Erin Frost | Soft Work

Interview by Adam K. Woods | Photographs by Sierra Stinson


Erin welcomes me into the peach light of her Capitol Hill apartment. It is the evening, late winter, and her home feels like a reliquary for precious objects. Heavy, sculptural drapes line the wall, blurring our current space and time. Pink suitcases nest together under a seating area in her bedroom. Jewelry hangs wherever it can; meticulous but organic. A closet door ajar allows a keyhole glimpse into her infamous collection of vintage dresses and party attire. The picture window in her apartment frames the glittering rubies of tail lights heading down I-5, creating a scintillate quality to the room.

If you make art here in Seattle, you have most-likely seen Erin Frost’s work. She is a versatile artist, creating successful pieces in numerous mediums. Meticulous embroideries clinging to intimate fabrics, blushing lipstick kisses sequenced at an arresting rate and proportion, sumptuous performances involving the use of her body and what she has chosen to activate with her presence. Erin is part of Seattle’s “empathic movement” as it is being called, and she gleans inspiration from the soft work of being human.

Most recently at the group show, Go On Take Everything, I experienced a collection of her ceramic duplications of corks. The champagne cork chosen for the replicas was the type you might clean up the morning after a celebration, maybe squeeze in your fingers remembering the party the night before. Featured in different stages of the firing process; many of the corks bared patches of rough white skin, some shone with a glossy clear glaze, others were scumbled with a solid gold coating. Over 80 corks were piled on a tray, and gallery-goers were welcome to handle the corks and purchase them. The piece was called “Is That All There Is?

Adam K. Woods : Talk with me about using your home as a studio space.

Erin Frost : It makes sense for me. I’ve never done it any other way, and it adds a certain amount of intimacy to my work. Working at home lends itself to a fluid state, where you can start making in the space between waking and sleeping. It allows for a more intuitive process. This is my art practice, this is my space, with no separation.

AW : I can see that inseparability. You’re living and you’re creating art and they are happening simultaneously.

EF : Sometimes I struggle with that; when is it art, when is it my life? I used to know that separation more, like, “Oh I’m working on a show, and it’s photography, so I’m shooting, then I’m processing the film, now I’m printing. This is the act of working on art.” At times I miss that clarity, but where I’m at right now is just constantly trying things, and in some ways bridging that divide between life and practice. Allowing myself room to be uninhibited in experimenting.

AW : Let’s talk about your connection to craft, in regards to your work like your “Golden Light” series, and also your embroidery & mending pieces. Do you feel a connection to American craft, and ‘traditional’ gender roles?

EF : I feel there’s this domesticity that arose from necessity. When I was recovering from a pretty serious back injury that was all I could do- I could sit and alter photographs I had already made.  And out of that mending eventually came the Golden Light series once I was recovered. That series reads as joyful; a celebration of relationships that were helping me heal. That original set-back opened up that exploration.

AW : There is similar iconography in those pieces as in your piece “Shift“, from Vignette’s Collection, but your medium changed to watercolor. What was happening?

EF : Shift was the first piece that happened after a breakup, and I was really thinking about the way you can alter your perspective and move through things – move through grief with grace, hopefully. Still working geometrically, but doing something that was new and unknown; creating organically. That piece is really important to me.

AW : Your home has a lot of warmth, and is meticulously decorated with vintage objects. How do you take care of your home and collect the things in your life?

EF : The majority of what I own I’ve collected over the years second hand. Because I’ve found it in this way, and seen the beauty in what’s been discarded, and elevated it in this surrounding, it gives me a wonderful pleasure. Things are just things, but I believe objects carry weight of what is projected onto them. I collect objects that are precious to me; beautiful things that become sacred, treasures from those I love. As a kid I always secretly loved cleaning my room because I’d have to go through everything on my dresser, all my ephemera, and touch everything. I can still get lost in that really easily, there’s memories attached to everything.

AW : Your home feels like a body; both your physical body and your body of work.

EF : That’s beautiful, I really like that. I’m easily influenced by my surroundings, so it’s important to have a sort of sanctuary. I do feel intentional about my space, and since i create here, it is an extension of my physical presence. It’s intimate space.

AW : If you don’t mind me asking, how have you responded to the grief and loss in your life in the last year (Erin lost a dear friend and her first love within a short period of time).

