Carlin knows her art. So it was no surprise to me to walk into the shop and see some amazing pieces for sale. These are gorgeous, big, juicy art statements. Molly Ledbetter is an up and coming artist living in the fine city of Nashville.
Have a look at her work:
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| "Celadon" |
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| "Dark Holler" |
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| "Grasshopper Pie" |
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| "You Know I've Been Called A Dreamer" |
These are four examples of Molly's work. The originals for sale in Carlin's shop are "Dark Holler" and "Grasshopper Pie." The computer screen hardly does this art justice. They are so much more spectacular in person!
From the artist:
I am interested in the idea that one can feel nostalgia for something one never actually had. What is that about? What does nostalgia do and how does it operate? I think nostalgia exists where loss and beauty intersect, and I think in all my work there is an undercurrent of loss and beauty, and a struggle to define that point of intersection.
Topically my work appears to be engaged in a dialogue about color, line, and texture, reveal and non-reveal. When I paint I am thinking simple thoughts. Intuition informs the way my body moves. My studio is filled only with what it takes to make the work and little else because when I am working nothing else interests me. I am often impatient. I vacillate between moments of intense energy, self-doubt, celebration, mindfulness, and release.
My work is very much process-driven. I like to give myself a repeated form in which to let color take center stage. I think without realizing it I have been struggling with painting's limitations, or I have been trying to figure out why they are with regard to how I work, and whether these limitations are even important to me.
What are my subjects? I thought I would paint the thing itself. The moon works as a trope in the way I mean, so I’ll paint the moon. Something happens to my brain and heart when I see music live, particularly outdoors and in the summertime, and so I’ll paint the concert lights. But none of this felt real. None of it could really close the gap between experience, that familiar heart-feeling when my heart feels overwhelmed, and the realization that as I was experiencing the thing I was also loosing it. And none of it could address the question of whether or not any of that really mattered.
If I could make a painting that felt like what the sun feels like then I might feel I as on the right track. I am searching for the moment when head and heart align; when loss (when what is lost) becomes beautiful and visa versa. I like what Amy Sillman says, that you should do two things at once: what you do and what you don’t do. My work is about exploring that point of intersection.
How can I contain all of this that I feel? How can I make sense of it? Where is the beauty in all that is lost? These are things I think about. They are simple questions, and yet they are perhaps the most essential.
Topically my work appears to be engaged in a dialogue about color, line, and texture, reveal and non-reveal. When I paint I am thinking simple thoughts. Intuition informs the way my body moves. My studio is filled only with what it takes to make the work and little else because when I am working nothing else interests me. I am often impatient. I vacillate between moments of intense energy, self-doubt, celebration, mindfulness, and release.
My work is very much process-driven. I like to give myself a repeated form in which to let color take center stage. I think without realizing it I have been struggling with painting's limitations, or I have been trying to figure out why they are with regard to how I work, and whether these limitations are even important to me.
What are my subjects? I thought I would paint the thing itself. The moon works as a trope in the way I mean, so I’ll paint the moon. Something happens to my brain and heart when I see music live, particularly outdoors and in the summertime, and so I’ll paint the concert lights. But none of this felt real. None of it could really close the gap between experience, that familiar heart-feeling when my heart feels overwhelmed, and the realization that as I was experiencing the thing I was also loosing it. And none of it could address the question of whether or not any of that really mattered.
If I could make a painting that felt like what the sun feels like then I might feel I as on the right track. I am searching for the moment when head and heart align; when loss (when what is lost) becomes beautiful and visa versa. I like what Amy Sillman says, that you should do two things at once: what you do and what you don’t do. My work is about exploring that point of intersection.
How can I contain all of this that I feel? How can I make sense of it? Where is the beauty in all that is lost? These are things I think about. They are simple questions, and yet they are perhaps the most essential.
Experience Molly's art!
Come to
C & A Camp
Downtown Charlottesville
434-973-5555
