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Field specialist: Stephanie Bernhard explores literature, agriculture and climate

For UVA Jefferson Fellow, literature Ph.D. candidate and classics scholar Stephanie Bernhard, the path to her true calling began in a garden.

“I did a lot environmental writing when I was in college [at Brown],” Bernhard says, “and before starting my first job I took a summer to [work with] WWOOF, World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. I had to do a lot of weeding, and it was a very, very rainy summer.

“Here’s the nerdy part,” says Bernhard, who became interested in classics in her seventh-grade Latin class. “One of my favorite poems was Vergil’s ‘Georgics,’ which is a very long poem about agriculture and agricultural labor. One day I was just out there in the field weeding and being extremely miserable, and then I realized it was exactly these lines from the “Georgics.” The line is, ‘Labor conquers all.’ It made me feel very connected to a tradition that I adore. And yet there’s nothing more modern and millennial than caring about where your food comes from. I appreciated the long reach of this tradition.”

Born in the suburbs outside Boston, Bernhard didn’t get her hands dirty, so to speak, until WWOOF, and then “there was a break in my ability to engage in that kind of work,” she says. She moved to New York, where she worked in publishing and did an internship with radio station WNYC. “The one story I did myself was on WWOOF-ing,” she says.

When she moved to Charlottesville to pursue her Ph.D. in literature, Bernhard was thrilled to be able to live in a house with a big backyard. “I was able to transform it into this little mini farm of my own,” she says. “I grow enough to almost keep me and my boyfriend in produce for the year. It’s winter, so right now I have carrots, turnips, radishes, mustard greens, kale, collards and shallots and garlic in the ground.”

Her appreciation for diversity extends beyond her green thumb to the many types of writing she’s pursued over the years, especially non-fiction. Now she writes about literature, agriculture, the environment and climate change.

The literary research she encounters and criticism she writes for her fellowship leads her to write reviews and personal essays for magazines and journals such as the Los Angeles Review of Books and The Millions. In one essay, she writes about her experience “trying to live out one of Hemingway’s stories. My goal was to cook all of the meals that the main character makes in this one story. It was a bit of a disaster because a lot of the food turned out kind of gross,” she says. “But it was fun to play with literature and not just take it very seriously, as often happens in academic departments.”

Personal experiences aren’t the only stories she tells in an effort to bring tradition to life. “I’ve been branching out into more journalistic and creative writing,” she says. “The piece I have coming out in Orion this spring is a profile of this gardening expert named Ira Wallace who lives out in Mineral. She wrote a book on gardening in the Southeast that I use and adore. She’s one of the primary brains behind Southern Exposure Seed Exchange.”

Southern Exposure Seed Exchange’s mission, to preserve Southern heirloom vegetables and crops, resonates with Bernhard. “They find old seeds with a very long history, and they nurture them and grow them the right way so that people can continue enjoying those seeds indefinitely,” she says.

“In our contemporary world we’re facing a tremendous extinction because of things like climate change, and there’s also a great agricultural extinction already going on because so much of our food comes from big corporations, blah, blah, blah, Monsanto. We’ve just lost a tremendous amount of seed diversity.”

Bernhard tackles these modern issues not only in articles and her dissertation but most recently a novel. In her fiction, Bernhard says, she tries to operate in a tradition of agrarian literature while adding contemporary elements. The novel, which she’ll debut during this month’s The Bridge PAI’s Reading Series, “takes up a lot of the same concerns as many of my political and essayistic work about agriculture and the relationship between humans and non-human organisms,” she says.

The story focuses on one growing season at a small organic “do-gooder” farm up in Maine, and its characters’ lives exemplify not only wonderful ideals but the hard realities of modern farming. “For those of us for whom plants are soul food, we go to farmers markets and get this really idyllic image of small, progressive organic farms. Obviously, it’s hard work, not just physically hard, but there are human difficulties that go into making a place like that—how it should look, who gets to run it.”

All her work hangs on a simple idea: the preservation of what’s important. She says she identifies with companies such as Southern Exposure Seed Exchange, whose motto is “saving the past for the future.”

“For me, this idea of the classics is something very similar,” she says. “One job of a scholar is to preserve knowledge and to make it available and make it accessible and make it exciting for future generations. I think that is one of the reasons that studying the classics appeals to me.”

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New year notions: Local artists look ahead at 2016

Ah, the new year. That time when thoughts turn to starry-eyed dreams, impossibly slim waistlines and the vague notion that if we could just pull away our bad habits like Clark Kent’s suit jacket, we’d find Super(wo)man underneath.

After two years interviewing local artists (and 31 years living as one), I can officially say that a creative’s quest for personal betterment never ends.

When you inhabit the brain of an artist, every day is January 1. Improvement is your first and only resolution. No choreography is ever really finished. No painting is complete. And writing, well, trust me on this one—you can fuss with one sentence for the rest of your life.

But we do it because we’re human, hungry and ever-striving. We’re committed to creation, which means work without an endgame. And we’re trained to follow our preternatural impulses, to pin down from the ether ideas and evocations that might just transform the world.

Curious to know what the artistic impulse has in store for Charlottesville this bright new year? Here’s your sneak peek into a few locals’ plans for 2016.

Stace Carter

Documentary Filmmaker

“Along with a long-term project at the Ryan White HIV clinic, I’ve been working with the Contemplative Sciences Center at UVA on producing a doc in Bhutan, which I’m particularly excited about. I’ll be launching an iTunesU course on digital storytelling for high school students, based on this year’s work, in early 2016.