EF : It’s been a major part of my work. The most obvious being the video I created for Out of Sight 2015 (That Which Has Been Your Delight, 2015). That piece is about making space for pleasure. Something I’ve learned from loss is that you can only experience as much pleasure as the pain you’ve experienced. And pain is transformative. I took that to heart and tried to create from that space. I sat with that pain and in turn felt my own physical presence that much more. It made me bigger, more capable.

AW : It’s a very encompassing piece. I can see a lot of different elements of other works in there. There is also a connection to “beauty” as a concept. I would say you are a very beautiful person, and I would say that sometimes you project a timeless, vintage beauty too, and in your work this beauty exists, but also an escaping from this beauty. A documentation, but also a leaving. Talk with me about this.

EF : I use myself for my work because it’s the most intimate way I can create. It’s true in that I’m documenting myself in this space and time, so it’s a form of testimony. But at the same time, I’m creating altered realities that are in part about heightened beauty, sensuality, looking into my own mysteries. I’m generous with what I reveal, but at the same time creating protection for myself. So this work I make is simultaneously true and false. These elements seem at odds with each other and I don’t think there’s a tidy explanation for any of it. I know what I make is mostly done out of creative compulsion and that I want to add more beauty to the world, but I feel that in waves alongside the weight of impermanence. And I think that’s the thing about transforming, you get to, in some sense, choose your reality, even if only briefly.

AW : This reminds me very much of an interview with Mike Hadreas (Perfume Genius) I was reading recently where Mike talks about how he was finally able to create a character that allowed him to leave what had happened to him- his vulnerability, his drug abuse, etc. He was able to put it away for a second and put on this outfit that allowed him to create. Do you resonate with that?


EF : Yes, and I think many of us do create characters in some form or another to strike a balance between self-preservation and self-expression. As someone who’s been enormously shy most of my life, the personas I adopt bear witness to many facets that need an outlet. I’m quiet and private, but I’m also an exhibitionist who wants to perform all the parts of myself. The curious thing about being a creator is then sharing that bold intimacy into the public realm, bridging the gap between private and public. I also think that allowing ourselves to creatively enact fantasy is both healing and can act as a form of exorcism.


AW : Your outfits are not just an extension of your artwork, they really are pieces of art. You put your artist’s eye on what you wear, and it’s amazing. A lot of people don’t do that here in Seattle as much as they do in other cities like San Francisco or New York or LA. When you go into your closet, talk with me about what you see and do.

EF : Oh, the magic closet! I feel parties and possibilities in there. While I tend to wear a sort of daily uniform, these other garments are a different vehicle. I never outgrew playing dress up, and when I walk into my closet it feels like I’m looking for not only what will make me comfortable in my own skin, but that slight magic that, again, allows for transformation. Costuming is key for transformation, it’s own form of communication. Late night parties at my house sometimes end up in the closet, everyone squeezed into that little room, emerging in a different outfit. It’s one of my favorite things.

AW : I feel like you are an “insider-outsider” artist in that you are less concerned with world-wide art trends or what’s happening in Seattle’s gallery scene, but you are inside this tight-knit group of creators, what is being called the “lyricists” or “empathic movement” here in this city.

EF : I feel like an outsider artist. It’s not that I don’t care what’s going on, but it’s hard enough to create without the roadblocks of wondering whether or not something has been done before. My work is not trying to be anything other that what I need it to be for me, what I need to be creating in the moment. The empathic movement of people making tender work allows us all to find our true voice. It could totally fail or it could be the best thing I’ve ever made, but I’m going to try it and see how it feels. It’s been feeling pretty good.

AW : You created “That Which Has Been Your Delight” on an Iphone 4, which is amazing. I feel like we are living in a time when everyone is so capable, has so many tools, that it can be overwhelming to create.

EF : Yeah, if you think about the intimacy of your phone, it’s almost an extension of yourself; it’s on your body, you’re rarely without it. I think that made it less scary to test the waters of video art. I agree that having access to so much can be overwhelming, but I think in this instance, because it was an intimate tool, it wasn’t daunting. If I would’ve thought about it and felt the need to use fancy equipment, that project probably would never have happened. But using something that was familiar and available made it feel like more of a sketch. It gave me both permission and a restriction to work with, which is something that I’m realizing I need in my work. I have to get creative within the limitations i have.

