One Work: Naomi Nadreau
Noami Nadreau’s vacuity detriment hovers at knee height in a dimly lit room. It resembles a carapace— a protective shell— black and gleaming, arranged with care on a low rectangular table. Stark white light emanates from the underside of the table.
The sculpture’s large, steely metallic base has jagged edges, cut and pressed flat like an animal hide. The surface, polished in small, looping motions, reflects a blue light hung overhead. This bright, glowing hue evokes the color of computer monitors waiting or malfunctioning, indicating that the technology needs to be reconfigured— check your power and your connections.
Atop the steel surface, pieces of ceramics fit together along a spine, suggesting the base of a skull, a rib cage, a sternum, a pelvis. The light clay is mostly glazed a dark brown or black, in some places matte like earth and in others glistening like molten metal. Runes are revealed on the surface of the clay like a language or circuit board. Along the sides of the form, empty industrial plastic tubes emerge and disappear. Needles stand along the ridges and tubes, a nod to the artist’s mother, an acupuncturist— acupuncture, a traditional Chinese medicinal practice, can be used to treat pain or stress, and to balance a body’s life forces. Seeing the needles in the sculpture indicates that there is a liveness to this object, that it has pressure points and is flowing with energy, that it needs to rest and to heal.
Toward the bottom of the sculpture, a mound of crystallized salt is heaped like an offering on the metal. Salt is used as a preservative, and in ancient Rome was a form of payment (the origins of the word ‘sal’-ary). Salt, too, connects people to the oceans through our sweat. For these and other reasons, salt has had cross-cultural uses in cleansing and purification practices for millennia, spanning places from present-day Japan to Pakistan to Greece to the Caribbean.
vacuity detriment combines this variety of spiritual, material, and technical knowledge much like the best of the science fiction genre. One such work is Parable of the Sower, a 1993 novel by Octavia Butler, which has had a resurgence of interest in recent years, in part because the dystopian world that she depicts— in climate crisis and full of sectarian violence— feels not so different from our own. The story’s protagonist, Lauren Olamina, has the power to feel the pain of others, and is able to survive her hostile world largely because of her special knowledge of plants, spirits, and human communication. Not only does she understand how to live off the land in a post-apocalyptic California, but also how to develop her spiritual beliefs and persuade others to join her in building a new world. vacuity detriment exudes a similar power, carrying ancient knowledge while portending a cyborgian future. But unlike Olamina, the work isn’t solemn. It possesses some of the camp of a Cronenberg film (The Fly, Existenz, Crimes of the Future), where science fiction elements are depicted with equal parts body horror, technological imagination, and glee.
The exoskeleton lays in pieces, implying a death or injury. The table could be a bed, the object laid to rest, or it could be a podium, the object presented for examination, appreciation, learning. But this object is not useless, it is simply idle. The needles and salt tell us that the work is being cared for, balanced, recharged. Someone might come along, possessing the knowledge to put it back together and its powers may return. Standing beside it, I feel at any moment that it might begin to hum, to rise, to transform.
— beck haberstroh, interdisciplinary artist and writer