Angelina Parrino

Angelina Parrino lives and works in Knoxville, TN. Originally from Tampa, Florida, she received a BA/BFA from the University of South Florida (2016) where she studied fine art and psychology. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Painting & Drawing at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville; however, she primarily works in installation with an emphasis on ephemerality. Parrino has shown her work at a variety of venues, including Tempus Projects (Tampa), Red Door No. 5 (Tampa), Plug Projects (Kansas City), The Vault (Tampa), the Ewing Gallery (Knoxville) and Foley Gallery in New York. Upon beginning her MFA at the University of Tennessee, she was awarded the Tennessee Fellowship for Graduate Excellence and, most recently, the Thomas Fellowship in support of her thesis proposal.

Statement
My practice is situated at the point where ideas about water, memory, and video converge. Although I work primarily in installation, my work behaves like a blurry home video – fragmentary in nature and earnestly put together. I actualize space through the creation of different environments, loosely reminiscent of the play areas I created as a child in the woods of North Florida; every year marked by the devastation of hurricanes. I am curious about the multilayered relationship between objects and these environments. Proposing that, while objects themselves reside in space- they also contain it, functioning as placeholders for experience. In today’s simultaneous present, I am investigating why we place value on one thing and not another; the flood as a metaphor for inevitable change; how one resets or restarts after devastation; water as it reflects the psyche; and childhood play/creation as something that is ritual and sacred. Underlying these themes is the motivation to recycle and reuse materials – thus continuing their lifespan— in a time when awareness of our impact on this earth is urgent. At the end of each installation, everything is washed away, returned to its previous state. Like after a flood, I am forced to restart.

Interview with Angelina Parrino

Questions by Maura Clark

Hi Angelina, thanks for taking the time to talk. Could you start by telling us a little about your background and what led you to becoming an artist?
Hi Maura! Thank you for having me. It’s wonderful to be given space to speak about my work.

I am a Florida native, born and raised. Florida is unique place, but I love it with all my heart. It’s definitely a mixed bag of culture: art, people, natural wonders (and the odd news headline). I grew up in the woods and had a bit of an unconventional childhood: no cable, cell-phones, video games, or laptops. My parents never let my sister and I eat Lunchables, which I thought was grossly unfair at the time. I did have a brief stint with a Game Boy Color and about four games—that was exciting, but my childhood was mostly spent playing outdoors. It was also punctuated by intense hurricanes over the years: Opal, Charley, Frances, Ivan, Jeanne, and so on. I have memories of my sister and I waking up in the middle of the night to our parents trying to mop up the water that was coming up through the floorboards. In the summers we went to the same beach house as a family. It was all about contrast and finding joy in simplicity. I’ve always come back to my background as a basis for my artistic practice.

Growing up, I could have sworn that I was going to be a psychologist; I started telling this to people at around the age of six. My dad is a clinical psychologist and when I was a kid he worked at the university that I later attended. I tagged along whenever I could. He was always my role model —still is. I went into my undergraduate program majoring in psychology, but signed up for an arts class on a whim about a week before school started (after a summer heartbreak). At the end of the first class I showed my professor work I had made and she insisted that I double major. That was all the permission I needed. When I hit my junior year I realized that if I didn’t continue to pursue the arts I would risk not having the time to paint, which was what I was doing at the time. I didn’t want to be someone who looked back wistfully on their passion. The prospect terrified me. And that was that.

I think that I’ve always been curious in an exceptional way. If I could pinpoint what led to me becoming an artist it would be that attribute. It was never a choice; rather, it was the only thing that allowed me to build the world that I wanted to live in. I really love that quote that is spoken in Little Women: “There are some natures too noble to curb, and too lofty to bend”. I like to think that applies to myself, though maybe im bumping myself up a bit. When my studio mate and I want to give each other words of encouragement we say that we are the true-blue artists, basically meaning that our younger selves knew we would grow up to be creators, and we couldn’t possibly be anything else. We’ve been making things ever since.

