she favors, at once fracturing and building up the composition, while others like Broken Tree, verge into the abstract. While Townsend is painting from nature, she leads with the formal elements, not the narrative ones. She's not interested in recreating an exact replica of what is there, but rather the more intangible experience of being in that place.

Space is suggested, but Townsend's paintings have a distinct flatness. She wants you paying attention to what she's doing on the surface, not distracted by the visual sleight of hand of perspective. Yellow Leaves, with a close-up of the leaves of the title positioned against meadow, mountains and sky, presents the sense of distance, but without the illusion of depth. In a work like Evening Woods, Townsend creates a lively dialogue between foreground and background using light and shadow. While this piece is quite abstract, the way she conveys the quality of light glimpsed through leaves, is spot on. Vines, is a diptych of almost impossibly green leaves set against a dark background. The green works because it evokes bright sun on leaves. You can almost feel it, or recall how it feels, and smell the mineral tang of the loamy soil. It is a painting of fecundity and captures that distinctly Virginia summertime when kudzu consumes anything in its path and other plants run riot in the hothouse heat.

Townsend supplements her woodland rambles with visits to a friend's wildflower garden. The paintings inspired by it, Luna's Meadow, Yellow Echinacea Meadow, Wildflower Meadow, are more than just pretty pictures. Townsend is after a more holistic rendition of what it's like to be in that garden. To get there, she opts for unconventional compositions and an unsentimental approach, which add both interest and substance to the work. "These paintings are kind of messy--they're going off in all directions—because that's what the landscape is doing," she says. "Drawing has always been pretty easy for me and it has certainly been a focus of my training. What I love about these paintings is that they push me beyond that. I get a little lost in the abstract shapes, but then step back and see how it all comes together."

In her large, individual flowers, she zeros in on one component of the landscape, using scale and brushstroke to temper their prettiness. "When I was young, this was a challenge for me because I like the things everybody else likes and I wanted to paint those things, but now I want to paint differently. I don't want to paint just a pretty picture. This is what my college professors were trying to push, but I guess back then I wasn't ready for the message."

Townsend says she's affected by the weather, so what's going on outside shows up in the studio. She admits that winter is hard for her because she loves colors so much. Yet, the earthy tonalities and dynamic brushstrokes of Copper Beech in the Rain and Broken Tree show how adept she is at painting more subdued "rainy day" works.

When she's stuck, Townsend will turn the painting to the wall and it "will paint itself", meaning the next time she looks at it, she either decides she likes it after all, or she can now see what needs to be done to fix it. Such a painting is Hiding Place (pictured),  an immensely satisfying work which features a beautifully painted tangle of grasses that is both bravura abstract composition and mysterious nest-like form. Neon green dots and cerulean slashes add dazzle to the olives and ochres. There is such command and restraint in this work, it's startling.

Among the many qualities Townsend's work possesses, the most prominent is confidence. This is evident in the risks Townsend takes. She's able to take them because she herself possesses confidence, a result of her exacting training. She's got the artistic chops backing her up as she pushes herself to explore the far reaches of painting. One looks forward to seeing where she goes and whether it will take her to abstraction, or bring her back to the figure, a subject she has thus far avoided painting because of her training. In any case, based on this body of work, you know the future will be bright for Townsend whatever direction she follows.

Lisa Beane Tells the Truth

Lisa Beane has never shied away from addressing challenging political issues, but there is more urgency and audacity in her recent work. For the past two years, Beane has been focused on lynchings, drawn to the subject by the story of Farkhunda Malikzada, a 27-year old Afghan woman who was murdered by an angry mob in March 2015 in Kabul. The incident occurred after Malikzada confronted a mullah selling charms outside a shrine. A devout woman, Malikzada was offended by this blasphemous activity happening in such close proximity to a holy site. Her piety proved her undoing; the mullah became so enraged by Malikzada's scolding that he turned around and accused her of burning a Koran. Word of this alleged act spread quickly through the crowd, which attacked Malikzada. In a frenzy, they beat her, stoned her and ran her over, finally setting what was left of her body on fire and throwing it into the river all in the presence of policemen.