“While my residency [at Shenandoah National Park] has ended, the project has become quite personal to me. I’ve only filmed there for two seasons, so capturing winter and spring will be a great opportunity to show the seasonal cycle and beauty of the place.

“When FDR dedicated Shenandoah in 1936 he did so ‘for the recreation and for the re-creation which we shall find here.’ I witnessed dozens of visitors who found this re-creation, and I think the more we can spread this message of re-creation, kindness and solidarity, the better off we’ll be as a society.”

Clay Witt

Painter

“In the first part of the year I am working on several commissions, and then I am in a group show at Page Bond’s Gallery in RVA in May. That and a month-old baby boy should keep me busy.”

Amanda Wren Wagstaff

Mixed Media Artist

“For me, 2016 will be a year split between Ireland and Virginia. I’m currently living in Dublin as a Fulbright Research Fellow. My work here is building on foundations I set last year during my New City Arts residency in Charlottesville. I’m researching medieval Irish monastic practices, specifically the preservation and interpretation of knowledge through manuscript transcription and the practice of spiritual pilgrimage. I’ve also been focusing more on textile history and craft, and the parallel practical and spiritual aspects of textile objects. I’m currently working on two new projects that combine spinning, sewing, writing and found/scrounged materials.

“In June, I will return to Charlottesville with all the physical and intellectual baggage of this research trip. My time here in Ireland has made me realize how attached I am to Virginia, and I hope to continue my research to find ways to connect my work to the local history and material culture of my home state.”

Keith Alan Sprouse

Photographer

“For 2016, I’ll be focusing on two projects. First off, I’ll be preparing and showing images from my work with Charlottesville Ballet. I’ve been photographing them over the past couple of years, capturing both the hard work they put in day in and day out behind the scenes and the amazing public performances that result. Second, I’m in the planning stages of my second documentary project in collaboration with The Bridge PAI, which I’ll be working on this spring and summer, and showing at the Bridge this fall.”

Lily Erb

Sculptor

“In 2016, I hope to create a new series of small angular sculptures, make large outdoor pieces and experiment with new materials.”

Michael Fitts

Painter

“I will be working on the largest and most challenging show that I’ve ever done. This show, tentatively titled ‘Grid,’ will consist of 60 pieces arranged in various grid formations. The grid approach gives me the opportunity to explore variations in scale and repetition, which have historically been staples in pop art. Haley Fine Art in Sperryville, Virginia, will host the show in October.”

Cary Oliva

Mixed Media Artist

“My hope is to continue working with image transfers and lifts but to evolve my technique by using more Fuji instant film and creating more mixed media pieces using encaustic. I believe this is an important aspect of creating, experimenting and learning how to be creative within your own creative discipline. I see this practice helping me become a more flexible person, which on a larger scale hopefully helps me be a better human in this ever-changing world.”

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Hidden connections: Unique student collaboration reveals powerful perspective

few years ago, Nia Kitchin went to an art exhibit at Charlottesville High School. She couldn’t help but notice the quality of work by a few non-CHS students, artists who were under the tutelage of her soccer coach, Marcelle VanYahres.

“The work that I saw for the first time, I think, was a really large graphite portrait. The technical skill was amazing, but there was so much emotion behind it,” says Kitchin, now a high school senior.

Those young artists are students at Blue Ridge Juvenile Detention Center, a facility that provides a residence and a structured program for juveniles ages 10 through 17. Though Charlottesville City Schools runs the BRJDC educational programs, the students come from across Central Virginia.

According to VanYahres, each student enrolled at BRJDC participates in art class. Unlike academic classes, which may be challenging for various reasons, “creating art is hands-on, sometimes mindless and often therapeutic,” she says. “These children teach me so much more about life than I can ever teach them about art. My classroom works through this give-and-take, and it’s a safe place for students to create art, talk and process.”

After observing the work, Kitchin hatched a plan for a massive joint art project, Art in Between, something that would give more exposure to the kids at BRJDC and give CHS students the chance to learn from them.

“I wanted to combine the CHS students’ work with the Blue Ridge students’ work and represent the community of us, even though we can’t actually be together,” says Kitchin. “I wanted to create this dialogue even though we can’t actually talk.”

She approached VanYahres with her concept to recreate “Guernica,” by Pablo Picasso, using individual pieces of the painting by students from both schools.

“This is an exciting first for us,” says Jennifer Mildonian, art teacher at CHS. “Nia is a dynamic and involved artist. Coming from a family of artists, she knows how important art can be as a connector to the community.”

Kitchin says she chose “Guernica” for its size and components as well as the emotion of the piece. “It’s very, very powerful, and you can see how all the different people and animals are reacting to the bombing [of Picasso’s village]. I wanted to see an interpretation of it, of students reacting to different things.”

When divided into a large grid composed of small squares, Picasso’s famous work became a series of indiscernible grayscale prints. Kitchin copied the lines of each piece onto canvases using graphite, at which point they were split among participating students at both schools.

Participants followed loose rules, namely “use paint” and “stay in the lines,” and were free to add patterns or abstract objects to their art.

Collaborative work isn’t new to the students at the center, who have worked together on murals in its hallways. They also recreated Hokusai’s “The Great Wave,” using a grid system, similar to the “Guernica” concept.

“The students didn’t know what they were going to make as a whole,” VanYahres says. “I only told them they were going to recreate a famous piece of art. I think the students had a great time with this project.”

The experience offers community-building combined with a sense of ownership. “It really makes the students at Blue Ridge feel like a part of something larger,” Mildonian says. “For students to be able to work across schools and interact through a visual medium was exciting.”