It seems like your experience as a child growing up in North Florida has created a strong sense of place in your work. Can you talk a little more about how the installations you make reflect on your play as a child?
When I think about the house that I grew up in, I have a really clear image of the one bedroom cabin that my father built, buried deep in the woods. I spent a lot of time in the yard around our house. I believe we have 7 acres of land total, which means endless potential for exploring. As a child, play was a large tin bucket that became a bubble bath, or a tent in the backyard that I would drag my books into and spend the day in. It was a blanket under an orange tree with my cat and a handful of objects that I would line up around the edges. It was spending hours searching for berries and leaves and bugs and pretending they were something else. It was completely innocent and sincere in the way that most play at that age probably is. Imagination filled in the gaps.

Play was also making the worst of times into the best of times. I have fond memories of my sister and I tromping around in the four feet of water that surrounded our cabin during an intense storm. As soon as our parents gave us the green light we would bolt out the door with our Barbie boats and plastic yellow raincoats and run around poking sticks at worms and crawfish. We were completely soaked, falling down, and covered in mud—but we didn’t mind at all.

In that sense, I think that play is also a state of mind. I try to enter into that state of mind when I am working on creating a new installation. I spend hours arranging and re-arranging, organizing space. I remember that art is fun and I am lucky to be able to do this. Play is ingrained in the process as well as the outcome.

I divide space in a way that resembles a moveable game board, creating sections and pairing objects together. Frequently I use fabrics and other materials that resemble activity mats as a foundation for work. I’ve been doing a lot of felting lately, which is often labeled as craft (but I don’t think it has to be). The objects I’ve been felting resemble toys. I like to make clay pieces that are readable in multiple ways at the same time. A lump of clay may also resemble a wonky bird or butterfly, with just enough information that it suggests what is recognizable. And of course there are the usual characters of soil and sand, which are the two natural materials that completely shaped my childhood. My language that I use is simple; it just has a bit of magic and room to improvise.

Your work flirts with architectural spaces. As a child, or even today, did you build a lot of forts?
The answer to that is a resounding YES. I still love forts. I am actually building one in my studio currently as part of a plan for my next show. Granted, it is a little more refined than the ones that I built as a child, but it gets at a concept of shelter that I am interested in. That something so simple can offer a feeling of protection, often because it is inseparable from imagination and the unseen feeling that fills it.

My sister and I always built forts during the power outages when there was a bad storm, basically in complete darkness. I also have memories of trying to build a house out of large twigs, though it barely resembled anything other than a pile of sticks. I remember having this strong motivation that I was capable of making something that I could live in.

Forts quickly create a feeling of intimacy, but are also super resourceful! So yes, more fort building. Always.

Because you are working with such architectural elements of installation, are the installations site-specific?
For a while I believed that my work was site-specific, but I think that “site-related” is a better-suited term, though maybe not that different. The act of investigating a site in order to inform the work is absolutely part of my process. It is about having the right concept, as well as the right space—and a problem solving mindset that allows for an exchange of ideas. I think the installations are a bit more fluid and not always rooted in a specific place, but they most definitely shift with each new location. I like to highlight what a site can bring to a specific work.

Are your installations ever based outside?
At the moment, no—however, I am really excited about the potential for my work to move outdoors. I plan on returning to Florida within the next year and would like to explore making installations that are actually located on the beach, in the sand. Either that or sound/video pieces that illuminate architecture that is already present. Last summer during my family’s annual beach vacation I went for a run and discovered an area under a bridge that takes you from Boca Ciega to St. Pete. It sounds unassuming, but I came to discover that this bridge has unofficially been dubbed the “Cathedral Bridge” by a handful of people. It was really incredible. The pillars extend into the distance and the arches look like high ceilings. Sometimes the water is still and at other times it ripples; sometimes a boat floats past in the distance, looking very small. It was a spiritual experience with something that is both functional and overlooked; I like the idea of calling attention to it.

Although the work isn’t presently based outside, it does always flit between interior and exterior—mental and physical spaces. In an attempt to synthesize the two worlds, there is a lot of spillage. Hence the uses of materials like soil, sand, water, wood, etc. 

