Interview With Artist and Poet MaryAnn Miller

WG: MaryAnn, your website has the following statement, "My work is about the rudiments of human existence, biological identity, who we are genetically and culturally. I imagine the soundless language of chromosomes within the body at subatomic levels." Can you describe how you translate this statement of aesthetics into the prints that you create?

MM: I translate this statement through paint, ink, paper, and various other materials into marks, shapes, and images that I pull from my real and imagined experiences with the human body. For example, in the serigraph "Allele" I use a circular form with two similar marks made with ink on acetate to represent a medical condition that is actually two related conditions occurring simultaneously. I used my fingers to make the marks so there is no distance between the surface and me. I literally made them with my body, the same body that has the two conditions. I try to capture a floating quality to the background so that it has liquidity that moves away from and toward the viewer. These marks are meant to represent a soundless language, although I am very aware of the sounds involved in making this art: the light squish of finger through ink, the buzz of the squeegee pulling ink across a silk screen, the crisp rustle of fine paper. Through making art, I have attempted to embrace my biological and genetic identity.

WG: I think it is fascinating how your work is at once both a very embodied, almost somatic experience and at the same time conceptual. Obviously, what you are describing is a process that you have been working at for some time and not your initial foray into art. How did you come to this particular form of artistic expression?

MM: I like doing screen monotypes because the process offers immediacy and risk. Pushing ink through a screen is either right on or it's missed the mark. There is also the problem of physicality. I can manage the lightweight screens and materials involved in making serigraphs. Other forms of printmaking such as woodcut or intaglio require a great deal of repetitive energy-depleting, possibly myotonia-inducing actions. I had to come to a reckoning that I needed to settle on one process I could handle and develop it. The screen monotypes are one of a kind – like paintings that I can compose one layer or color at a time. I can carry the composition in my mind as I work on other projects and think about what should happen next. Like poetry, the serigraph process is a pared-down elimination of the unnecessary.

Working in a print studio beside master printers where painters and sculptors come to experiment with printmaking has heavily influenced me. Although my primary role was to design and bind artist books, I also worked as printmaker on many projects and used hand processes in my own artist books. I learned collaboration at the Experimental Printmaking Institute and to be fearless working and teaching in the presence of other artists.

WG: Your prints have included in the National Museum of Women in the Arts as well as other exhibits. What has been the reaction to your work when you've shown it ?

MM: The works in the National Museum of Women Collection are two artist books. They do contain prints. When I queried Krystyna Wasserman, the Curator of Book Arts, she responded with a phone call and then saw the books in person at the Hybrid Book Arts Exhibit at the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. She simply said they would take them. That reaction was plain and direct without any comment on the works. It was enough that she wanted them!

Generally, people do have positive comments on my prints. It depends on the backgrounds of the viewers. People who are familiar with my processes will comment on technique or ask questions. The prints have been accepted into juried shows and have won some prizes. When I got a print in the Pacific States Biennial held at the University of Hawaii, it was a turning point. That series was based on poetry. One of the best reactions was from Linda Helm Krapf Director of the Printmaking Center of New Jersey and the master printer there, Sheila Goloborotko: "We love your work. It's very strong and would like it in the corporate portfolio." That meant it would likely be sold to one of the NJ Pharmaceutical companies and would result in revenue for the Printmaking Center. It also means I no longer need to transport framed prints to gallery shows. I like the idea that drug companies are buying it because I depend on meds for my quality of life.

I've discovered there are many people who want original art, but just don't have extra money in their budgets. Sometimes I trade pieces with other artists or just ask people to give me their best offer. Sales are not always a measure of quality, but I believe when someone parts with their money and wants to live with a piece, it's a great compliment. I treasure the connections made when someone understands what I am trying to communicate and wants to talk about that. It often results in a dialog about biological and cultural identity. Everyone has a story. Both my children have been longtime supporters; their homes are full of my paintings and prints.

WG: 4. Can you comment a bit more on the series of prints that you did based on poetry? As a poet yourself, it must have been an interesting process for you.

MM: The series of prints, begun in 2008, was based on an unpublished poem by Lavinia Dickinson, the sister of Emily. I read Paola Kaufmann's book The Sister and was very moved by the untitled poem quoted on pages 132 and 133. Kaufmann transitions to the poem with these words in Lavinia's voice:

"I have been unable to throw this poem into the fire…it reminds me of that moment in which this daily, almost affable, coexistence with pain began–pain and I existing at the limits of what is tolerable like two good neighbours resigned to sharing their backyard or their fruit garden."