Kitchin says the final work as a whole blew her away. “It was so colorful and expressed completely different emotions than the original piece,” she says.

Rather than a single artist’s concentrated response to a singular event, Art in Between showcases the collective intelligence and emotional range of teenagers across all walks of life.

“It’s like we’re in between being children and adults, in between these ‘in’ stages of life,” Kitchin says. “I think it’s the feelings of not being quite free—not quite adults yet. How we feel frustrated sometimes. You know, really reveling in this growing-up period.” 

For Kitchin, the project is a continuation of a lifelong interest in art. Since eighth grade, when she attended Reflections Governor’s Art School, she’s created oil paintings and graphite and pencil work. Most recently she knitted “human tubes” that can act like full-sized “emotional cloaks,” she says. “I like thinking about how different humans react to the same things and capturing deep emotion.”

In college, she plans to major in political science and potentially minor in art. “I want to be able to combine those two aspects, the way I feel I’ve sort of done with this mural,” she says.

For Kitchin, and likely her peers, Art in Between carries value because it draws out hidden connections between similar groups.

“We’re all the same age, and we’re all going through the same things, mostly, with different experiences and emotions about it,” Kitchin says. “The value is seeing that represented on a large scale, as a whole. Not as individuals but representing the community. Even if that community can’t be together.”

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Amazing space: Matt Kleberg frames the narrative with ‘Coming Close’

Though he comes from a long line of ranchers, Matt Kleberg was always that doodle-y kid who wanted to be an artist.

That’s right: His genetic fate cast him as an honest-to-God cowboy, and he took up painting instead.

“My family is all from south, south Texas, like a cattle ranch in south Texas,” Kleberg says. “My father worked as a cowboy until he was about 30, and then he went into investments. I think I was 13 when my mom gave me painting lessons from a painter in Fort Worth, Texas, where I grew up. That became, more or less, an apprenticeship.”

When Kleberg was older, he would get out of school, go to sports practice, do a little bit of homework and then drive straight to his instructor’s studio. He was basically nocturnal, and he wouldn’t get to the studio until 7pm. He would paint all night, and then he’d leave sometime in the morning, and go home and go to sleep, so it was perfect for a highschooler who had 1,000 things going on. “I would finish all my stuff for the day and go to the studio, and I’d paint from 8 to 4 in the morning. I loved it.”

In 2004, he moved to Virginia, where he received his bachelor of arts in painting from the University of Virginia. Then he moved to New York, got his M.F.A. from the Pratt Institute and began exhibiting his work at galleries around the country.

His latest show, “Coming Close,” hangs at Welcome Gallery as part of New City Arts’ Charlottesville alumni initiative, which showcases once-local artists who remain woven into this community of peers, mentors, patrons and friends.

His large oil paintings feature thick, candy-colored stripes and geometrical shapes that evoke a platform, stage or shadow box-style absence in the center of the frame.

In one, a lemon-striped curtain hangs suspended above a double archway, the suggestion of a dais standing empty. Bold vertical and horizontal stripes give the impression of a Technicolor circus tent or prismatic window frames. The absence of people propels the work toward the abstract.

“The color is a way for me to set up rhythm, to construct architectural spaces but also confuse them a little bit,” he says. “I like the idea of the colors vibrating and flickering.”

At the most basic level, he considers them “real spaces, real stages, where the actor is not present,” he says. “I’ve always been a figurative painter. My figures were always these kind of frontal, central, iconographic figures—you know human, or animal, or other, something that’s recognizable. Through a long evolution in the work, that figure, that kind of recognizable actor got plucked out, and the middle space became the subject of the paintings.”

As Kleberg writes in his artist’s statement, these stages or altars are “sites for potential events that frame aura and situate action. Something is supposed to happen.”

In short, he’s a figurative artist without any figures in his paintings.

“I think a lot about the body in the paintings, and how the paintings act as objects, so they don’t have a figure in them, but they are a thing. I want them to feel physical, and I want them to feel like something you could be in a room with and have a conversation with.”

Most artists set the expectations that we, the viewers, bring ourselves to the experience of the work. Kleberg forces our hand. In the vacuum of concrete subject matter, we can’t help but project ourselves into the space.

It’s a mirroring-without-mirrors effect, one that allows us to cast the fantasy of our present (bad moods, warts, imagined high glamour) into the space.

Though he readily admits he’s a young artist trying to find his way of working, he sees the same thread of authenticity between his older and newer work.

“The impetus with the portraiture was a sense of iconography, of putting people in an honored space,” he says. He describes his attempt at brutal honesty in one of his favorites, a picture of UVA professor and friend Ernest Mead.

“In his portrait, he’s in his 80s, and he’s old as hell,” says Kleberg. “He’s got a cataract over one eye. The portrait is kind of glorious, but he’s also falling apart. That was kind of the experience of him as a person. Even as his body, and his balance and his eyesight was failing him, he was still this amazing person.”

After Kleberg graduated from UVA, his style shifted from portraiture to iconic cowboy paintings, many based on an old photo album of his father’s.

“The painting would look, more or less, photographic—not photorealistic, still painterly—but the figure would be painted out, or there was some kind of graphic interruption.” He grew up hearing old family stories and seeing photos but still felt disconnected. Painting became his way of owning them.

“It was me kind of figuring out where do I fit in this family lineage. Generations and generations of my ancestors have all been cattlemen, literal cowboys, and here I am this painter in Virginia, and then New York, trying to find where I fit in that narrative,” he says.