Objects in your installations are used as objects and also as place markers. Do you see a relation between the objects in your installations, and the way society considers objects useful in an architectural or decorative sense? 
Undeniably. In considering objects to be placeholders, I think of them as containing space as well as residing in it. The line between what is an art object and what is a decorative object is kind of blurry. The objects that I make and use in my work challenge that relationship, often they lose their utilitarian value and are rendered useless, though they appear functional. I am interested in re-contextualizing objects so that their value shifts. The relationship we have with objects is really interesting—they become precious things. We project feelings onto them, remember experiences through them, shape, designate, and signify spaces with them. Yet I think the question of “Why is this useful, or valuable?” persists.

You briefly mention recycling objects and reusability. Do you constantly walk around finding and collecting items that may be useful in your practice? 
I can’t seem to stop! I think my biggest life problem is being interested in even the most boring of things. I fluctuate between wanting to be a minimalist and knowing in my heart that I am a collector. I also feel a lot of guilt over material waste. As an artist, I feel responsible for what I make. I think we have to be, especially in a production-oriented society. We have to know where what we are producing will end up and take care of it along the way. Not that I am perfect in this attempt, but it is something we should be conscious of. At the end of the day the earth will still remember how we’ve treated it, whether or not our work was visionary.  

Whenever possible, I am resourceful with where I am obtaining my materials from. My storage space is full of things that I have picked up on the sidewalk or from friends. I once dragged a wire chair from behind a fraternity building and put it in my car to bring to my studio. When I can’t find what I need I try to buy materials locally and from places with a good ethos. My work has become more modular in nature due to this desire to be able to reuse objects. I have recently been making floor mosaics out of tiles and wood blocks, and discovered this company that makes solar-powered lanterns that I’m excited about. I like them because they not only focus on energy efficiency; they actually help with disaster relief as part of their mission.

You speak of hurricanes and the act of washing away and starting over, and your installations are ephemeral and temporal. When you are done with the act of washing away, do you ever reuse objects in future installations? Are some sequestered as an act of true loss? 
Both of these questions are spot on. It is common that a successive installation will grow out of a previous one: one component that remains becomes a seasoned beginning. I say “seasoned” because what lingers acquires a lived-in quality to it, which I guess, is somewhat opposite to the idea of a beginning. It is not always an object that is a new starting point, but definitely always something that is left behind. Which then makes me think of searching the yard for lost objects with my younger sister after a bad storm.

About a year ago I had a pretty elaborate arrangement going on in my studio in the fashion of Helio Oiticica’s Tropicalia: i.e. soil on the floor, faux grass, materials that you could walk through etc. The cleanup was an intense process. In the end I was left with a large rectangle of soil that I didn’t know what to do with, so, I swept it into a mound. As I was sweeping it collected remnants of time spent in the process: dust, beads, hair, paint. It then seemed appropriate to make these weird unfired clay flowers and stick them in the mound. Eventually it was a completely different installation that filled the entire room.

Due to this constant reformation, no two installations are ever the same. I like to think of each object as having a lifespan, some persist and others die out. My practice is a sketch that is erased often and drawn over. In its impermanent quality there is a lot of potential for something to be. Though if you look closely you can see the erasure marks.

Do you have a favorite object, one that you have used in your work often?
At the moment a small, felted blue egg has shown up in multiple iterations of the installation that I am currently working on. I’ll become briefly attached to an object and then that interest will change.

I think the use of sound and clips from your childhood videos really connect to the idea of memory. How do you think that these memories inform future installations?
Everything I’ve done in the realm of installation has grown out of these home videos. They are the origin point of this body of work, which has become my entire practice. I was at a stage in my career where I was still mainly painting, and then I made this wonderful discovery. My mom mentioned that she had multiple tapes stored in her closet and I asked her to convert just one to DVD. They hadn’t been watched since they were first recorded and all were unlabeled. The one she selected ended up having footage of a frenzied storm and my sister and I wading through the water with our house in the middle of it, like something out of a strange daydream. It jumpstarted this exchange and process of discovery: she would convert the tapes and then mail them my way. They were goldmines. Watching them was unexpectedly emotional; the videos capture not only my sister and I’s childhood and adolescent years, but the way life is a cycle of the same markers of time: birthdays, holidays, hurricanes, seasons, friendships, the awkwardness of getting older. We grew up and everything changed, but it was always the same landmarks that my mom caught on video.  

