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Casey Whittier: Other Ways of Knowing
I’m interested in an object’s ability to catalyze a story, to conjure up associations: past, present, future, real, fictional, or in-between. After two years of a pandemic that kept me in significant domestic isolation, I have become even more attuned to the psychological impact of daily ritual and even more curious about how our objects and domestic spaces become signifiers and stand-ins. How do our daily interactions with the “stuff” we own shape us? How do they tie us to our past? What stories do objects tell and how do they help propel us into a more just future?
Employing a variety of craft processes executed primarily in clay and glass, each work calls attention to its physical and material properties as well as its making. These processes represent the “other ways of knowing” or other ways of seeing that shape my sense of self, sense of belonging, sense of other.
About the Artist
Casey Whittier received her BFA from the Kansas City Art Institute and MFA from the University of Colorado at Boulder. Whittier teaches ceramics and social practice at the Kansas City Art Institute and works from her home studio. Whittier was named a 2020 Emerging Artist by Ceramics Monthly Magazine. She serves as Vice President for Artaxis.org and more of her work can be found at www.caseywhittier.com and www.palmpetals.com.
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Earthenware, Mason Stains, Fired Earth, Metal Frame
60 in x 51 in x 3 in
Vera climbs into the car beside me.
"Look, there," I tell her.
"There! It's Vincent! Don't you recognize him?"
"Vincent? The one getting on the motorcycle?"
"Yes, I'm afraid he's going to go too fast. I'm really afraid for him."
"He likes to go fast? He does that too?"
"Not always. But today he'll go like a madman."
"This chateau is haunted. It will bring everyone bad luck. Please, start the car!"
"Wait a second."
I want to go on contemplating my Chevalier as he walks slowly toward the chaise. I want to relish the rhythm of his steps: the farther he goes, the slower they are. In that slowness, I seem to recognize a sign of happiness.
The coachman greets him; he stops, he brings his fingers to his nose, then he climbs up, takes his seat, huddles into a corner, his legs stretched comfortably before him; the chaise starts, soon he will drowse off, then he will wake, and all that time he will be trying to stay as close as he can to the night as it melts inexorably in the light.
I beg you, friend, be happy. I have the vague sense that on your capacity to be happy hangs our only hope.
The chaise had vanished in the mist, and I start the car.
From the final passage of Slowness, by Milan Kundera