Entangled: Longing for connection

December 2024

---

---

Starting my journey for connection

About halfway between my home in Ohio¹ and the middle of Michigan’s mitten, I pondered aloud what it would be like to study visual art in graduate school. It was the summer of 2020—the pandemic summer—and my partner and I were transporting my most recent painting to a show. In that in-between place, unmoored from daily strictures, I imagined myself immersed in art school: creating and learning. I didn’t realize it then, but one of my motivations was a longing for connection—to reconnect with myself and build connections with other artists.

In the five years leading up to that moment, I had reclaimed my identity as an artist, creating mixed-media paintings to understand and share my life’s journey. My paintings—beautiful, textured, layered—were metaphors for potential and change, drawing on my interests in chance, entropy, and physical science. With a desire to pursue ambitious creative goals, I applied to the Vermont College of Fine Arts (VCFA) MFA in Visual Art. I saw graduate school as an opportunity to experiment, move beyond 2D painting, deepen my understanding of contemporary visual culture, connect with a broader artistic community, and use my art practice to explore the human tendency to separate and divide. How might I feel more oneness with myself, others, and the world?

Reconnecting with the natural world

By the time I started at VCFA in January 2022, I had foraged and crafted a collection of natural materials, including acorn ink, charcoal, hand-ground mineral pigment from old bricks, and beeswax crayons. I had stopped painting with acrylics, consciously avoiding waste and environmental impact from excess paint and acrylic wastewater. As the semester began, I continued research and experimentation with natural materials. I tested bioplastic recipes. I learned the decay times of materials I might use, such as jute and plastic, considering how they break down in the environment.²

Ecofeminism provided a theoretical foundation for my studio practice and interests. In the 1960s, ecofeminists began to challenge patriarchal domination, critiqued traditional gallery spaces, and embraced spiritual feminism. They sought to reunite the nature/culture divide, recognizing that the exploitation of women, indigenous peoples, and the natural world all stem from the same Eurocentric, patriarchal philosophy of domination. Fast forward to the 21st century, critical ecofeminism employs an intersectional approach, advocating for environmental and social justice for marginalized groups, including BIPOC, LGBTQIA+ communities, and non-human life.

I looked to ecofeminist artists like Betsy Damon and Hanae Utamara to inform my practice. In performances such as Red Line, Utamara left traces of red paint to erode into the Earth, symbolizing the eventual return of human-made structures to nature. The continued relevancy of projects like Betsy Damon’s dry riverbed cast (The Memory of Clean Water, 1985) speaks simultaneously to the insight of early ecofeminist pioneers and the tragedy that Western-capitalist-driven ecological damage is still a pressing issue.

Throughout the semester, feedback from my artist-mentor helped me evolve my studio practice. Instead of creating objects in my studio and placing them in an outdoor environment, Laura challenged me to integrate my work more fully with a site, pushing me to respond directly to the environment in which I worked. Working this way was a significant shift for me, and I wrestled with my attachment to the eco materials I had created. Could I move beyond a material focus to truly understand the barriers between a body and Earth?

Through texts including Trace and Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet, I deepened my understanding of the Earth as a living, dynamic entity, continually marked by the presence and absence of life. Initially, I was disappointed that my chosen installation site, near railroad tracks in my neighborhood, was littered with trash and debris. While I had selected the location for its practicality—close by and unlikely to be disturbed—I soon recognized the discarded items as “ghosts” of human presence—traces of past lives and histories that linger in the environment.³ Rather than removing the detritus, I incorporated the remnants into my work as raw materials, integrating them into my installations.

By the end of the semester, I had expanded my studio practice to the outdoors, dissolving both physical and conceptual barriers in my work. Moving beyond traditional 2D work, I embraced installation as a means of recognizing personal rituals—such as walking to Lake Erie’s shore and visiting neighborhood trees—as part of my practice. These rituals fostered a deeper connection with myself and my environment, transforming my work into a meditative, self-healing practice. I understood the barriers that separated me from Earth were purely conceptual. I am of the Earth, and I am part of the Earth.  