The home videos function in two ways in the work: they are a source of actual content, as well as an idea bank. I sometimes pull footage from them to project in an installation (either the sound or the visuals). I separate the sound from the video so that there is room for the viewers to insert themselves—I don’t want either element to dominate; it is less about the specifics and more about the looping of experience. A lot of it is pretty average and then something really profound will punctate it. I always think about this one clip in which my family is celebrating New Years: it’s the year 1999, the turn of the century, and my sister and I are obnoxiously blowing into noisemakers and introducing ourselves while my dad records. My mom enters the frame and jokes that she is “the Earth Mother” and then my dad says “Now remember, whatever you say here you’re going to be listening to when you’re 25 and maybe 50 years of age, if the world lasts that long.” The funny thing is that I first watched the videos at age 25. I thought there was quite a bit of poetry in that coincidence.

It is true that there is an obvious link to memory, but it is more about creating a multilayered space that is located in the now—informed by the past, present, and future, as well as what exists in the space in between. It is not so much about nostalgia; rather, I am pulling out that factor of hope and imagination that is so readily present in something like an old home video, and applying it to our current situation. It may seem that I had an ideal childhood, but we weren’t without our hardships. I think we were so resilient because of the love we had for each other.

Can you tell us about your studio space? What do you need to be productive in the studio?
My needs in the studio are very simple, and at the same time, sort of demanding. I need space—often, a separate area to store my hordes of materials, notes, books, and collected objects—as well as an empty project space to work through ideas. And room for dancing. I spend most of my time sitting on the floor or walking around; I don’t even have a chair in my studio at the moment. Speaking of, I currently am lucky to be in a pristine and expansive studio provided to me through my MFA program. I’ve also found a room across the hall that I’ve claimed as my self-appointed office.

Because of how much I have going on in my head, that tangible division of space is critical for me. Otherwise I get distracted. Physical clutter becomes mental clutter and because I am a collector I have a lot of stuff.

Other than that, my only need is good music. I have been listening to same playlist on Spotify for around a year now. Its titled “The Most Beautiful Songs in the World”, which I find amusing. Sometimes, though, the absence of sound is just as important. I’ve realized that I work best when I am alone, meaning that despite my attempts to be in bed at reasonable hour, I have my most exciting ideas late at night in a quiet building.

What’s up next for you?
I am amidst the throes of my MFA thesis right now! The exhibition is titled “Origins” and will open on April 3rd of this year.

I have taken on the (probably overly) ambitious goal of creating a two-part installation: one component will be in the traditional gallery space at the university, and the other will actually take place in my house. I live in a beautiful old apartment home in South Knoxville. It’s one of the few places that have given me a sense of belonging since I left Florida. I like the idea of opening up my home as a radical act of vulnerability, making room for a community of people who aren’t as familiar with the arts—if they are interested.

The architecture of the space is incredible: wood floors and high ceilings and 27 windows that appear to be handmade (I counted). The house was built in 1935 so it has a lot of character. The living and dining room resemble Florida rooms—adjoining sunrooms— with windows that border them and frame the outdoors. It’s like a moving picture. The natural light changes drastically throughout the day and is unpredictable due to the imperfections and ripples in the hand-blown glass.  I’ve watched each season come and go through these windows and am struck by this experience. Right now im really looking forward to how lush and green everything will be when spring arrives.

The idea is that these two fictional spaces symbolize two points in time: both a confusion of past/present/future. If thinking of a metaphorical “storm”, the gallery space is more “pre-storm”, the home space post. They do allude to the actual event of a hurricane, though in more ambiguous ways. Both installations really are situated in the now, the “now” being an active, constantly shifting space. Origins deals with an idea of home or shelter that is malleable—a place (or places) that can be reconstructed endlessly out of its constituent parts. There will be elements of projection, sound, creative lighting, arrangements of objects, etc. I have put my heart and soul into this and I am excited to see it come to life, and also relieved to be nearing the culmination of it!

Anything else you would like want to share?
I don’t think so. It’s been a pleasure.