As most days begin with small talk in the elevator, my story begins just after Memorial Day on the way up to the office. Founding Principal, Bruce Fowle asked me if I had any big summer plans, and I mentioned my upcoming road trip around Bohemia. Bruce replied, "I have a family friend in Prague, a glass sculptor, Karen. You should visit her while you are there." At the time, I assumed he meant his friend has a gallery exhibition in Prague and I thought a few gallery tours would be a great itinerary item. Little did I know, a few emails later, I was all set to meet Karen LaMonte, not at a gallery, but at her studio. As my Czech grandma used to say, "dobrý!" meaning "good!"
Entering Karen's studio was like entering an NYC Garment District fashion house. There were mannequins everywhere and miles of fabric hanging, draping, and wrapping nearly everywhere you looked, as well as mannequin casts hanging from steel beams, human-sized work tables, massive stovetop pots, latex in human forms, and a frightening assortment of power tools. Karen's sculptures are clothed, life-sized human figures with one small discrepancy – she uses the lost wax to remove the mannequin figures from the cast and is left with floating clothing. Rather than ghostly explorations, Karen's concepts are more material. Clothing with or without a person is all that we need to judge.
According to her biography,
Standing in her studio, I wondered – How does someone born and raised in the US settle into a former Soviet country like the Czech Republic to make art? The area has a longstanding history and tradition of glass craftsmanship, and when the region was later under Soviet control, non-propaganda artwork was not permitted. As kiln-cast glass was considered a trade, or an applied art, and not a creative expression,with no government watching, many artists converted to glass as a medium. The already admired craft gained momentum, and the Czechoslovakian government gave extensive funding to the glass vocation, while the artists flourished, building larger and larger facilities. Karen traveled to another continent to revel in old world craftsmanship and expansive facilities to apply to her high-tech training.
After our introductions, Karen and her husband Steve gave us a tour of the studio where we found sculpture pieces in various stages of completion, as she worked on a new series for an upcoming exhibition. The main workspace opened up to a simple gallery where she mostly sketches, drapes mannequins and miniatures alike, and pins up inspiration. In the gallery, she showed us plans for a project she is currently developing – a more conceptual interpretation of her work and how it might merge with musical theory. Steve describes Karen's process as one moment of inspiration – an "aha!" moment, followed by months of scraping mud.
When we asked about finished work, Karen and Steve led us down a twisted staircase to a small gravel footpath surrounded by exposed brick walls and vaulted archways. We soon found ourselves in the former coal-locker for the building's previous heating system that now functions as storage space. Sculptures underneath spotlights were arranged around the room as if on display – the only indication that we were not in a gallery was that the artwork was sitting on skids, wrapped up in plastic drop cloths.
The majority of the basement collection was a series of Kimonos. On hiatus from glass, Karen explained that the Kimonos are made of ceramic or terracotta, providing an opportunity to explore painting. Suitably, the Japanese theme lends itself to not only experimental glazing, but also calligraphy and makers marks. Karen was particularly excited about three terracotta kimonos: two study models two inches tall and a full-sized piece, each adorned in thin lines of gold-leaf. She explained that in traditional Japanese pottery, the imperfections are highlighted by decorative paintings, and upon closer inspection, I could see that the gold lines on her sculptures were outlining hairline fractures. When they were being fired, the computer controlling the kiln had some issue mid-fire and the temperature in the kiln cooled too rapidly and then spiked back up, causing the three pieces to shatter. As a labor of love, or perhaps a grieving process, Karen collected the shards of terracotta and spent three months reconstructing the fragments like an impossible puzzle, sorting between the three sculptures as she went.
After leaving the studio, Karen and Steve walked us to a nearby park and pointed us in the direction of a hidden café for dinner while they continued to a dog run. Still enchanted by the city and feeling inspired myself,I asked lots of questions on the way about the practicality of relocating myself to Prague. When I asked if they have mastered the language and Karen said that she just about has. I reply with dobrý! and I am embarrassed to admit I just can't seem to get most words. She tells me to just remember "děkuju," the Czech word for thank you. Down-to-earth advice for sure.