Searching outside

Humans impact the land in many ways—extracting resources, memorializing moments with monuments, or mindfully collaborating with the natural environment to grow food or create habitats. In my second semester, my research arose from my previous studio practice, prompting questions about the meaning of place, the concept of “nature,” and how stories are tied to the land. I sought a deeper understanding of “nature,” historically and in contemporary contexts.

I explored physical and digital records of human impact on the local environment, focusing on the history of Northeast Ohio. I was particularly interested in ceremonial mounds, earthworks, and the ancient trees that predated Moses Cleaveland’s arrival.⁴ These findings prompted me to investigate how humans assert control over the places they inhabit, leading me to critically examine public memorials and cultural markers and how they shape or perpetuate myths about the past.

Lucy Lippard’s The Lure of the Local helped me recognize the complexities of living in a society that manipulates history while longing for a sense of home. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass offered a profound perspective on reciprocal relationships with the land, inspiring me to think of art as giving back to the environment rather than merely taking from it. This idea was echoed in Landscape as Narrative, Narrative as Landscape by Theresa Smith and Jill Fiore, highlighting the Indigenous understanding of landscape as a living entity full of stories of its own.

As I examined the historical and contemporary relationship between humans and land in Northeast Ohio, I wanted to understand the region’s history, explore reciprocity with the environment, and integrate these insights into my studio practice. Through this research, I gained a deeper awareness of how power influences recorded history and considered the potential role of artists in challenging or reinforcing these narratives. The idea of creating markers and monuments drove my practice as I questioned how artists can shape how history is represented and remembered.

Where does my curiosity for history or place come from? Why am I interested in ancient trees? Why am I intrigued to learn that Detroit Avenue, the major thoroughfare through my home city, was a plank road decades ago, and 250 years ago, it was a popular footpath winding through an apex forest? I want to know the stories of my home. Knowing the history of Lakewood and Northeast Ohio may not change my daily life, but it enriches my connection to the place. The stories embedded in the streets and parks offer a way to connect more deeply with place.

My research into place-making revealed how complex social dynamics, including class, gender, and power often shape historical records and public art. Motivations behind what is remembered—or forgotten—are significant. As Lucy Lippard suggests, artists have the power to revisit historical records and reshape cultural meaning.

In the studio, I continued my exploration of biodegradable, non-toxic materials, creating outdoor sculptures that would naturally degrade over time. I built upon last semester’s approach, expanding my scope through new methods like paper casting and the integration of text to deepen their meaning. 

I aimed to create art that engaged in a reciprocal relationship with the natural environment—art that not only drew from its resources or sought to leave a lasting impression but also gave something back. However, my studio concepts were complex and challenging for me to explain, revealing the need for extended reflection. I realized that my research is most valuable when it informs my studio practice rather than directly determining the final output. This approach allows my research to enrich my work without dictating it.

In addition to creating the paper pulp markers, my artist-mentor, Geno, encouraged me to try other experiments on my mind. One of these was to create a moving image piece that used layered dreamlike imagery to place the viewer in an affective state of mindfulness and awareness of subtle sounds and imagery.

Ultimately, a desire for connection drove my research and studio practice to the land and the stories that bind us to it. I found myself searching outside myself, seeking a deeper connection to my surroundings and home.

The search within

After the disorientation of the prior semester—VCFA’s campus changes, a lack of clarity in my studio practice, and general life stresses—I began the next phase of my studies feeling ungrounded. I searched to catch hold of a steadiness and find my way in my studio practice by documenting trees and nature imagery to explore the connection between the body and the natural world, what I considered an ecofeminist approach. I enjoyed walking, making field recordings, and being alone in the parks and outdoor spaces near my home. Nevertheless, I felt lost.