In an alternate universe, Kleberg would be a cowboy, watching a herd of cattle roam across a dusty plain in Texas. Instead, he works as an artist’s assistant, dabbles in rooftop landscaping and spends five days a week in his studio creating images of absence. When he thinks of the sum of his choices so far, does he thrill with anticipation, think back in mute sadness or something else?

“My great-great-great-grandfather left New York as a stowaway on a steamboat, and he became a steamboat captain. He made his way down to south Texas, he saw some land, and he bought it. He put some cows on it and started this ranch. I think that a family value is taking risks and trying to build something yourself,” he says. “That can be hard in a family where there’s a lot of precedent, but I watched my dad do it. He left the ranch to go do something different, and I feel like making your life as an artist requires a similar spirit.”

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Staging the screen: City of Angels plays out perfectly in parallel storylines

From the minute the show starts, the story is on.

At the back of the theater, a live band shimmers the percussive score. Up front, near the rafters, a doo-wop group sings in perfect 1940s harmony, sounds and silhouettes spotlighted on their perch. The room feels like a vintage nightclub, an oldies radio station come to life.

On stage, the world bustles with tight choreography. More than a dozen men and women shake hands, embrace and argue. Production assistants dressed in uniforms move large stage pieces, conjuring streets synonymous with sound stages. We’re in Movie Town.

Then the world turns cinematic. Two gunshots fired, a burst of brightness, a man lying on a gurney with a bullet in his shoulder. But will he live?

“A private dick,” comments the white-frocked orderly. “No great loss if he don’t.”

So we meet our hero, Stone, whose recorded voice begins to narrate reflections on death and how it all began. From that moment, the show turns straight film noir.

Flashback to Stone’s girl Friday answering the phone. The man himself appears wearing a long black jacket, his fedora askew, lips pursed to the right. His look and timbre echo every private eye who ever graced the silver screen: drinking whiskey, peering through window blinds, making fast-paced jokes and hyperbolic analogies like, “L.A., truth to tell’s, not much different than a pretty girl with the clap.”

It’s only a matter of time before the femme fatale appears (along with Stone’s profuse and hilarious descriptions of her body), setting the detective off on a chase that involves hired hit men, vengeful cops and melodramatic duets with past flames.

And that’s just half the story.

With music by Cy Coleman, lyrics by David Zippel and book by Larry Gelbart, City of Angels debuted on Broadway in 1989, and went on to win six Tony awards including Best Musical. Live Arts’ version nails the humor and pulls off the music, creating a delightful, tongue-in-cheek romp through the fiction of Hollywood glamour.

In addition to exaggerated film noir tropes, the show follows the story of the screenwriter himself. Stine has been hired to turn his novel and latest protagonist, Stone, into a high-budget movie. His wife, also a writer, warns him against selling out —which may prove impossible, thanks to a micromanaging producer/director.

At first, you think Stine creates Stone as a souped-up fantasy self, which isn’t surprising considering every other character in the movie pulls directly from Stine’s social circle in their looks and type of relationship.

But early on, Stine says, “My characters choose me,” and you realize the relationship isn’t as black and white as it might first appear. The motion picture echoes life—but the real fun starts when art begets life. I won’t say much more, just try to imagine a duet between Stone and Stine.

A play in which stage artists weave scenes from  both motion pictures and real life results in a densely layered, elaborate undertaking. The production team is just as big as the 21-person cast, and with good reason: This is one of the most technically complex shows I’ve ever seen at Live Arts. They construct a movie on-stage, which means loads of fast changes and cuts between scenes, plus the pressure of an audience watching every move. (In Hollywood, you have the luxury of dozens of takes, a camera that stops rolling, heavy edits and the cutting room floor.)

Director Matt Joslyn, musical director Kristin Baltes and their teams both onstage and off do a remarkable job bringing this show to life. Special props to scenic director Rachel DelGaudio and lighting designer Robert Benjamin, who give us firm ground from which to experience the delight without disorientation.

Though some singers were stronger than others and at times the live music muffled the words (an issue that was corrected by press time), City of Angel’s blanket humor makes you wonder which, if any, snafus are intentional.

Russ Witt seamlessly slips between lovelorn husband, fame-hungry author and self-doubting creator, while Michelle Majorin, who plays his wife, Gabby, brings a welcome dose of maturity to the relationship. Chris Estey’s Stone is instantly likable and easy to root for, with comic timing matched only by Danielle DeAlminana, whose femme fatale, Alura, seems lifted directly from film noir. Pat Owen’s bombast is perfect for outsized bigwig producer/director Buddy, and, as Munoz/Pancho, Jeff Dreyfus is simply magnetic. Madison Probst brings the right amount of spunk to Donna/Oolie. Each ensemble member elevates the experience with a playful, goofy commitment to the show’s larger-than-life concept and it’s infectious.

The plot itself, propelled by humor and whodunit, reads like fireworks: pithy scenes from Stone’s world burst at staccato intervals, punching up the familiar narrative of a writer with angst and a wandering eye. You understand why Stine self-identifies with Stone: His issues reflect a quest for meaning.

It’s every writer’s dream to be paid handsomely for his work, and every writer’s nightmare to sell out. Presented with both, Stine needs to discover what type of fidelity matters. Do you risk your morals for money? Love for passion so hot and heavy it makes you do stupid things (can’t elaborate without spoilers, folks)?

It’s a roiling soup of cinematic inquiry, dashed with the truth it springs from. Live Arts serves it hot and tasty, and if you try it, you’ll probably like it.

City of Angels

Live Arts

Through January 10

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Eyes all aglow: James Yates curates holiday magic at PVCC

James Yates is on a quest to bring magic back during the holidays.

