Stephen Kobasa Photo
Untitled, 2011, monotype
Oi Fortin
There is a miniature castle on stage in the Edward Albee play Tiny Alice inside of which there is said to be a miniature castle inside of which there is a miniature castle, and so on. These prints could be a version of that infinite regress, for they are miniatures, too. But no matter how small they become, their power remains fixed and vibrant.
They are like dollhouse windows that look out on an inaccessible country, or that small keyhole through which Alice peeks before she becomes tiny enough to enter Wonderland which, we often forget, is a world in small.
Stephen Kobasa Photo
Untitled, 2011, monotype
There is spiderwebbed marbling here, fragments from the stonecutter’s chisel, or a film frame stuck in a projector, where it melts, or that sign of mortality a child makes on a kitchen wall the first time her finger bleeds.
The pleasing deception of these monotype prints is that what seems to imply multiples is actually singular; the artist might pull a fragment or two from the ink remaining after the initial print, but those would only be a record of vanishing. These pieces are, wonderfully, all that we can have.
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