Intuitively, I began experimenting with a handmade iPhone pinhole camera that enabled me to create dreamlike, distant imagery. I pushed myself to “try something”—to see how it felt in my body and away from my rational thinking. This shift away from traditional nature imagery allowed me to explore a more removed, reflective perspective on the natural world. 

A significant revelation came when I embraced autotheory as part of my practice, inspired by Lauren Fournier’s approach to blending personal narrative with broader theoretical concepts. Artists like TJ Cuthand and Janet Cardiff, who use narrative and sound to create layered, immersive experiences, became key influences. Cardiff’s Forest for a Thousand Years and Nightwalk in Edinburgh informed my use of time and memory in moving images. TJ Cuthand’sSight and Reclamation indicated ways to incorporate personal storytelling.

By the end of the semester, my work had undergone a significant shift. I moved away from external ecofeminist themes and the historical context of trees, focusing instead on my connection with nature. I realized my work wasn’t about cataloging trees or places but about why I was visiting them. It became less about the external world and more about my need for grounding in times of overwhelm. It wasn’t just about the trees; it was about the time I spent with them and how that connection helped me ground myself in response to anxiety and overwhelm. The natural world wasn’t just a potential subject or object of my attention. Being in the natural world was essential for me to process and resolve inner turmoil. Through this process, I learned how to bring a personal perspective into my work, reflecting on my own experiences rather than relying on broader theoretical frameworks.

Feedback played a crucial role in my studio development. My artist-mentor, Parastoo, encouraged me to trust my intuition and let the deeper meaning of my work emerge organically. Eshrat and Humberto recommended I consider how viewers connect with my work and its larger context. Their prompts led me to focus on bringing a personal perspective into my work, which is accessible to viewers in multiple ways. Opposing themes began to emerge: anxiety and mindfulness, loneliness and connection. I grapple with many of these issues daily in a Western culture bombarded with media, devices, and digital capitalism.

This semester became a journey of turning inward, using my connection with nature as a grounding force for my art and well-being. Ultimately, my focus shifted from external ecofeminist themes to exploring my motivations of seeking nature as a grounding force. I translated this into moving images with a memory-like, layered visual language with my pinhole camera. Autotheory deepened my understanding of how personal experience could drive my artistic practice.

Interconnected with others

Since January 2022, I have attended VCFA, a low-residency graduate school. I live in a city away from my parents, brother, sister, and extended family. For years, I have worked remotely for a technology company. I have lived in many cities and made friends scattered around the world. I consciously and unconsciously built these distances into my life.

The concept of interconnectedness⁵ guided my work in my penultimate semester of study. Interconnectedness has key attributes: mutual dependence, feedback loops, communication, complexity, resilience, adaptability, and emergent properties. I used these principles to inform my studio practice, reflecting on how they relate to human connection, particularly in a digitally mediated world.

Perspectives of the self shaped my exploration of interconnectedness. Philosophers, psychologists, and neuroscientists have long examined how we perceive the self in relation to others. My desire to understand isolation and distance, especially within the context of digital technology, drove my third semester’s inquiry. How does digital capitalism—with its reliance on platforms, data, and surveillance—impact our ability to connect authentically with one another?

Through my research, I investigated themes of boredom, resistance, and hyperconnectivity within contemporary digital culture. These ideas are central to understanding the tension between connection and disconnection in the digital age.

Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s concept of intertwining, or the chiasm, was influential in this inquiry. He describes the interconnectedness of perception and being, distinguishing between the “thin body” (which is about physical functions) and the “thick body” (our integrated lived experiences, emotions, and social interactions). Merleau-Ponty’s philosophy offers a way to counteract the alienation often caused by digital technology, suggesting that our embodied experiences can foster deeper connection. I applied this concept in my studio work, creating immersive, interactive installations that bridge physical and digital spaces, challenging the boundary between the self and others.

Another significant influence was Tung-Hui Hu’s concept of digital lethargy, which posits that excessive consumption of digital content leads to mental and physical fatigue. Hu’s framework resonated with me. I see this lethargy as both a symptom of and a resistance to the constant demands of digital capitalism, which commodifies data, promotes platform economies, and reinforces global inequalities.

