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Lorna Mills and Sally McKay
Digital Media Tree this blog's archive OVVLvverk Lorna Mills: Artworks / Persona Volare / contact Sally McKay: GIFS / cv and contact |
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Excerpt from "Propane Flames & Brain Coral: The Chimerical World of Julie Voyce"
by R.M. Vaughan*
If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?
- Emily Dickinson
No Emily, there is no other way.
The same goes for art – it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, as you were so vividly paraphrased a generation later.
Art without sensuality is merely dissertation. Art without a pulse, a presence, something you can feel moving around you and, if you’re lucky, inside you, is merely advertising, a clever billboard for a set of otherwise dry ideas. Art must sing, howl, or at least yodel a little to get my attention. A giggle is better than a sermon, a pinch more meaningful than a knowing glance (and far more tangible).
So, let us thank the blazing solar flairs, puffy clouds and double rainbows for Julie Voyce, an artist who knows a thing or five about showbiz, belly laughs, prestidigitation, burlesque teases, snappy dressing and the call of the wild. Julie Voyce is David Lynch in a world overrun with pinched documentarians, Elsa Schiaparelli surrounded by Gap outlets, Divine at a Conservative policy convention, Frida Kahlo holding her eyes open with toothpicks (and the odd monkey’s paw) at Documenta.
Julie Voyce is a starred artist (as in pixelated, sparkling, diamond shiny), not an art star. Art stars come and go, like academic fads and couture theorists, but starry artists are born eternal.
Voyce's catalogue JULIE VOYCE: PASTE-UP is available at Art Metropole,
788 King Street West, Toronto, ON