In an earlier review of her work we are told that to make this type of drawing Dove Bradshaw takes a sheet of carbon paper and lays it over “a clear adhesive sheet that has been exposed to dust. By rubbing the paper, carbon is removed from every place except where the dust lies, and the resulting carbon paper reveals dust’s impression.”¹ What we have here, then, is a careful manipulation of two elements that “fly”: carbon and dust.

A sheet of carbon paper appears to be a perfectly reconciled and indivisible object. When we look at it we are captivated both by the glossy perfection of the surface and by its apparent immutability. The idea of separating the carbon from the surface seems impertinent.

But not to Bradshaw. It is precisely her willingness to insert a catalyst that precipitates unforeseeable consequences that makes her work of a kind not seen before. Here, while removing the carbon from the paper that carries it, she complicates the process further by dispersing dust on the receiving surface, affecting both the distribution of the carbon and its volume. The dust, while acting as a barrier between the carbon and the adhesive, subtly marks the surface by leaving its own imprint: it adds volume and tone to the drawing. One unanticipated consequence of this ingenious combination is that, when held to the light, a variety of colors—until then hidden—appear on the drawing, as if alerted by the added and transitory illumination to make a brief appearance.

The surface on which the carbon and the dust finally mix is transparent and gives the impression of being very thin. At the top, where the sheet has been fastened to the framing board, it buckles slightly. The thinness of the supporting paper suggests that the work lacks physical strength.

The fragility inherent in the materials and in the surface that restrains them makes Bradshaw’s intervention all the more daring. The fact that she prefers to work with dust and carbon, both volatile materials that are then further attenuated by her manipulation, offers us the immense satisfaction of participating, through observation, in the creation of a work of art that was clearly supported by careful forethought. Here, we are witnessing Bradshaw’s resolute determination to further extend the possibilities of a material that, to all appearances, seemed to have reached its final destination.

1. Mark Swed, Dove Bradshaw /Jan Henle (Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 1998) p.10.

Glimmerings of opaque red iron and dense yellow ochre join forces with the artist’s signature exquisitely nuanced graphite and charcoal tones to create a drawing of substantial weight and intensity. Through the steady accumulation of minuscule marks, time becomes material, making viewing a visceral experience, an intensely physical activity.

Here is the artist’s explanation of the process: “I use a variety of plastic elements, such as the top of a bottle, an empty spool of tape or whatever else is accessible to me in the studio–bits and pieces that pile up. I then make a puddle of paint on the palette, dip the object in it, and roll it on the cardboard. It sometimes skids, or jumps a little.”¹

The first step in the making of this drawing was the selection of a surface and the object or objects to mark it. It is clear that both selections demand discrimination and judgment plus a loose conformity to the anticipated outcome as the artist then sees it. Once chosen, the object was not ordered so rigorously that its qualities would be
obscured by the will of the artist. On the other hand, the artist did not remain mute, thereby preventing the object from articulating the intention of the work on its own.

Williams clearly expresses this collaboration between artist and materials as he describes the simple act of selecting the object, picking it up, and holding it while rolling it on the board. He tells us that when the object hits the surface it “sometimes skids or jumps a little.” He feels this alteration in his hand and allows the skid to happen. Or not. It is he who sets the desired direction. The clarity of his assessment and his discrimination determine the position of the mark, the force of the footprint and, most importantly, the rhythm that will, in the end, carry the viewer’s eye from one element to the next, from beginning to end, comfortably.

What is most pleasing about this drawing is the simplicity of the composition. Williams “writes” with these objects, and each sentence has all the gradations typical of prose: the ordered, recurrent alteration of tall and short, small and large, slender and squatty. The arrangement mimics the modulations and rhythm typical of speech and writing. This harmonious grouping, essential in a true work of art, carries the eye from object to object in what feels like, and in fact is, a sure ride towards understanding.

1. Telephone conversation with Mark Williams on August 10, 2010.