My desire for connection led me to create work requiring multiple participants to realize it. In What We Share That We Cannot See (2024), the bodily rhythms of two individuals connect over a network to complete the artwork, emphasizing the relational aspect of connection in a world increasingly dominated by virtual interactions.

At the start of the semester, I believed that the concept of a separate self might be a mental construct. Through my research, I refined this understanding: while our “thick” selves are intertwined through shared experiences, our physical bodies maintain a form of separateness. This realization has resolved some of my initial questions and deepened my understanding of the motivations behind my studio work. What began as an investigation into alienation evolved into a more nuanced understanding of isolation and distance, particularly how much of life is now lived virtually.

Mixed Reality entanglements

Where does “in real life” (IRL) end and “virtual” begin? In today’s Mixed Reality⁶, this distinction is increasingly challenging to define. My current work delves into this entanglement⁷ in the moments we reach out to connect with others using today’s technologies.

I am harnessing insights and lessons from previous installations. In Affirmation Pod: Self-Acceptance Version, I created an immersive installation using personal material, inviting the audience to an intimate glimpse of self-soothing through the natural world. What We Share That We Cannot See linked heartbeats between human bodies, but its subtler themes were sometimes overshadowed by the immersive and technological “wow” factor. Through these explorations, I prioritized using personal material and creating spaces for conceptual engagement rather than relying on spectacle.

Several artists inspire my approach. Janet Cardiff’s soundscapes transport audiences to different environments, challenging their perceptions of time and space, much as I use sound to create shifts in awareness. Rafael Lozano-Hemmer’s installations use technology and interactivity to create large-scale public installations. On a smaller scale, I strive instead for conceptually grounded, human-centered engagement. Sarah Sze’s recent works, which merge digital and physical elements, resonate with my exploration of disconnection and anxiety. Like Sze, I create environments that disrupt conventional notions of time and space. Yehwan Song’s anti-user-friendly interfaces critique technology’s emphasis on efficiency and productivity and disrupt the “ideal” user experience, making interaction a point of reflection. I aim to incorporate a similar approach as I question our societal relationship with technology and how it shapes our connections.

In my current project, I explore ways technology mediates connection with others. In the past 150 years, methods of asynchronous connection have rapidly multiplied from postal service in the late 1800s to today’s text messages. Incorporating “return to sender” letters, voicemail recordings, Craigslist “missed connections” posts, unanswered text messages, live audio, and other contributed and publicly available media, I create a layered environment where digital and physical communication attempts intersect by incorporating “return to sender” letters, voicemail recordings, Craigslist “missed connections” posts, unanswered text messages, live audio, and other contributed and publicly available media. Efforts to connect with family, friends, and loved ones have taken many forms over time, all of which share a common purpose: messages sent, waiting for a response. The mix reveals a fragment and layered entanglement with technology and encourages viewers to reflect on how mediated interactions shape their relationships with others.

This work is deeply personal, reflecting my concerns with how digital technology attracts anxiety and isolation. I worry for myself, my children, and future generations, who will live in a world increasingly defined by virtual experiences. Digital capitalism often prioritizes usage over more meaningful dialogue. Platforms intended to facilitate connection—social media, messaging apps, and video calls—are typically designed with profit in mind, employing algorithms that encourage continuous engagement. They draw users in, not necessarily to build meaningful relationships but to maximize ad revenue and data extraction. As a result, these platforms often prioritize surface-level interactions over meaningful relationships, sacrificing depth and authenticity for fleeting attention.

By incorporating media such as “missed connections” posts and letters marked “return to sender,” I draw attention to the ways that connection under digital capitalism may feel incomplete and unsatisfactory. These fragments symbolize a longing for communication that remains unfulfilled, resonating with the broader sense of disconnection and alienation that permeates contemporary digital life. They ask viewers to question the quality of their digital interactions and their needs for intimacy and presence.