Beane saw in the outcry here in the States blatant hypocrisy and convenient amnesia. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that we were doing much the same thing. Between the years 1877-1950 there were nearly 4,000 lynchings in the U.S., the vast majority in the South. What is almost worse to consider is that these events frequently took on a carnival atmosphere with women and children in attendance. And these weren't mere hangings. Victims would be tortured with brands, their limbs broken and some were burned alive, all in the presence of ordinary, church-going folk. Crowds as big as 15,000 were reported at these barbaric events. A whole industry of souvenir photography arose out of the lynchings (not to mention other "souvenirs", ears, fingers, genitals). Many of the photos of actual lynchings were turned into postcards that still exist today complete with sickeningly glib messages inscribed by sender to recipient.

It is these hateful mementos that provide the inspiration for the core of this body of work with paintings composed like postcards. Recurring imagery features the crowd of lynching spectators and stamps in the upper right or left corners. It is in these little rectangles, that resemble religious icons, that Beane places the lynched victims. The stamps are one cent both because that was the cost of a postcard stamp back when these postcards were printed and mailed, and also because one cent is about the value the perpetrators placed on the human beings they tortured and hanged. Working from the original images, Beane embellishes them with paint and adds halos to their martyred heads, canonizing those whose suffering was on a par with any experienced by the roster of Catholic saints. Often, Beane juxtaposes them with vintage images of happy white people who are either okay with what's going on or unaware, as if to say both are guilty. For how can 4,000 lynchings go on unnoticed?

A commanding work, Sheet Cake, Beane's portrait of a steely-eyed Robert E. Lee in striking dun-colored coat and green vest and sporting a hip-hop stud in one ear, addresses the very thing that bedevils white supremacists and explains their anti-science bias, namely, that we are all descended from a common ancestor, "Lucy", an extinct hominin from Africa. Set against a blood red background, a trickle of which runs down Lee's face, the portrait presents not the Lee of Southern lore—a man of honor and integrity, tortured by his decision to break with his country—but the man who upheld a system that brutalized an entire segment of the population. Beane drives home this point with "Trans Atlantic Trade Inc." written across the bottom, referencing the slave trade, and the bar code numbers, which represent the 12 million enslaved people transported across the Atlantic from Africa.

In her work, Beane uses a combination of image and writing set against broad passages of paint that is sometimes a lyrical atmospheric backdrop and other times, an emotionally charged aura rendered in bold brushstrokes.The scrawl of words and splintered composition impart an edgy street vibe to the work, almost as if the paintings are an urban wall peppered with graffiti and the layered visual fragments of old handbills.

Cartoon characters and child surrogates populate Beane's work, and the written passages have the syntax and style of a child as well as a particular juvenile naïveté. One senses Beane herself feels reduced to a vulnerable child in the face of these horrors and by using innocents both to bear witness and deliver the truth, Beane underscores the savagery being described.

Beane shares a similar raw aesthetic with reclusive outsider artist Henry Darger. In addition to the use of children and childlike perspective, their work features bright colors, wild, opulent flowers and samplings from popular culture. Though obviously more self-aware and engaged in the world than Darger who was powerless before his obsessions, like him, Beane's work is informed by childhood trauma. While hers was not on the same level as Darger who suffered shattering mental and physical abuse. Beane's father was a dentist and she enjoyed a loving family and affluent existence in Richmond. Still, being African-American in the 1960s South was not easy. Beane recalls as a child being told to get down on the floor of the car w1as her mother drove past a group of KKK in a field burning a cross.

"The title of the show is ‘Karma’", says Beane. "A big underlying point is: 'Do unto others.' The concept of karma—it all comes back to you, and at the end of the day we all have to answer for the good and the bad we have done to one another, the planet, animals and life itself. Selfish greed, fear of others being different, privileged mentality and superiority just for simple pigmentation is absurd. I have relatives who can pass for white. Does that make them white? This mentality is twisted, scary and harmful to society as a whole. Racism retards the progress of the United States and the world. The anger and cruelty is despicable beyond my understanding. Police brutality, preying on innocent people of color because they can, AND get away with most of the abuse, has become the new KKK. All of these paintings show the need for accepting individual responsibility for society's distorted view of privileged racism. How can people actually call Black Lives Matter the same as the KKK? Someone said to me the other day, 'Wow, you’re so angry,' after seeing the Lee painting. I told him, 'Really? No, I just hate the way racist, privileged people treat others and how long they have gotten away with it. Just because I stand up against them doesn’t make me angry, I just tell the truth.'"