The Paradox of Capturing the Intangible: When Art Meets the Ephemeral
There’s something almost absurd about trying to capture water in art. It’s the ultimate shape-shifter—simultaneously a force, a mirror, and a void. Yet this is exactly what Lynne Miller Jones and Stephen Guenther attempt in Refractions, their joint exhibition that feels less like a gallery show and more like a meditation on the impossible. What makes this exhibit so compelling isn’t just their technical skill, but the way they’ve both surrendered to water’s contradictions. Personally, I think this speaks to a deeper human obsession: our futile yet beautiful attempts to pin down the transient.
The Dual Nature of Water: A Canvas and a Mirror
Water isn’t just a subject here—it’s a collaborator. Jones’ paintings, which flirt with abstraction until you step back, reveal her obsession with the tension between control and chaos. She takes photos of water, crops them obsessively, then paints them into something both realistic and alien. What many people don’t realize is that her process mirrors water’s own duality: freezing a moment while letting the brushstrokes roam. From my perspective, this isn’t just about art—it’s about how we process memory. Those cropped photos? They’re like fragments of experience, reassembled into something new.
Guenther, on the other hand, wades waist-deep into the Bahamas with a camera, hunting for patterns in chaos. His approach is almost scientific—3,000 photos to find a handful of magic. But here’s the twist: he doesn’t smooth out the randomness. His images retain the raw texture of water’s unpredictability. I’d argue this is where photography becomes philosophy. By refusing to “tame” the water, he’s acknowledging that beauty exists in the ungraspable. It’s like trying to photograph smoke and calling it a portrait.
Midlife Reinvention: Art as a Second Language
Let’s talk about the elephant in the room: both artists found their voices later in life. Jones, a nurse-turned-painter, and Guenther, a designer-turned-photographer, embody the messy, nonlinear path of creativity. This raises a deeper question: Why do we insist on labeling art as a “career” when it’s so often a lifeline rediscovered? Jones’ decision to pursue an MFA at this stage isn’t about ambition—it’s about hunger. She’s chasing technical mastery not to prove herself, but to converse more deeply with her own work. And isn’t that the real story here? Art isn’t a ladder; it’s a spiral. You keep circling back, wiser each time.
Guenther’s meticulous gallery planning—mocking up walls, obsessing over flow—contrasts beautifully with Jones’ intuitive process. One sees structure as a way to control chaos; the other lets chaos inform structure. Their synergy isn’t in their methods but in their shared obsession with process over product. Which brings me to a pet theory: the best collaborations aren’t between look-alikes, but between opposites who’ve stumbled into the same rabbit hole.
Why This Matters in 2023: The Slow Art Rebellion
In an age of AI-generated images and Instagram filters, Refractions feels like a quiet act of rebellion. These artists aren’t chasing virality—they’re asking us to slow down, to notice the dance of light on Tuesday at 3 PM that we’d usually scroll past. What’s fascinating is how their work aligns with a broader cultural shift toward “slow art”—a rejection of spectacle in favor of contemplation. But here’s the catch: their art isn’t passive. Those abstracted waves? They demand your attention. They’re not soothing seascapes; they’re puzzles that rearrange themselves as you move.
Final Thoughts: The Deeper Current Beneath the Show
If you take a step back, Refractions isn’t just about water—it’s about how we seek meaning in flux. Climate change, personal reinvention, the illusion of control… it’s all there, rippling beneath the surface. And maybe that’s the real takeaway. Art like this doesn’t give answers; it teaches us how to ask better questions. Like, say, why we’re so terrified of things that can’t be held. Or why beauty feels more urgent when it’s fleeting. Either way, I’ll be thinking about these swirling, slippery pieces long after the exhibition ends. Probably while staring at a puddle, wondering what it’s trying to say.
