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Inns Of Molten Blue

Nicholas William Johnson


Inns Of Molten Blue Nicholas William Johnson

26.10.17 - 03.12.17 PLUS-ONE Gallery


Hidden Meanings Other perspectives on Nicholas William Johnson’s floral paintings

by Tamara Beheydt


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Hidden Meanings — tamara beheydt

Nicholas William Johnson paints flowers. Floral motifs are traditionally associated with the decorative or naive, but in Johnson’s case, this would be an awkward simplification of a body of work charged with meaningful layers. There is more than meets the eye. In fact, it is not the eye that Johnson wishes to address, but our very consciousness. Nature is not innocent Floral and botanical motifs, such as Johnson’s, inspire reference to artists throughout history; from floral borders on medieval tapestries, over the Pre-Raphaelites and the Arts and Crafts movement, to the brightly-coloured exoticism of, for example, post-impressionist painter Paul Gauguin or ‘naive’ painter Henri Rousseau. Rousseau’s naive exoticism is owing to his having painted scenes he never saw in real life. His works are hybrid constructions of other people’s accounts (be it through artworks, literature, or verbal testimonies) of places, and his own imagination. His paintings are of a conventional beauty, but can never grasp the feeling of an actual place. However, these landscapes are not innocent. In fact, nature is a silent witness, and sometimes accomplice, to history. In Rousseau’s work, and that of many others, exotic florals are accessory to the wrongful appropriation of aspects of unknown cultures and places. They are an 13


easy and visually pleasing tool to evoke an exotic context, with the density of the bush reflecting the opacity surrounding the often misunderstood strangeness of the ‘other’. By employing formally similar botanical motifs, Johnson emphasizes their use and abuse in art history. He is seeking to address the appropriation of cultures and visual tools by reflecting on patterns he himself only knows through other artists’ accounts of them. Johnson’s own imagery is a hybrid of anachronistic floral aesthetics and elements referring to more contemporary culture. The works which seem so ‘untrendy’ are actually charged with contemporary concerns.

Plant of many faces In contrast to Rousseau’s borrowed landscapes, the American folk artist Earl Conningham painted his actual surroundings in the Florida swamps. His personal impressions reflect an actual sense of a place, or genius loci, even though they are everything but photorealistic. Like Rousseau, Cunningham paints landscapes, but his impressions are first-hand and therefore have nothing to do with appropriation. Cunningham’s paintings weren’t trendy in his time. His work is reminiscent of medieval aesthetics, which occasionally inspire Johnson. However, Cunningham’s landscapes are bound to have a very calm character, whereas Johnson’s work, through the almost awkward intensity of its colours, expresses nature’s chaotic, opaque strangeness. 14


Hidden Meanings — tamara beheydt

The chaos of nature is also present in the work of another artist who had an ambiguous relation with the ‘trends’ of his time, Jackson Pollock. Art historian Richard Taylor researched the relation of Pollock’s work to fractal geometry. Fractals are mainly found in mathematical theory, but can also provide models for seemingly irregular patterns in nature. Fractals each consist of a geometrical pattern or mathematical set which repeats infinitely at any level of magnification. In short, anything that contains fractals can seem very chaotic on the surface, but contains a pattern which makes perfect sense. The fractal theory does not apply to Johnson’s pieces, but they similarly reveal a feature of nature which is neither perceivable at first sight, nor obvious. Just like an unknown, exotic culture, nature is often an attractive mystery to us. Mankind has created myriad systems and vocabularies to make nature make sense, taxonomies to make everything seem explicable. The fractal theory being applied to Jackson Pollock’s practice proves this point. Furthermore, when taxonomies do not apply, human consciousness will create its own, sense-making solutions. Johnson playfully uses the psychological phenomenon of pareidolia, which occurs when one recognizes a familiar pattern where there is none. One might seem to perceive the shape of a trumpet, a human form, or maybe a mouthful of teeth in his botanical motifs. However, there is always a part of nature which is intricate and altogether alien. Its complexity does not abide by 15


binary processes of reason. Johnson’s works investigate this alienness of nature, and the possibility of a ‘vegetable consciousness’.

