Dana Frankfort: Braiding the senses

Contributed by Matt Phillips / Dana Frankfort’s exhibition “Life and Death” at Olympia presents eleven paintings that are by turns blunt and strikingly sensitive. These new works juxtapose the written word with gestural abstraction, the two languages simultaneously contradicting and supporting one another. Some paintings have legible text while in others the letters are all but gone, leaving the viewer to contemplate space where words have once been. The works are disparate, but each reaches toward a cohesive resolution.

Frankfort uses oil paint to jab, drag, trace, and scumble text onto canvas stretched over panel.  She depicts single words in numerous pieces such as Open and Signs. Nearly anyone looking at these paintings will have both spoken and written these words countless times. When we say a word aloud over and over, it can take on a strange new meaning or veer into the territory of abstraction. The same seems to apply to the words that Frankfort chooses to paint and repaint, all the while experimenting with the expressive powers of oil paint. 

The silty palette of Brown/Pink/White is reminiscent of the shiny and weathered bark of a birch tree. This painting’s dynamic surface creates an atmosphere indebted to the landscapes of J.W. Turner. Close inspection reveals fragments of illegible text that seem whispered in pink and white paint. I am reminded of walking in the woods and stumbling across a birch tree etched with the initials of lovers, scratched into the smooth bark, distorted by the tree’s growth, and weathered by the changing seasons.

Two paintings feature the text You And I Are Earth. The smaller one is 16 x 20 inches. This modest scale almost allows it to pass for a sign from a storefront window, akin to the ubiquitous “Yes, We’re Open,” and it has an undeniable allegiance to the hand-painted signs announcing yard sales and car wash fundraisers. In some ways, it stakes out an extreme within the exhibition with its straight-ahead presentation and clearly legible message. Frankfort readily embraces both humor and pathos: like most jokes, this work reminds us of some delicate truths. I like imagining the artist sneaking into a pep rally at her teenage daughter’s school and waving this painting with its saturated palette in the electrified air of the gymnasium. Frankfort clearly believes that there is tremendous power in the commonplace. The larger painting that shares the same text is 60 x 72 inches. The words are less legible, obscured by thin veils of contrasting color and dripping paint. There is an urgency in this painting’s marks of sea foam green, eggplant purple, coral pink, and Naples yellow, as if Frankfort is trying to capture elusive light.

In both works, Frankfort deftly creates a viewing experience that triangulates among the viewer, the artist, and the artwork. As we read and look at these two paintings, we are left to wonder exactly who “You” and “I” are. “You” could refer to the painting itself or the viewer standing in front of it. “I” could be to the artist or constitute the voice of the otherwise silent artwork. With this ambiguity, Frankfort offers viewers an opportunity to contemplate what connects them to their fellow humans, and indeed to all things on the planet – living, inanimate, and dead – which arise from the same stardust.

In Welcome My Friends, a similarly complex triangulation is at play. Does the work’s shimmering, ghostly text serve as a greeting to the viewer, or is the artist providing directives to her painting? Alternatively, is it a reminder to the viewing audience to try to receive others with an open heart? The painting’s glorious color modulates between green, orange, scarlet, and magenta. It conjures for me a recent experience in the parking lot of the grocery store. I had just pulled into the lot and gotten out of my car. The sun was setting, and everything had turned a radiant shade of pink or crimson. I fixed my eyes on the sky to take in this celestial event. It was beautiful, profound, and fleeting. As I gazed towards upward, a voice in my head arose out of nowhere, interrupting to say, “Don’t forget the vinegar.” These words seemed totally absurd, yet, at the same time, perfectly human as nature’s majesty competed with tomorrow’s salad dressing. I imagine Frankfort would find this sort of scenario great fodder for a painting. 

We use our eyes both to look at a picture and to read words. But while pictures register directly in my body, more specifically in my heart, I process text with my mind. A poem, however, has the power to operate in a liminal space where all our senses are braided together. Frankfort’s exhibition in some ways functions as a collection of poems. Her paintings are both sincere and irreverent, as tender as they are tenacious. In our current era of text-messaging, they remind me of a deep shared humanity that is perhaps more clearly transmitted through the hand’s touch.

“Dana Frankfort: Life and Death,” Olympia, 41 Orchard Street, New York, NY. Through March 23, 2024.

About the author: Matt Phillips is a Brooklyn-based painter. He has had recent solo exhibitions at Anna Zorina Gallery (NYC), Mindy Solomon Gallery (Miami), and The Landing (LA).