AW : Do you consider yourself a Seattle artist?

EF : I feel like an outsider in a lot of ways in this city, in the art world at large. But I am a Seattle artist in that I’ve lived here for over a decade, even if I don’t really know quite where I fit. Vignettes has helped changed how I think about my work and my place in this city. As a space that gives a platform to so many heartfelt creators, it’s given me courage to experiment and carve out more space for myself.

AW : Do you feel like your work is feminist?

EF : I don’t think of my work as necessarily a feminist statement. But as a feminist maker, I certainly do consider my work feminist. My work is about claiming my body- my physical and emotional space in the world. It’s about how and what I want to reveal. It also touches on domestic space, declaring that and giving that weight and validity. And I think anytime women reclaim the gaze for themselves, it’s empowering, and that is something I’m very interested in.

AW : We’ve talked a lot about death in previous conversations. What are you trying to do before you die?

EF : I thought I had it figured out at one point, like when I was doing my photography, I was on this clear trajectory with what I wanted to accomplish. This idea that when I died I would leave this encapsulated body of work. And that work I was making felt good for a long time, it felt strong and complete. I did that for so long, and then my Dad died, and everything changed. I stopped making work for a long time. And now, I don’t know. It’s so much less about the work and more about the experience. I have a fair amount of existential crisis, and I’m also more aware of the beauty in my life. I hope, if anything, that I would impact people in a loving and gentle way.

But really the answer to your question is, I want to experience as much love as I can.

Erin most recently took over the Vignette’s Weekender on instagram to create and pilot new ideas for work. Follow Vignettes here (#erinfrostvignettes) and catch up on the intimate pieces she created.

Maggie Carson Romano | Of Light and Weight

Interview and Essay by Adam Boehmer
Photographs by Joel Kvernmo and Sierra Stinson



The earthquake was cream-colored and we felt buoyant in its heave. Maggie’s eyes met mine and the 5.0 held us breathless for a few seconds as her house felt made of driftwood, absorbing the force before settling back into its sparse charm. Full of peace and a sense of adventure, we immediately wanted it to return. Later on she would say, “Wasn’t that earthquake beautiful?”


Welcome to the world of the artist Maggie Carson Romano.


Last spring I visited her Culver City home and studio in Los Angeles for a week, hoping to observe first-hand her process of charging simple materials with concepts so well-honed the objects and installations become needed, missed, connected to the modern person’s sense of aesthetic and survival.
Simply put, her work is transformative: to the materials and to the viewer. An antique misery whip is rendered useless but gorgeous by being dipped upside down in the rubberized white material intended only for the tool’s handles. The missing leg of a seaside motel’s bedside table is healed with sand cast solid from just outside the motel room’s door.  Long-standing cracks of a neighborhood’s worn street are filled with 24k gold leaf.  Maggie’s work is both heavy and uplifting, and her intimate process often leads to a public shift of consciousness.


“Especially on windy days, it feels like a box kite,” Maggie says about her home and backyard studio, connected by a huge swath of almost-white concrete that has become an exposed part of her studio practice. “I’ve been exploring the strength and fragility of concrete,” she says, as she lays organic clippings from trees and flowers next to long, erratic fractures in the driveway, photographing them for studies. “The tossed-away fragments echo the cracks. I love when two opposite things echo and mimic each other, their differing states of growth and decay, but also their common fragility.”


Walking with Maggie in her neighborhood is an exercise in acute beauty. The tectonic plates of the sidewalk, the subtle shift of off-white tints of paint on nearby buildings, sunbeams over the old industry of Culver City all become impetus for aesthetic discussion, or simply just appreciation.


What is inspiring you to create these days?