Vegetable consciousness and ‘molten blue’ In her poem ‘I taste a liquor never brewed’, Emily Dickinson is using drunkenness as a metaphor in her celebration of nature and its beauty. Her feelings of ecstasy are quite similar to those of a person in trance. This kind of trance can be induced by certain substances, of course, but can also occur in the delicate state between waking and sleeping, between consciousness and dream. This half-consciousness is precisely what Dickinson finds in her ‘inn of molten blue’. This ‘twilight state’ or transcendent moment is also a natural phenomenon, namely the short moment between sunset and full dark. In ancient myths, this moment, however short, is a magical one. It is the moment when the god Pan is waking from his afternoon nap and drags his worshippers along in a transcendent (hysterical) dance with his frenzied pipe music. The trance that follows is borne of instinct, and allows the human mind to open up to other forms of consciousness. Johnson’s intense colour palette might be a reference to the kind of trance or ecstasy related to it, while the painted botanies are seductively luring the viewer closer, convincing her to search for previously undetected meaning in their leaves. With his search for a ‘vegetable 16


Hidden Meanings — tamara beheydt

consciousness’, the artist invites us to willingly move into a twilight state, to let go of our binary, classified, controlled consciousness for a moment and try to imagine something beyond that.

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Travelling Without Moving

by Nicholas William Johnson


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n the 1965 science-fiction novel Dune there is a kind of human known as Guild Navigators. These navigators — once human now post-human — have been mutated by excessive consumption of the spice Melange, a psychoactive substance that expands consciousness and in large doses imparts a degree of prescience and the ability to see across vast interstellar distances, in the mind. Overdosing on spice has mutated the navigators in such a manner that they are forced to float in tanks constantly fed with a gaseous formulation of spice. They float like fish, their originally human form elongated and swollen,

with finned feet and hands, a strange fish in a strange sea. In their excess consumption of spice, the navigators have gained access to an otherwise inaccessible skillset which allows them to ‘fold space’, to travel without moving. These creatures pilot the space-ships which move the populations of planets about. Like some great sultan, resplendent in an opium fug, these creatures rely on their handlers, known as Guildsmen, to transport them in their tanks and to provide them with an incessant supply of spice which for their part enables them to pilot the ships on which these handlers and their clients rely. Symbiosis of a kind.

*

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A

travelling without moving — nicholas william johnson

ntwerp late-summer, 2015: A meandering walk and a visit to the Cathedral of Our Lady. In my mind I think I have conflated the corridors of this cathedral with some other sprawling Gothic structure, but I remember being struck by the illusion of space that this architecture creates, as if its interior were so much more vast than the structure which contains it. Gazing up at arced ceilings, like ossified rain-forest canopies, contemplating this impossible expanse (the impossibility of a space being larger inside than out) I thought that this architecture was the only sensible design 23

that could be considered for a space-ship. A craft intended for interstellar travel, would be constructed in an environment where gravity imposed no limitations, expanding to fill space, its elements suspended in a kind of crystalline matrix. I imagined this whole building lifting off and ascending into the sky and the stars beyond, a castle in the sky for some future race of aesthetically minded post-human.

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F

eathers OarBlades is the name of a 1982 song by the Cocteau Twins. The speaking-in-tongues glossolalia of Elizabeth Fraser, settles on imagery of oarblades as feathers — ‘spitting oar-blades’ she sings. Both modes of transport through air and water; ‘feathering the oars’ is a rowing technique; In Mesoamerican mythology, the deity Quetzalcoatl is a cosmic feathered serpent. Feathers: a mode of transport for Amazonian shamans, travelling without moving, their feathers are oar-blades propelling an entirely different sort of craft, slicing the waters of another world. Feathers can

be leafy, floppy and long, like the tail plumage of a peacock or quetzal, ineffective for flight, or feathers can be short and knifelike.

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I

travelling without moving — nicholas william johnson

nns of Molten Blue a line from the c. 1861 poem by Emily Dickinson known by its first line as I taste a Liquor Never Brewed. This ‘inn’ is a public house, a pub, the pub. The divine pub in the sky, from which we all reel in the divine inebriation of summer days, and to which we all head in our contemplation of anything beyond our mundane toing and froing, a different sort of transport. When nature at its height of pleasantness compels us all to indolent, lolling about and the divine is just beyond the other side of the hedge. When picnics become pan-ics, and the conflated flora/fauna sprite of an older classical 25

sort of human turns up to remind us all of what is happening all around us, at any given moment, if we can attune ourselves to it.