“When I was a kid, we used to drive around the town looking at Christmas lights. I remember how awesome that was: me being in the back of the station wagon, drinking hot chocolate, looking out the windows,” the artist says.

“Several years ago, I was unhappy about the commercialism of the holidays and wanted to come up with an alternative way for people to come together and celebrate this time of year. I’m going for that magical feeling…I want to be amazed. I want to experience awe, however that may happen.”

Yates is the founder and curator of “Let There Be Light,” a one-night outdoor art exhibition at Piedmont Virginia Community College that features light-centered art installations and performances. Now in its ninth year, the exhibition nods to the approaching winter solstice.

“Every culture celebrates this time of year in one way or another,” says Yates, who became inspired nearly a decade ago after a friend in Hawaii described attending a candle-lit, light-filled evening in a park. “The light is just a really cool way to bring people together.”

Also championed by Beryl Solla, the gallery director at PVCC, “Let There Be Light” inspires collaboration between a variety of artists and community members. “Running into people in the dark, you make a connection that is totally different than what you would make in a day to day [situation], in the light,” says Solla. “It totally transforms your experience.”

On December 11, visitors can expect the unexpected—even Yates doesn’t know what artists will create until shortly before the show launches. Artists select their chosen sites on the hillside so they can be fed electricity if needed, then they prep for nightfall. “It’s by invitation,” he says. “The main criteria is to amaze me.”

This year, “Let There Be Light” features work by 25 individual artists from the Charlottesville and Richmond areas. They include award-winning photographers, local potters, Lincoln Center performance artists, UVA faculty, costume designers and musicians.

In video, Allison Andrews and Julia Dooley construct a metaphor for the cycle of creation and destruction, while John Grant, Jacob Chang-Rascle and Shane Matthews debut Galactica, a short-video fantasy based on a photography project that explores celestial shapes and forms that occur in simple blocks of ice. And Deborah Rose Guterbock and A.I. Miller illuminate a moving diorama of a very high tech-looking lunar landspeeder.

Electric light creates luminous contrast to heighten the magic. Jarn Heil’s “Swarm” consists of colorful night fliers swarming overhead, while Russell Richards’ “Goth Kite” is a kite designed to be flown at night. Mark Edwards’ “Olo” “breathes” light and transforms it into fiber optic cables. “A Dream for Sophie” by Susan Watts creates an enchanted field accented by suspended clouds of light. Illuminated performers form ambient sculpture in Annie Temmink’s “Nightwalker,” and “Dance Move Burglar 2.0,” choreographed by Michelle Cooper, looks like life-sized stick figures dancing in the dark.

Earth elements come to light at PVCC as well. Mark Nizer maps videos on the water of the lagoon. Tom Clarkson and Nancy Ross, ceramics teachers, host raku firings for the fourth year in a row. Visualabs’ “Pipeline” is an installation that uses state-of-the-art high pressurization Wavicle technology to harness vibratory formations deep in the Earth’s crust. Finally, Chris Haske’s “The Materiality of Light” captures light in a transparent chamber, at which point its materiality becomes apparent.

Interactive works include Fenella Belle and Stacey Evans’ “Space Scrambler,” which invites participants to collaborate in the process of making art and share their experience through social media at #spacescrambler. In “Ground Control,” an audio-visual experience by Travis Thatcher, Peter Bussigel and Luke Dahl, groups of people create patterns of light and sound by walking, tapping, scraping and dancing on the court.

Yates and Solla plan to offer an instruction-based, step-by-step guide to seeing the light, though the specifics remain to be seen. After nine years, the spirit of play is very much alive in the process.

“One of my favorite pieces I’ve done was called ‘If Not Now, When?’” Yates says. “It was a large sandbox filled with glitter, and we invited people to sit inside the glitter box with goggles. They took fistfuls of glitter and threw it up in the air, and the word ‘now’ appeared in the glitter.”

As an art-maker, Yates says, “Organizing stuff is just as equally important as doing my own individual art.” He cites a childhood spent making things around the neighborhood—a miniature golf course, a spook house, a magic show—as his inspiration.

In art school, he focused on the creation of performance, video and site-specific art. “Like I was in a show where my piece was inviting artists to come. It was just a space, and they would come and do whatever,” he says.

Providing space for artists to come together and co-create is a theme that’s carried through in his work. When you open the floor to interplay and artist interaction, he says, “surprising, delightful things can happen.”

Having people come together feels particularly poignant around the holidays.

“What I like about collaboration is it’ll take you some place else that you wouldn’t have gone on your own. It’ll stretch you and take you to different places, surprising places and so on. Bringing people together at this time, I think people are basically longing for connection and community and this is one way to do that.”

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Now Try This: Victory Hall Opera lets singers choose their role

When Victory Hall Opera, Charlottesville’s newest opera company, raises the curtain on its first show, it will also unveil a world premiere inside the industry itself.

“We are developing a process that doesn’t exist yet—anywhere,” says Miriam Gordon- Stewart, artistic director, soprano and one of the company’s three co-founders. “We’re interested to hear what the audience thinks of the results, and we’re using our three preliminary events [including their inaugural show, Now Try This] to invite Charlottesville audiences to be part of the process.”

Gordon-Stewart refers to Victory Hall Opera’s unconventional approach to creating and performing opera, an industry she says hasn’t changed much in its long history.

“There’s a tendency to see works that can only be seen or performed one way,” she says. “We want to challenge that in the same way it’s been challenged with modern art, architecture, fashion and every other aspect of life. We want to see what opera looks like now.”

