Envision seemingly malleable figurines of humans and serpents entrenched in tornadoes or spewing from massive volcanoes. From afar, the chaos appears indicative of most natural disasters. Up close, hundreds of tiny forms have lost appendages; their faces contort in pain and confusion as their bodies lay splayed on a four-by-five-feet canvas strewn with rich shades of blue, ashen beige and cool greens. Dressed in hospital gowns, the bodies fly up into purple skies or drown in red oceans.
These forms represent the patients of artist, teacher and occupational therapist Mary Porterfield. Her paintings portray her personal attempts to assuage her lack of control when it comes to curing those who can’t be saved.
After 17 years of practicing and presenting her craft in the Southwest and New England, Mary's work has been gaining momentum in Chicago with exhibitions at the Artemisia and Aaron Packer galleries. Her most recent display, entitled "Flux of Consciousness," debuted at the Art Institute's Gallery 180, where I had the opportunity to meet with her about art, the management of Catholic guilt, and what it means to become a visual vessel for those who suffer from incomprehensible afflictions such as dementia.
You received your MFA at Arizona State and started your career as an occupational therapist in St. Louis. Why make the move to Chicago?
Chicago is especially welcoming to artists because of the vast diversity of cultures and ethnic backgrounds. With that diversity I feel there's more acceptance and more of an openness to creative ideas and artistic endeavors.
Where do you go in Chicago to find inspiration for your art?
I still get a lot of inspiration from my patients. I'm moved by the struggles they've endured and the hardships they've overcome. But on a deeper level, what I'm especially intrigued by is when things aren't always what they appear to be.
Can you explain your concept behind "Flux of Consciousness?"
When I began working as an occupational therapist, part of my job was to assess elderly individuals who showed early signs of dementia. I did a long evaluation to determine if they were safe to continue living at home. I would give this evaluation to the social workers or the physicians. Based on my evaluations, some of these patients were sent to nursing homes. I always felt a lot of guilt, feeling as if in some ways I sentenced them to these environments. So the series began as sort of my thoughts as to what it might be like to have dementia and taken to an environment that's foreign, and what someone in this state might be thinking. I wanted my paintings to represent their thought processes; that from a distance, there is that illusion of normality, and then up close, you find there's a state of disorientation and confusion.
Why do I get a sense of Armageddon or hell from some of your work?
More recently the works have gotten more personal, so I have used Catholic imagery to symbolize my own guilt and discomfort over being unable to resolve situations that I've found to be uncontrollable. The Catholic imagery is used to represent my own guilt with my shortcomings in helping some of my patients.
You like to use oils on wood for your large, chaotic depictions. Why?
I like the feel of the wood. It gives me more freedom to be aggressive with the paint. With a hard surface I can push into the paint, create rough marks, scrape into the paint and pull it away, and the wood surface tends to tolerate that quite a bit better. Not to mention if the painting isn't going well, I can saw off the part I don't like.
What would you like people to take from your work?
Initially I had hoped that they had gained an understanding about the hardship of dementia. But more recently, I hope that people can look at more recent work and connect with it in some way. If it prompts discussion, emotion, or even a debate, then I know that I've had success.
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