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I TASTE A LIQUOR NEVER BREWED EMILY DICKINSON


I taste a liquor never brewed – From Tankards scooped in Pearl – Not all the Frankfort Berries Yield such an Alcohol! Inebriate of air – am I – And Debauchee of Dew – Reeling – thro’ endless summer days – From inns of molten Blue – When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee Out of the Foxglove’s door – When Butterflies – renounce their “drams” – I shall but drink the more! Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats – And Saints – to windows run – To see the little Tippler Leaning against the – Sun!


Clamour of Being

by Nina Lyon


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clamour of being — Nina lyon

i. Once upon a time, we would have spent much of our leisure , or what leisure we had, lying beneath a tree, or perhaps sitting with our back imprinted into the base of its trunk, our legs extending out along its roots, looking. Looking or dozing or gazing, in the psychic twilight edgelands of waking, in the thinning of the veil between worlds, for other sorts of things could be seen if you looked long enough. Other worlds lay beyond this place, but perhaps they were only ever ways of seeing, otherworlds of being in the same place when the mode of its cognition had shifted for a time. All things can become strange given time. Beyond their surface, and the words we use to denote it, all things are very strange indeed. 37


Fruiting Bodies : Astral Peel 2017 , 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

ii. The Victorian philologist and comparative theologian Max Müller famously described mythology as a ‘disease of language.’ What he meant by this was that language, as it developed into an ever more sophisticated and specific way of naming things, made them less strange, less big, less alive. It made things into things. In the very early language of the Vedas, words made broad fluid brush strokes of meaning, so that the shifting and metaphorical nature of what it is to view the world outside was not excised. The disease of language was really a disease of things. The problem was that the strangeness and aliveness of things resisted words. They came to life another way, by animating the words themselves into a new and cartoonish pantheon of beings. 39


The words became gods, Eos and Chaos; the netherworlds of non-ordinary experience became Faerie, and then fairies. Animism — the belief that all things possess, or are possessed by, a spirit — arose out of a cognitive bias. The gods, Müller wrote, were ‘nothing but poetical names, which were gradually allowed to assume a divine personality never contemplated by their original inventors.’ Something was afoot. Something in the human mind resisted the dryness of things. It bored through their surface and the names by which they were denoted.

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Lotuseater 2017, 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas

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clamour of being — Nina lyon

iii. Some things were more resistant to thingness than others. Müller created a taxonomy of tangible, semi-tangible and intangible objects in which the insistent vigour of life sounded louder up the hierarchy. ‘Some objects, such as stones, bones, shells, flowers, berries, branches of wood, can be touched, as it were, all round. We have them before us in their completeness. They cannot evade our grasp. There is nothing in them unknown or unknowable, at least so far as those are concerned who had to deal with them in early days.’ Semi-tangible objects carried a mysticism correlating to their scale: ‘even a tree,’ Müller wrote, ‘at least one of the old giants in a primeval forest, has something 43


overwhelming and overawing. Its deepest roots are beyond our reach, its head towers high above us. We may stand beneath it, touch it, look up to it, but our senses cannot take it in in one glance.’ For ancient people, ‘something went beyond the limits of their sensuous knowledge, something unknown and strange, yet undeniably real; — and this unknown and unknowable, yet undeniable something, became to the more thoughtful among them a constant source of wonderment. They could lay hold of it on one side by their sense, but on the other it escaped from them — “it fell from them, it vanished.”’ The intangible objects — those that could be identified by sight but not touched, like the sky, the sun, the dawn — were those most prone to godliness. Awe correlated to scale. To stand before a mountain was to stand ‘in the real presence of the infinite’, 44


clamour of being — Nina lyon

and the infinite was either God, or the noumenon, or both. The indefinite was the gateway to the infinite: where something evaded meaning, or evaded being pinned down in language or at first sight, provoking further consideration, the magic of being could be found. Enchantment was an indefinite exercise, playing in the margins of perception.