Entering Karen's studio was like entering an NYC Garment District fashion house. There were mannequins everywhere and miles of fabric hanging, draping, and wrapping nearly everywhere you looked, as well as mannequin casts hanging from steel beams, human-sized work tables, massive stovetop pots, latex in human forms, and a frightening assortment of power tools. Karen's sculptures are clothed, life-sized human figures with one small discrepancy – she uses the lost wax to remove the mannequin figures from the cast and is left with floating clothing. Rather than ghostly explorations, Karen's concepts are more material. Clothing with or without a person is all that we need to judge.
According to her biography,
Karen LaMonte started using clothing as a metaphor for identity and exploring the human in absentia in her early sculptures of blown glass puppets and marionettes shortly after graduating from the Rhode Island School of Design... She continued probing the disparity between our natural skin and our social skin, clothing which we use to obscure and conceal, to protect the individual and project a persona... She expanded her inquiry by adding the impression of an absent body to her sculptures. This investigation of the clothing as a divider between public from private space and of transparency and transience, led to a new body of work for which she received the Louis Comfort Tiffany Foundation Biennial Award.
Standing in her studio, I wondered – How does someone born and raised in the US settle into a former Soviet country like the Czech Republic to make art? The area has a longstanding history and tradition of glass craftsmanship, and when the region was later under Soviet control, non-propaganda artwork was not permitted. As kiln-cast glass was considered a trade, or an applied art, and not a creative expression,with no government watching, many artists converted to glass as a medium. The already admired craft gained momentum, and the Czechoslovakian government gave extensive funding to the glass vocation, while the artists flourished, building larger and larger facilities. Karen traveled to another continent to revel in old world craftsmanship and expansive facilities to apply to her high-tech training.
After our introductions, Karen and her husband Steve gave us a tour of the studio where we found sculpture pieces in various stages of completion, as she worked on a new series for an upcoming exhibition. The main workspace opened up to a simple gallery where she mostly sketches, drapes mannequins and miniatures alike, and pins up inspiration. In the gallery, she showed us plans for a project she is currently developing – a more conceptual interpretation of her work and how it might merge with musical theory. Steve describes Karen's process as one moment of inspiration – an "aha!" moment, followed by months of scraping mud.
When we asked about finished work, Karen and Steve led us down a twisted staircase to a small gravel footpath surrounded by exposed brick walls and vaulted archways. We soon found ourselves in the former coal-locker for the building's previous heating system that now functions as storage space. Sculptures underneath spotlights were arranged around the room as if on display – the only indication that we were not in a gallery was that the artwork was sitting on skids, wrapped up in plastic drop cloths.
The majority of the basement collection was a series of Kimonos. On hiatus from glass, Karen explained that the Kimonos are made of ceramic or terracotta, providing an opportunity to explore painting. Suitably, the Japanese theme lends itself to not only experimental glazing, but also calligraphy and makers marks. Karen was particularly excited about three terracotta kimonos: two study models two inches tall and a full-sized piece, each adorned in thin lines of gold-leaf. She explained that in traditional Japanese pottery, the imperfections are highlighted by decorative paintings, and upon closer inspection, I could see that the gold lines on her sculptures were outlining hairline fractures. When they were being fired, the computer controlling the kiln had some issue mid-fire and the temperature in the kiln cooled too rapidly and then spiked back up, causing the three pieces to shatter. As a labor of love, or perhaps a grieving process, Karen collected the shards of terracotta and spent three months reconstructing the fragments like an impossible puzzle, sorting between the three sculptures as she went.
After leaving the studio, Karen and Steve walked us to a nearby park and pointed us in the direction of a hidden café for dinner while they continued to a dog run. Still enchanted by the city and feeling inspired myself,I asked lots of questions on the way about the practicality of relocating myself to Prague. When I asked if they have mastered the language and Karen said that she just about has. I reply with dobrý! and I am embarrassed to admit I just can't seem to get most words. She tells me to just remember "děkuju," the Czech word for thank you. Down-to-earth advice for sure.