Martina Rovatti

No line is straight. Shapes bend, sag, and wrap around themselves: everything wants to move. When the static image unfreezes, brushstrokes and blobs of color turn into creatures, crawling away from the page and morphing into one another. The work’s body is shaped organically: wet clay dries into plaster, plaster crumbles into thick oils, their colors dissolving into ink. Like a wet bar of soap, you can hold onto it all for just a moment before it slips from your grip. You are now in a world where people climb clamshells and shoe laces are spiders. Constantly transforming, forms resist being categorized. There are no rules, no clear-written answers. In this space, the surreal questions our own logic-driven world. Is our normal the new weird? Is our notion of normal alienating us from one another, from our surroundings, and from what it means to be human? In this elusive world, intuition takes over. The senses come alive and you lose your initial intent of trying to make sense of it all. 

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