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Sunspilt : Spectral Fig 2017, 145 x 180 cm, Acrylic, marble dust and, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


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clamour of being — Nina lyon

iv. Müller had a lifelong admiration for Kant, which led him to translate an English edition of the Critique of Pure Reason. He maintained, however, that there was one adjustment lacking in Kant’s metaphysics. Between the phenomenal perception of the individual and the noumenal realm of things-in-themselves, which defied human experience, there could be an intermediate mode of apprehension, aistheton. Aistheton was the human faculty to acknowledge that there was more going on beyond the surface of perception; that beyond the horizon of our detailed vision of a thing lay its indefinite nature, and beyond that the infinite. Müller’s error was to ascribe the ability to glimpse the infinite to a particular scale: the demigods of tree and river, the celestial 49


bodies of sun and moon. If we cannot find the same strange intimation of life beyond the frames of our understanding when looking at a leaf or berry, so that behind the veins and hue and particular geometries of a leaf was something unknowable and alive in its unknowability, perhaps we are not looking closely enough. Perhaps we have forgotten what it is to gaze without imposing prior judgements, until our frenzied application of things begins to melt away into something more indefinite, and we can start to look, and to actually see, again. The infinite is always there, all around us, immanent in all the things we could see if only we were able to stop naming them as things. It is the infinite domain of the beyond-us, and it does not need to be brought to life as an unreal god, or gods, and it does not need to be named as the infinite. 50


Inebriate of Air : Dripping of the Night Dew 2017, 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas


Feathery Oar Blades : Angel’s Trumpet Matrix 2017, 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

v. John Duns Scotus, medieval theologian and Subtle Doctor, described the infinite as ‘a measure of intrinsic excellence that is not finite.’ To ascribe perfection to a finite object was mistaken, for the perfection of the divine was found instead in infinity, which is an intrinsic part of being. The infinite did not exist as some separate ghost-entity beyond material things, but within them. Concealed in the tangle of the forest beyond the church were moments of infinite perfection to be replicated by the hands of men inside, who adorned them with foliate heads of oak and berried hawthorn and other imagined perfections: fleur-de-lys and waterleaf, and the fruits of otherworldly lilies.

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Manuscripts grew tendrils, animated by whole vine-life ecologies of real and imagined plants, beasts, birds. The unruly irrepressible indefinite of life kept creeping into human words, growing beyond its borders into human texts, announcing its own landscape in the human mind.

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Skeletal Vegetal Sync 2017, 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas


Limblessness 2017, 145 x 180 cm, Acrylic, marble dust, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


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clamour of being — Nina lyon

vi. When we look at small things, something arises in their liveliness. It, whatever it is, for like the small things it is resistant to being fixed down, moves within them, making them indefinite. You can hold the small thing but you cannot suppress the uncontainable truth of its aliveness when it lives, unless you kill it, and to kill it is to enact a violent discomfort about its life. Its aliveness buzzes with intention. Even small things that were once alive — Müller’s shell or berry — is a document, an arche-fossil, of its former self. If we find the indefinite and unpredictable magic of intention in things, it breaks our sense of thingness and usually results in an accusation of anthropomorphism. To impose consciousness onto other 59


things, like plants or insects or water, is to impose our human frame of being onto something quite unlike ourselves. It is an odd accusation, underpinned by its own fallacious anthropomorphism, in which consciousness or will or mind or whatever we imperfectly name it must be the same sort of consciousness or will or mind that we possess. There is a lurking tautological maxim in which mind cannot be non-human because mind is human that sits, unexplored, in the darkness of modern assumptions about things. Things that are not like us do not have a mind. Things that are like us have a mind. God is like us, a named enminded man in the ether, because he has a mind and we have a mind, but things that are not like us are not like God. They are merely arrangements of dust. 60


clamour of being — Nina lyon

Perhaps it is more comfortable not to lie beneath the tree. Perhaps it is more comfortable not to rest in the bizarre and mindbending alienness of plants and fungi and bees, because there is simply too much strangeness in there.

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Crystalline Form 2017, 80 x 65 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

vii. Edwin Abbott Abbott’s novel Flatland is sometimes considered the first piece of science fiction for its multidimensional thought experiments, but it is primarily an allegory: a tale of geometry, of axioms and how to break them, and of the mimetic illusions of the mind. It tells the story of the Square, a contented member of the regular bourgeoisie in a two-dimensional world ruled by hierophant Circles. One night the Sphere arrives from a third dimension. At first, the Square does not understand what the Sphere is, appearing as it does first as a dot and then as a growing entity whose curvature indicates circularity but of no fixed size. He is discomforted by the apparition. In time, the Sphere communes with him and he with 63


the Sphere, and the Sphere takes him to see Spaceland. Upon the Square’s return, the frames of his understanding exploded by the possibility of multiple dimensions and driven by a desire to share the knowledge he accrued in his strange experience, he is imprisoned as a madman or a heretic, for they are close cousins. Whether it is a geometric heresy against the parallel axiom or a theological heresy against certainty, to speculate an otherworld is to engage in a heresy against the world we think we know. In that act of speculation, of imaginative invention, we access new worlds beyond the mind’s old frames. The most terrifying heresy is the possibility that they might be true.