Through this work, I aim to create a space for reflection on the pull digital capitalism exerts on our relationships. By immersing viewers in an intentionally fragmented and layered environment, I hope to evoke the feeling of being pulled in multiple directions—a sensation familiar to anyone navigating the demands of constant connectivity. This sensory overload mirrors the experience of living in a world where technology, optimized for engagement and profit, increasingly mediates our connections. I want viewers to leave the installation contemplating how much control they have over their interactions and whether there is a way to reclaim a more intentional, less commodified form of connection.

Artistically, media installations feel true to the themes I address, and socially, they address an urgent need to question the motives of digital capitalism, which often prioritizes efficiency and profit over genuine connection and well-being. By creating installations where viewers can pause and reflect, I aim to provoke awareness about how technology mediates human connections. Ultimately, I invite contemplation on how technology both connects and distances us.

Endnotes

1. My family and I reside on Edwards Avenue in Lakewood, Ohio, a dense inner-ring suburb of Cleveland along the southern shore of Lake Erie. Present-day Lakewood is just west of the Cuyahoga River and land that saw successive stewardship by multiple Indigenous tribes, including the Erie, Ottawa, Potawatomi, Chippewa, Wyandot, Munsee, Delaware, and Shawnee tribes. (Recorder Cuyahoga County Ohio, “Western Reserve History”, 2005. https://fiscalofficer.cuyahogacounty.us/en-US/WesternReserveHistory.aspx, updates to the original text by Donald F. Lybarger, written in 1934.)
   
2. Jute can decompose in as little as one to two years and is fully biodegradable, which means it will break down into simpler, non-toxic compounds from microorganisms or biological processes in the natural cycle of organic matter. In contrast, acrylic paint is non-biodegradable and is intended to last thousands of years. https://www.ropesdirect.co.uk/blog/twine-a-future-proof-sustainable-fibre/
   
3. Editors Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, Nils Bubandt, Elaine Gan, and Heather Anne Swanson of Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet., Ghosts of the Anthropocene; Monsters of the Anthropocene declare humans have created both ghosts and monsters by damaging the planet. Ghosts are the traces of past ways of life in Earth’s human and non-human living spaces. Monsters are bodies entangled across species.
   
4. In 1946, the ecologist Arthur B. Williams oversaw the designation of Moses Cleaveland Trees in Cuyahoga County, the county that includes Cleveland and Lakewood, Ohio. Each selected tree was estimated to be at least 150 years old and representative of the area’s native forests of the 1790s. At that age, each specific tree would have lived on the land before Moses Cleaveland surveyed the area in 1796. As of 2024, some Moses Cleaveland Trees are still living, with the greatest number found in Lakeview Cemetery. https://www.earlysettlers.org/program-moses-cleaveland-trees.html
   
5. I prefer the term interconnectedness to connected because it conveys a deeper and more complex relationship among parts. While connected suggests a simple link between elements, interconnectedness reflects an intricate system or network that involves mutual dependence, feedback loops, communication across the system, complexity, resiliency, adaptability, and emergent properties.
   
6. Mixed Reality (MR) is a blend of virtual and physical realities. I also use the term to describe a mix of virtual and IRL (in real life). Mixed Reality is related to, but different than Augmented Reality (AR) and Virtual Reality (VR). In Virtual Reality, the viewer can access a stand-alone virtual space through a screen or other ocular device. In Augmented Reality, the viewer experiences one or more digital overlays on top of the real objects or elements in their physical space. In Mixed Reality, the virtual and real world interact and influence each other and the viewer’s experience. I propose that Mixed Reality is an entangled experience with reality.
   
7. Entanglement involves one or more elements deeply intertwined in a complex, mutual dependency, where changes to one part inevitably affect the others. However, in contrast to interconnectedness, which implies a structured, systematic relationship, entanglement is more organic, perhaps chaotic, and often unintentional.