Typically, Gordon-Stewart says, singers are the last piece of the performance puzzle. The house decides the piece, hires a conductor and a director, who puts together the concept, and then the performers are to execute the piece. Victory Hall Opera plans to flip the traditional model on its head.

“In this company, we start with an ensemble of singers and choose pieces based on them as performers. Part of this process is asking, ‘What is the role you’ve always wanted to do?’ and thinking about, ‘What can we do with these amazing singers?’ rather than coming up with an idea and fitting singers in.”

It’s a move that the Aussie native expects will benefit viewers as much as performers. “In America especially, opera is still so traditional. We want to provide [an alternative], in a fairly radical way, opening people’s minds to the idea that there is a range of experiences available. It’s crazy that in the 20th century there is an art form where there is so much room left for exploration.”

Exploration includes experimentation in shows like Now Try This, in which four company members will sing classical favorites, then engage in an improvisational back-and-forth.

“Someone might perform an aria, and then someone else might say, ‘How about you sing this as a 90-year-old woman?’ That’s just an example,” she says.

By giving singers more artistic freedom, Victory Hall Opera makes ample room for performers to come alive onstage.

“When the directors form a production to fit who we are, it allows a lot of other things to happen, like diversity,” Gordon-Stewart says. “In America at the moment, there is a huge lack of representation of the African- American community on stage. Even when they are presented on stage, they can’t bring their whole self and life experience to it. They’re thrown into a European-style production that asks everyone to suspend disbelief that you could have a black person in a white household. That’s a disheartening experience.”

Instead, she says, they can choose work like Shakespeare, that’s based on archetypal characters and can be reimagined in contemporary ways. “I’m looking forward to freeing the singers to bring more to the process and to really show a deeper level of who they are.”

Gordon-Stewart speaks from personal experience. She dropped out of high school at age 17 to join the opera chorus, and she’s been in the profession ever since. “I’m definitely an outsider in that way,” she says with a laugh. After realizing her childhood dream of singing the lead at the Sydney Opera House (as well as opera centers around the world, including the Hamburg State Opera, Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris and at the Bayreuth Festival), she began to feel the pull for artistic agency.

That same pull stirred in co-founders Maggie Bell, a Charlottesville native and dramaturg at the Volksbühne (“the epicenter for contemporary opera”) and mezzo-soprano Brenda Patterson, who has performed for the Hamburg State Opera, La Scala in Milan and the Metropolitan Opera in New York.

The trio chose Charlottesville for their new project because Bell and Patterson produced several operas here in 2003, just after graduating from college. They gathered friends to create The Sideshow Opera Company, which produced collaborative shows involving local bakers, bluegrass players and UVA film students.

“Even though we were all working at this high level, the two of them were harkening back to when they could produce something involved with the community and artistic freedom,” Gordon-Stewart says. “So now we’re doing it again, but this time we know what we’re doing.”

Extensive experience has prepared the trio for every element of running a company, and Victory Hall Opera can call on close relationships to bring in high-level singers who want to explore its new model.

“When singers have room to play it feels like the show is being created in that moment,” says Gordon-Stewart.

She says the creation of modern opera is about spontaneous performance. “When you’re forced to respond in front of an audience—someone gives you an unusual wink or smile or steps on your skirt—it snaps you into this feeling that you are the character, you are that person in that situation. I really believe that if we experience that onstage, the barrier breaks down for the audience, too. They’re no longer thinking, ‘I am in watching this moment,’ but ‘I am in this experience.’”

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The light fantastic: Clay Witt layers a world of myth and metaphor

Gilded beams of light break through dark clouds as an octopus wraps its tentacles around the curved tusks of two woolly mammoths. A flaming mandrill pushes his finger into the black earth and ignites a pool of gold. A small herd of ancient bulls gathers in darkness around a burning bush.

An aura of myth and mystery radiates from these small worlds, evoked by visual artist Clay Witt and his meticulous, multilayered process.

“It’s an imaginary landscape where things have fallen apart,” says Witt. “I don’t know whether I would call it pre-human or post-human, but I never put people in my work. It’s always animals or phenomena.”

Witt’s work explores the intersection of mythology and biology, the way that core imagery can provoke different stories while maintaining universal mystical appeal.

“I also like the idea of little cabals, little groups of animals, off in the woods at night, planning. Doing things when we’re not around,” he says.

His landscapes are massive, empty, lonely spaces punctuated by physically contrasting elements, like fire on water, dark wind and light air, the beatific peace of an elephant being consumed by phoenix flames.

Flames and clouds of gold, says Witt, are “a holy numinous signal from god knows where. It’s what makes things preternatural. It’s my visual semiotic announcement of the fact that this is something otherworldly.”

The reference, he adds, isn’t his—it’s a notion he sees echoed across many cultures. “In Islam it is flames around the heads. I always thought of the fire as just this kind of liminal thing. The Zoroastrians believed that the fire was a messenger that carried prayers up to God. It’s the source of our survival and it can destroy us. Fire is really humanity’s quotidian experience of the power of the divine. The way we experience it—it gives and takes away.”

The echoes of origin move throughout Witt’s latest exhibit, “As Above, So Below,” at New City Arts’ Welcome Gallery. Even the materials he uses to craft his layered, subtly 3-D works incorporate mineral, vegetal and animal materials.

“I start with a wooden panel, stretch linen across it, and then I attach a giant sheet of Japanese paper to get rid of the nap of the linen,” he says.

After layers of varnish and sanding, he’s got a foundation to which he applies paper trees or sea waves. More varnish—tinted with earth pigments like ground lapis lazuli, malachite, sepia and pink coral—glue the paper to the base. He then creates variegated sky and storm clouds by dumping on contrasting paint, moving and scrubbing it around with a sander to bring back colors to the front.