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Tenuous Flora : Communication Network 2017, 80 x 70 cm, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas


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clamour of being — Nina lyon

viii. To learn from a tree was to learn from another dimension, and other dimensions were strange and fearsome places whose magic operated on its own principles, and the worlds within them were infinite and unknowable. Sometimes, there were heretics who lived on the edge of the village and took their wisdom from the trees, and they would consume parts of the tree and take it into themselves, so that the tree would become them and they the tree. Sometimes, the whole village would be complicit in this flirtation with the vegetable otherworld. Sometimes, on May morning, the young girls would go out into the dawn and sip the dew of roses, so that the beauty of the rose might transfer itself onto them for the day of the flowering and the dance. 67


The flowering boughs of Beltane and northern Midsummers brought the dance from the plants into the human realm, and the insistent life-beat of the plants would drum its way into the human dance, forging new couplings and bringing forth new human lives.

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Dewdrinker X 2017, 80 x 70 cm, Acrylic, marble dust and, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

ix. The infinite is remarkably easy to find with a little patience. It has a habit of expressing itself in both expected and unexpected ways. Sometimes, it announces itself by way of the indefinite in resisting description. Sometimes, it reveals itself in strangeness. Sometimes, it reveals itself in patterns. Patterns have an odd tendency to repeat themselves across scales. We can call them archetypes or tropes or memes, depending on the texture of our cognition. The patterns of Dreamtime paintings and cell biology and the post-war future kitsch of what it would look like to be in space are made of the same shapes. As you circle a city from the air, spiralling closer from space in the approach to landing, it looks by turn 71


Cosmic Ghetto Music III 2017, 145 x 180 cm, Acrylic, marble dust, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


like a ragged lichen on the many-scarred dirty surface of its rock, and then cellular, subdivided and peppered with receptors and transmitters and active transport channels. Here are xylem and phloem; veins and arteries; modes of commuting and of commerce. When we look closely at small things, at tangible objects of little consequence, we find new complexities in them. The same geometric and technological elegance can be found in the architecture of Brunel and organelles, in the double-helix of DNA, in dendriform management structures and in new leaves. The surface of a fruiting lichen, all emissary launchpads and tentacular factory units, looks up close like some strange futuristic space colony because that is what it is. A hawthorn tree, new-grown for 74


clamour of being — Nina lyon

the coming of the new light at the vernal equinox at which point it plans to eat the sun and create weapons so that it may not in turn be eaten, is up to something wild and warlike on the frontiers of existence. If we saw these things in outer space, their weird intentions might make more sense to us. Outer space is what we call the realm of infinite possibility we have forgotten to see in the microcosms of our own world.

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Dewdrinker I 2016, 65 x 80 cm, Acrylic, marble dust, fabric appliquĂŠ on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

x. Today, though we speak little of the infinite, it sometimes feels as though Max Müller was right: that within us there resides some drive or will to glimpse that which goes beyond ourselves, to see the nature of things beyond their given names, to attune to worlds beyond those we inhabit. Sometimes they call out to us and sometimes we have to seek them. If a single voice raises the clamour of being, perhaps we do not hear it when the clamour is harmonious. The dissonances provoke us to listen, listen harder for what it is that is happening; to provoke the search for the noise and for its voicing. ‘When we speak of colours of sounds,’ wrote Müller, ‘we seem for all practical 77


purposes to move entirely within the finite. This is red, we say, this is green, this is violet. This is C, this is D, this is E. What can apparently be more finite, more definite? But let us look more closely.’ The dissonances of the inbetween, the bothand-neither, are the sound of difference, large or incremental, differences that endlessly proliferate until they collapse into chromatic sedition, into the indefinite all.

