Juliet Martin: Visual Memoirs
GRANDMA'S ROOM ON MONDAY
25” x 22”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2020
OFFICE ON TUESDAY
14” x 12”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard
2020
Juliet Martin
GRANDMA'S ROOM ON SUNDAY
20” x 29”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2020
SEWING ROOM ON WEDNESDAY
27” x 26”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2021
OFFICE ON TUESDAY
20” x 15”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard
2020
SEWING ROOM ON MONDAY
22” x 22”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2020
SEWING ROOM ON TUESDAY
34” x 29”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2021
UMBRELLA
18” x 13”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2021
KITCHEN ON FRIDAY
22” x 25”
hand-woven and machine-made fabric, inkjet prints, fabric paint, cardboard, safety pins
2020
New York City based artist Juliet Martin describes her work as a series of visual memoirs. Each piece is carefully stitched together with colors, textures, visual images, and phrases that are profoundly impactful given their simplicity. Focusing on the immediacy of everyday objects, Juliet illustrates intimate settings that reveal underlying emotions, while sending personal messages that many of us can relate to.
Tell me about your background and where your creative journey began.
There was no moment, one time when I began my creative journey. My school report card read that I “can draw a straight line as close as 1/16 of an inch, but falls down a lot.” Both of those are still true.
Markers were and are my best friend. They were magical, especially the ones that smelled like fruit. The orange-scented marker was my favorite. Growing up, I liked anything orange, the color, the taste, the smell. Placing importance on color was the first expression of my voice.
I know markers are not “high art,” but the process of making inky lines is so satisfying. I’ve been criticized for using markers. It takes me back to coloring books. I know coloring books are considered to dampen creativity, but staying in the lines taught me about composition, color – and creating a narrative. For 4th grade Halloween, I was a Century 21 real estate agent just for the sake of the sign. I liked the logo. I liked the giant C’s typography encircling the rest of the sign. (Even as a child, I changed the number to 22 to avoid copyright infringement.)
I have always been aware of how things look.
Where do you find inspiration for your work?
I’m a big museum person. I cannot count how many times I have walked through the MoMA’s Louise Bourgeois exhibit. Years before, I had fallen in love with a print I had seen in a book. Then I saw it in person at the MoMA exhibit. It was 2 FEET tall, not 2 inches. It shocked me. I momentarily felt betrayed by Bourgeois, even though this had everything to do with me and nothing to do with her. In the end, the change of relationship from the tiny print to the life-size print encouraged me to consider how size influences a message.
I enjoy the open, high-ceilinged atmosphere almost as much as the art. I bring my journal and scrawl down words – not pictures.
Now, with Covid, websites are my only entry to museums. I especially like Art21 – http://art21.org. Art21 is my own private gallery that I can visit for 20 minutes or 20 seconds at a time. I’ve been going through their videos alphabetically. I’m up to Laleh Khnorramian, whose work I would have never seen before. Her “erotic” video I Without End, with orange peels, is stellar. Look it up right now. Seeing Khnorramian’s work inspired me to make satirical videos as a way to further the stories I tell with tapestries.
https://art21.org/artist/laleh-khorramian/
I Without End by Laleh Khorramian
Spoon Love, inspired by Khorramian
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KZeT3ee3OdE
How has your work shifted and evolved over time?
When I was in college and grad school, a lot of my work was shocking, almost vulgar for the sake of being vulgar. A message was often hidden in crude language and graphic content. For example, I had a hypertext poem that used the word “cunt” 25 times. It was received differently: one journal told me it was filthy and gimmicky, another loved it and thought it was racy. In retrospect, it had its place. But I side with the filth.
As I became more comfortable with my voice, shocking became useful as an entry, not as an end. “Men I Have Known” is a collection of woven, phallic portraits of the men in my past. It starts with a joke, but its greater message is the objectification of women.
The collection I am working on now is “Household Objects Remind Me of You.” The setup comes first -- my closest relationships are with a fruit bowl. The punchline isn’t funny. Household objects become placeholders for my loved one, examining the fear of being alone.
Looking back, I’d say my work has really always been a series of visual memoirs. The more I work, the more I feel like the final messages have become stronger, with humor as a tool instead of a distraction. Humor becomes a doorway, not an excuse.
What does a typical day in the studio look like for you, and how has your art practice grown or changed?
I read, I draw, I weave. Ha. People who know me know that I am very strict with my schedule. I read every morning and then I draw. It is my stretching for the day to come.
I learned to weave at a great studio on the Upper East Side, Loop of the Loom. Monday to Friday, down to the minute, I arrived at the studio when they opened at 11:00 and wove until 5:00, barely stopping for lunch. I would bring home my fabric on Friday and spend the weekend cutting and sewing. The process was really disjointed. It was hard to connect the two components of my work.
Being in that public space, I felt very self-conscious about what I was working on. I didn’t want other people in the studio to know what the final result might be. For example, I was weaving women’s bodies for a collection called “My Eyes are Down Here.” I intentionally wove the tapestries upside down so no one could guess what I was making. I didn’t want to talk about the works until they were done. Later, people would say, “I had no idea that was going to be a ribcage.”
I followed this routine for about 6 years. Finally I got my own studio and loom in my home. This changed my work drastically. Everything is a jumble in the best way. Sometimes I weave and then turn around and paint. My writing is more fluid as well. I can write a little and then sew a little. It leads to more cohesive work. Each aspect of my work has different temperaments. Weaving is meditative. Drawing feels sexy. Writing is an emotional purge. Painting is energetic. I choose what I do based on what I need.
My day? Read, draw, weave, rinse, repeat.
Which experiences have impacted your work as an artist?
Being diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 18 was pretty devastating. Intensive therapy, years of talking about my feelings, makes making personal narratives come naturally. I generally make what I call “satiric memoirs,” figuring out what’s on my mind and then how to talk about it. Humor was so important for getting through the drastic mood swings. My process of structuring my thoughts and greater issues still balances satire and sincerity.
How has Instagram impacted your art career?
A mailing list can go only so far. If you aren’t careful, people get annoyed and delete bulk emails – I do, too. But on Instagram, people are there to see images. They want to see what you are doing. It’s the window on my work and how I work.
Besides being a great networking tool, it is super fun. It is our digital soapbox. I throw stuff up and hope to entertain. I have the best time figuring out what the next video will be, then give my partner his production-assistant marching orders.
What will fly on Instagram, and what will fly on Facebook? I know that when I post a photo of my cat on the sofa watching TV, my FB crew will vote it up. When I post a video of me weaving on IG, I will get a bunch of hearts. Switch that: my cat tanks on IG and I think everyone on FB falls asleep while watching me weave. So do I post for the audience? Yes and no. There are things I post because I think I will get a bunch of likes. But sometimes I post an inside joke on IG, just to wink at my coconspirator. It is hard to not post for the likes. It is like not being competitive about yoga. You know you are doing it for yourself, but you can’t help but look at the super flexibility next to you.
What are your future goals and aspirations?
When asked “What next?” I really have to think about what is important to me. It is hard to answer sincerely. Do I want to sell my work? Do I want a great review? Every time I show, there can be one meeting, one connection, that makes the whole thing worthwhile. For example, I had done an installation that had images about heartbreak. A young man walked in off the street, carefully looked at all of the drawings, and then said, “This is what heartbreak feels like to me. Can I hug you?” I almost cried. When I showed “You Don’t Look Crazy” the response was stellar: many people confided about their own relationship with mental illness, saying that the works spoke to them and their situation.
What do I want? I want to connect.
Website: www.julietmartin.com
Instagram: @remotelyjuliet