“I have to fight with it,” he says. “I’m trying to give it a kind of organic, decayed, ruined quality.”

This moody backdrop allows him to paint on gesso, a gelatin-like mixture that dries into a hard, raised surface. After polishing, shaping and cutting the gesso into trees, bushes, flames or other signs, he typically gilds these gently raised forms. “I’m dealing with very shallow relief to create a sense of space,” he says.

Finally, Witt uses a printmaking technique called intaglio to etch fine graphic details into his panels.

The entire process takes a long time, such that he only completes four or five large (4’x6′) pieces a year. “I don’t make dozens and choose the best one.”

Though his work has gotten more narrative over the years, Witt’s been using the same technique for the last 20-plus years.

It began with his time as a UVA undergrad in professor Dean Dass’ printmaking classroom. “Dean considered [printmaking] an image-making tool, not a way to make multiples of things. As with cut paper, it provides graphic contrast with the very organic quality of the medium.”

After graduating with his degree in printmaking and sculpture, Witt received his MFA in painting from University of Massachusetts, Amherst. He also studied Islamic art, pursuing his interest in Arabic calligraphy through a Fulbright scholarship to Syria.

“I lived in Damascus for just under two years and apprenticed to a master calligrapher,” he says. “That experience taught me a lot about rhythm and placement and balance.”

Eventually, Witt settled back in Charlottesville, where he began his current project.

“I just began working, and it became clear I was working toward a larger vision. I’ve just been slogging away with varying degrees of success,” he says. “I’m building scenes from this world, and it’s a journey. At a certain point, the what and the where might reveal itself to me.”

He explains he doesn’t plan or make drawings. He simply receives a vision and has to get it out.

Like an ongoing dream, Witt’s work seems like an attempt to give voice to a collective human unconscious—the one that speaks through the language of myth.

“It all goes back to the hero’s journey, and, in my case, creating a mythology because our own mythologies are so politicized,” he says.

The pursuit of such resonance is the chief means by which artists and proto-scientists attempted to make meaning of the universe.

“There’s a hermetic saying from the early alchemist tradition that posited that the macrocosm and the microcosm have similar forms,” Witt says.

Asked to describe the microcosm of his current exhibit in the macrocosm of his grand design, Witt pauses. “You’re asking me to pin down something I don’t understand. This is a continuation of everything else. It’s one more step on the way.”

As above, so below, you might say.

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Off the top: The Bridge weaves history and intimacy into the ‘Art of Hair’

When you woke up this morning, you probably pressed, fluffed, tucked or splashed water on a work of art—one you wear every day, whether you know it or not.

“I became a hairstylist in 1991 because I wanted to be an artist, but not a starving artist. Color became my painting, and cutting became my sculpting,” says Willow Lynch, owner of Evolve Salon. “I create art, and hair is my medium.”

Most of us don’t think to elevate our buzz cut, big waves or flat-ironed locks to the realm of art. But those who craft these looks daily have a more accurate perspective.

“Art is in the imagination of an individual,” says Pronta Anderson, a stylist who operates out of her apartment in Friendship Court. “With hair, it’s just like looking at a painting or a sculpture.” Her palette includes color or texture, curly or straight, natural or extensions. “You can paint something in your mind and bring that to life on someone’s head,” she says.

For Matthew Slaats, executive director at The Bridge PAI, stylists such as Anderson and Lynch represent an undersung cross- section of working artists in Charlottesville.

“I’m interested in making this argument about how art has socio-cultural and economic value,” he says. “I met Pronta, who was really serious about what she’s doing, and I realized she was using hair just like I would use drawing or painting or anything else. She’s an artist.”

Along with program director Serena Gruia, Slaats developed the idea to showcase the work of community hairstylists. They connected with Keith Alan Sprouse, a local photographer best known for the portrait- and-stories series “Cville People Project.”

“In addition to portraits, I wanted to do the documentary work of being in their shop and showing their process, their hands and hair and the techniques they’re using,” Sprouse says. “I set up wherever someone was working, from a tiny galley kitchen to a big airy studio across from Paradox Pastry.”

He limited his focus to hairstylists in the Strategic Investment Area, a 330-acre section of central Charlottesville tapped by City Council for potential redevelopment opportunities.

The area includes a surprising number of salons, including Bella Luna, Hazel Beauty Bar, Look, Evolve and Abrakadabra, all clustered between Belmont and Downtown. “On four blocks of Charlottesville there are a multitude of different salons and barbershops all of whom are serving different clients,” Slaats says. “Pronta Anderson’s salon is for African-American women, Elite Cuts is primarily African-American men, and Evolve is serving a more of a white Farmington/Keswick group.”

Slaats and Gruia developed “The Art of Hair,” a two-month show at The Bridge PAI, to celebrate local diversity. In addition to Sprouse’s ongoing exhibition, the nonprofit will host HairSTYLE on November 14, a runway show to allow hair professionals from throughout the community to showcase their work. It’ll be a party—complete with food trucks, drinks and audience members encouraged to show off their precision cuts, natural hair, wigs and high-art styles.

“Salons and barbershops are a moment to reflect on and value all the different strata of class and race and gender in Charlottesville,” Slaats says.

They also represent meeting spaces, the bedrock for building community. “You’re stuck in a seat for half an hour, so you engage with one another and see friends,” Slaats says. “There were massive amounts of barbershops on Vinegar Hill because men didn’t shave at home. This is the last of a really creative mode of art and business that we all connect with.”