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The Last Green Ray 2017, 80 x 65 cm, acrylic, marble dust on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

xi. Sometimes there is sameness in difference, things contiguous with the other, repetitions of the same imprints across dimensions and scales. Those shapes, those patterns, tropes or memes or archetypes, forge their way into our aesthetic consciousness as they shape our cognition. Our minds seek to stamp these cookie-cutter shapes upon the outside world, and sometimes the outside world calls back, teasing us with them, or what we thought they were: the variegated shadows of foliage, hills and rivers, snakes and faces, provoking ancestral emotions from times before and beyond ours. Here and now and everywhere are quincunx matrices and dendriform fractals, 81


parabolic canopies of growth and decline, configurations perfect and infinite and prone to eventual collapse, for nothing lasts fixed in time forever, but nor does it cease to exist except in form.

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clamour of being — Nina lyon

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Night Bloomer 2017, 80 x 65 cm, acrylic, marble dust on canvas


clamour of being — Nina lyon

xii. But let us look more closely. Let us look more closely until we find ourselves within the tree’s strangeness, so that the mode of its invention confounds us and it seems as though it exists in its own separate fold of spacetime in which our technologies and tools of measurement do not apply. We cannot truly know it, for its unknowability extends too far into the otherworlds; we can only imagine what it would be like to know it, or to see it, out there on the threshold of our world, where imagined botanies are more real than the things we thought we knew.

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Nicholas William Johnson

B 1982, Honolulu, HawaĂŻ (Us). Lives And Works In London.

Education

MA Fine Art, Royal College Of Art, London, 2012-14.

BA Philosophy, University Of KingĘźs College, Halifax, Nova Scotia 2005.

Selected Solo Shows 2017 Inns Of Molten Blue, Plus-One, Antwerp, be 2016 Dewdrinker: Or The Intolerable Strangeness

Of Vegetable Consciousness, Montoro 12 Contemporary,

Rome, it The Averard Hotel, The Averard Hotel, London, uk 2015 The Catlin Prize 2015, London/Newcastle Project Space, London, uk

Selected Group Shows 2017 Il Meglio Del Meglio, Temple University Art Gallery, Rome, it Love Peace & Happiness, Kristian Day, London, uk #Infiniteflowersplusone, Plus-One, Antwerp, be 2016 Cue Collision, House Of Egorn: London, Herald St., London, uk Secrets In The Carbon Atom, Podium, Oslo, no The Shift, Flat Time House, London, uk Uncommon Chemistry, Curated By Dan Howard-Birt,

Observer Arts, Hastings, uk


Open 2016, Oriel Davies, Newtown, Wales, uk Black Light, The Averard Hotel, London, uk 2015 Into The Woods, Presented By Saatchi Gallery At The Churchill, London, uk

My Roots Can Hear The Leaves Grow, Montoro 12

Contempo Rary, Rome, it Island Iii: Native, G39, Cardiff, uk Artist In Residence. City And Guilds Of London Art School. London, uk And The Soft Ground In The Garden Was Also A Constellation, Lychee One, London, uk London Art Fair: London Projects, With The Catlin Guide, London, uk 2014 A Crazed Flowering, Frameless Gallery, London, uk Saatchi New Sensations, Victoria House, London, uk Show Rca, Royal College Of Art, London, uk Re: Flux Festival With Tim Crabtree, Salle Sans Sous, Moncton, nb 2013 Painting Nov, Royal College Of Art, London, uk Scratch, It’s Easy, 69 Camden High St, London, uk The Violet Hour, 37 Albermarle Street, London, uk Wip, Royal College Of Art, London, uk Near That Place, With Freya Douglas-Morris And Neil Raitt,

Hockney Gallery, Jay Mews, London, uk

2011 On Spiritualism, Apiary Studios, London, uk Frozen Events, Flat Time House, London, uk


Artworks

Nicholas William Johnson, courtesy PLUS-ONE Gallery

Text

Tamara Beheydt Nicholas William Johnson Nina Lyon

Graphic design Mirror Mirror

Cover:

Nicholas William Johnson Limblessness (Detail) 2017, 145 x 180, Acrylic, marble dust on canvas

This book was published on the occasion of the exhibition Inns of Molten Blue at PLUS-ONE Gallery, Antwerp, 2017 Edition of 300


All artworks Š Nicholas William Johnson, 2017 All texts Š the authors All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any other information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.


Nwjcatalogus issuu  

Catalog of the solo exhibition at PLUS ONE gallery Limblessness (detail) 2017

Nwjcatalogus issuu  

Catalog of the solo exhibition at PLUS ONE gallery Limblessness (detail) 2017

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