I titled the series The Lavinias 1 through 5, each depicting in some way the idea of pain like a raven perching in the breast, fluttering away but always returning.

I wanted to train this sorrow
so it would leave me.
All I had managed
was to tame it.

I felt this poem to be a counterpoint to Emily's poem about "Hope [being] the thing with feathers that perches in the soul…" Lavinia's language and imagery throughout the poem triggered a raft of compositions for me, chiefly in black ink with a few slashes of red silk applied as chine colle and some embroidery as well. Some of the layers are clearly female imagery, like X chromosomes.

I say this series was a turning point for me because I learned that the screen monotype process was the right medium for me in all its spare poetic nature and was part of the impetus for me to study poetry more formally to strengthen my writing skills in an MFA program.

WG: Is there a reciprocal relationship between your art and your poetry? You mention the concept of spareness in both. How has your work in print and other visual media affected your poetry?

MM: Both prints and poems are set out in lines and layers. Layers might be thought of as vertical stacks of lines like verses. Writing lines and revising helped me to see more clearly how to keep layers of color in prints to a minimum and to think about the cumulative effect of the layers especially where they intersect. You could liken areas of a print to the enjambment in the lines of poetry. It's just that the print uses shape and color where the poem uses language. Each requires white space, which is the silence around and between the words. Each requires "negative capability"--- the possibilities that the reader/viewer brings. The marks that comprise prints are abstractions just as words are abstractions in many layers of meaning.

I try to weed out any extraneous words and to select the best word for my meaning. With the prints, that process has to happen before the ink is laid on because once it's down it's impossible to change with any cleanness. A poem or a print should not look or feel labored. The Italians have a term for making it look easy--- sprezzatura. It almost sounds like presto! The labor should take place off the page. So, I guess, making prints helps me recognize the essence in the poems.

WG: You've mentioned elsewhere that you studied writing poetry under David Wojahn. What was that experience like? Has it influenced your writing as it is now in any way?

MM: I was able to do a Post-Grad Semester at Vermont College of Fine Arts, June to December of 2012. I chose to work with David because I admired the way he weaves personal with political, historical, and cultural elements. When I read his work I need to look up some of his references, which expands my knowledge. My first interview with David was long and lively. My plan was to use the semester to write a collection of poems about the misdiagnosis of my condition. David was willing to advise me on the project. He was direct and incisive, tactful and compassionate. He assuaged my concerns about writing too much in a narrative voice. He influenced my writing by pointing out where I had gone off the main point and where I had not used specific enough imagery. I developed piles of printouts of research that wouldn't necessarily be part of a poem, but was the underpinning. He also helped me sweep out redundancies. I learned to trust the reader to get my meaning without stacking up the metaphors. Working with David has assured me that I studied with one of the very best poets. I went to New York with a friend to see David receive an award from the American Academy of Poets for Best Book of Poetry for 2012. What a thrill!

WG: And you now have your own book of poetry out, right?

MM: Yes, it's titled Locus Mentis and was published by PS Books, the small press division of Philadelphia Stories Magazine in 2012. It started as my thesis for my MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College. I was very fortunate to have Marc Schuster, who was the acquisitions editor for PS Books at the time, ask to read it.

The title means " located in the mind" and refers to the question of where reality resides. The poems reflect a life-long uncovering of reality including the truth of my misdiagnosis. The title poem is an eight-part sequence poem about that experience. The other poems speak of art, love, relationships, and family history. There is the acceptance of difficulty, and the simple going on in spite of it.

My second manuscript, which I mentioned, goes more deeply into the misdiagnosis and expands the idea of misjudgment to other conditions and other broader situations. The title is Cures for Hysteria and I'm presently seeking publication for it.

WG: MaryAnn, I want to thank you for taking the time to talk with us about your art and poetry. Is there anything that you would like to add that you think we may have left out?

MM: Your questions have caused me to clarify and write down my thoughts. I feel that I am in touch with people who have lived a similar experience. Making art, writing poetry, and having a chronic condition all tend to be isolating experiences. I have needed to communicate and to know I'm part of a larger community. Thanks for this opportunity to connect; it's extremely important to me and helps me keep my perspective.