Local hair artists often know one another, and many share work histories. They quickly become the keepers of personal stories, too; Slaats marvels at one artist’s description of a 90-year-old client who was part of the French Resistance.

Sprouse saw these deep connections in real time. “I could have made a whole exhibit about getting your hair washed,” he says. “I was struck by how intimate and lovely and almost spiritual that moment is.”

There’s magic in the process for the artists, too. “After you paint their hair and it’s been processing for 45 minutes, you go back to the shampoo bowl and pull off the foils, and it’s like opening a present,” Lynch says. “I love when the color looks natural and fresh and real, like it grew out of their head.”

Anderson seeks a similar feeling. “I love to get the creativity going. Hair weaving or extensions is very versatile. You can do different cuts, make it look as natural as possible. Someone might look and say, ‘Is that or is that not your hair?’ That puts a big smile on my face.”

“At the end of the day it’s that combination of technical skill and creative vision that makes art,” Sprouse says. “What a hair artist can do is use their technique and creative vision to help you express yourself, whether that’s dyed hair or razored hair or weave.”

That magic, everyone seems to agree, is best understood through experience. “The creativity,” Anderson says. “I can explain it to you, but to see it is totally different. It’s something that’s gonna take your breath away.”

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Pen pals: New WriterHouse series brings authors together in conversation

Charlottesville is like the Bermuda Triangle for writers: You come here, get sucked in and never leave. You can’t help it, really; the literary community is huge. The arts are vibrant. The opportunities for engagement immense.

But in a town so bookish that you can’t throw a rock without hitting a writer, it’s still a struggle to rise into your greatness, to claim your literary prowess and feel fantastic about it.

“The thing about Charlottesville is no matter what your talent is, someone else here already has a MacArthur Genius Grant for it,” says Jennifer Niesslein, editor of the online literary journal Full Grown People. “We’re going to talk about writing issues and what it’s like being a fish in this kind of pond.”

Niesslein is referring to her role as the host author at the debut of Inside the Writer’s Studio, a literary-inspired series at WriterHouse. Like James Lipton’s “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” the series aims to bring writers into one room for stimulating conversation with established authors, audience Q&A and, in this case, bagels and bubbly.

Niesslein brings with her Browning Porter, a poet, singer and storyteller, whose work appears in Niesslein’s just-published collection of essays, Soul Mate 101 and Other Essays on Love and Sex. Miller Murray Susen, a writer, actor and contributor to Full Grown People, will take on Lipton’s role.

“Because the book is about love, we’re going to talk about the ethics of writing about the people you love,” Niesslein says. “What you portray and what you don’t, how it feels—all stuff writers think about anyway, no matter what genre they’re writing in.”

For Porter, that genre is poetry (though he’s published as a storyteller in Soul Mate 101).

“I loved Shel Silverstein, and I used to write my own poems basically from the time I could write my name,” he says. “I had Where the Sidewalk Ends, books by Roald Dahl where the insects and the giant peach had their own songs, and I loved the joy and the cleverness of the rhymes and the jokes.”

As writers, we dedicate ourselves to the pursuit of this magic wherever we can find it. Long before Porter thought to publish an essay, he followed this thread. (See story on page 33.)

“I got into music because I started writing songs for musicians I knew and one thing led to another,” he says. “I think of poetry more as a certain mode of discourse, something that you can do inside of fiction or nonfiction. It’s really connected to the physicality and sensuousness of language.”

Writing true stories, he says, came out of his penchant for performance and storytelling on stage. “I feel like I’m able to use what I’ve learned about poetry and songwriting as kind of scaffolding to write stories.”

His essay, “The Perfect Song,” tells how one song has turned up at various points in his life. Potential profundity abounds.

He wrote the piece intending to read it out loud. “On stage I can tell a story where I have a coughing fit or mimic someone’s voice,” he says.

With some careful translation, the essay now works on paper, so well that Niesslein plucked it, along with 21 others, for inclusion in her newest anthology.

Choosing the right pieces for a book like Soul Mate can be as difficult to balance as rhythm and other language considerations. The editor says she needed to weigh factors such as tone and length, author age and diversity.

“I’m with the same guy I met when I was 19. You don’t want to have just a whole bunch of women like me, long-married, straight, white women, talking about their long hetero marriages,” she says. “I’m not saying all white women are the same, but, you know, you want to mix it up. I think there’s something to be gained from reading about people whose lives are very different from yours.”

What these essays have in common is the baseline of Full Grown People: They’re tales from, as the journal tells it, the other awkward age.

“These aren’t new love stories, not puppy love stories,” Niesslein says. “It’s about the real adult stuff you face that might surprise you when you’re in your 30s or 40s or 50s. You didn’t know that for better or for worse could include some unimaginable shit. And some unimaginably great stuff, too.”

That stuff might include, as in Louise Sloan’s case, breaking up with your girlfriend, getting a snowboarding injury and reaching out to your ex for help. It might be falling in love with “the d” instead of the entire man when you’re a single mother. Or having a lifelong attraction to redheads when you happen to be black, wondering if this is a sort of self-loathing.

“The title [of the anthology] comes from the second essay I ever published on Full Grown People,” Niesslein says. “It’s by Susan Kushner Resnick, and it’s called ‘Soul Mate 101: Don’t Marry Him.’”

It’s a catchy title, she goes on to say, though the concept of soul mates is less compelling. “From my perspective, you want somebody—whoever you call your soul mate—to be someone you feel close with and somebody you can trust. There will always be more than one person who can fill that for you.”

In short, romantic love is kind of like writing: Everyone experiences it differently. It just takes a community to find the place where your particular style lands.