MCR: My days are currently filled with surfing and flower arranging, and while disparate in many ways, they are both solitary activities amidst two of natures most fascinating elements, and in opposite scales. The power of the ocean has cast a significant spell over me and occupies an enormous amount of my headspace. After surfing in the morning, whenever I close my eyes later in the day I see the swell of a wave building behind my eyelids, but never breaking.  
The work I am making now stems directly from consistent experiences of that infinite immensity. When I am not in the ocean I am working with flowers under the influence of their delicate and fragile beauty. In my floral studio I am constantly concerned with controlling the climate. The wrong temperature or humidity can be catastrophic to the work at hand. I powerlessly watched some beautiful lilacs perish in a heatwave in April and there was nothing to be done about it.
So the balance between control and a powerlessness is something that I wrestle with on a daily basis. Finding this paradoxical balance has been at the core of my studio practice since the beginning and is intrinsically tied to many themes present in my work. There is often times an element of meticulous control responding to an element of reckless chaos in my work, and at the center I usually find a sensitive subject hanging in delicate balance.
In the past, Maggie has also integrated technology into her work in surprising but calibrated ways, building responsive systems of decay in contained environments. In her piece, “What made the wound, wound the thread” a heavy rubber balloon breathes in and out from a helium tank, responding to the noises inside a gallery space by filling with both gas and saltwater, dripping the water onto a foundation of concrete, which frosts over time with crystalline salt.


Talk with me about your past use and current connection to technology:


MCR:  I grew up in a house full of gadgets and from a very young age have had a sense of wonder around the usefulness of new technology and how it can be applied outside of it’s intended purpose.  I have always been interested in how the tools we make mimic our own human design, sensors mimic our own responsiveness, cameras mimic our vision, etc.  Technology that allows us to explore and understand our world beyond our own human ability fascinates me. I allow technology into my work when it allows me to accomplish something I couldn’t do without it, and it’s inclusion must be both pragmatic and elegant.
Another facet is that I have always been intimidated by technology and it takes an enormous amount of willpower to circumvent what would otherwise be a crippling anxiety that I have surrounding complex systems. There have been years of my practice when I have abandoned technology altogether and resorted to solely working with physical materials, but it always returns.


Maggie is sitting on the stitched-together concrete planes of her driveway, half in sunlight, half in the shadow of her studio, delicately applying gold leaf down the central vein of a straw-colored tumbleweed. “This is such an intricate process, and this bush is so thorny!” We both laugh. She tells me this piece is about untethering, which is inherent in the essential archetype of the tumbleweed. She’s realized she’s been unanchoring her work incrementally since she graduated from University of Washington with her MFA and moved to New York City.


Untangling from past systems, allowing more poetic assessment of her pieces and process, Maggie is moving forward into a spaciousness and simplicity, echoed by her California environment, which involves an intense connection to nature, movement and the ocean.



What was your practice like in New York City? How has location and city affected/changed your work?


MCR: My studio in New York was an incredible sanctuary from the rest of my life in the city.  It was an hour commute from where I lived which included a mile of walking on each end of the route. I really had to earn my time there.  In the winter, the concrete floor was heated and I kept the space almost entirely empty. The ceilings were high with wood beams and the windows were big, and there was a loft. I spent a lot of time on that warm floor, a lot of time thinking and tinkering on a small scale to avoid filling the space with anything.
The luxury of space and privacy was unmatched, but the remoteness also meant it was difficult for me to obtain materials and get them to the studio so most of what I worked with I got from the hardware store on the corner.  I made a cat whisker radio, which I see now spoke to the isolation I felt out there. My work really pared down from complex systems to simple explorations of mundane fascinations.  As with anything though, it wasn’t perfect. It was above a kale chip factory and reeked sweetly of the stuff.  In the summer, little green flies would come in through the windows and eat me alive, but I loved being there.
Now I commute barefoot all of 5 yards from the back door of our house to the barn doors of my studio. But to be honest, my entire life here is my studio. The ocean is as much of a creative space as anything.  I do most of my brainstorming in the shower and in the car. Water, salt, wind, and sunlight are all elements that are returning to my work in new ways. Getting these things back gives them a new life in my work that is really positive and exciting.  At the same time, isolation has gone from a pure luxury to a constant. The bliss of working from home is often tempered with a persistent solitude.
Early in the morning after coffee, eggs and fresh oranges from her yard, we decide to explore Malibu. We drive and drive and Maggie leads me to a hidden beach. We climb up an arduous ravine where we must use our hands on the sides of the wind-sculpted walls to steady ourselves. At the top, we see our destination, a hidden cove, and after a serpentine downward hike, we find ourselves laid out next to the great blue Pacific, white water breaking across a stretch of marbled rock slick with dark green seaweed. Above the cavernous walls that protect this place, a few 10 million dollar homes sit like monuments. The sun is blinding and we quickly get hot enough to wade into the water.


You are a photographer as well, and work with light. How does this affect your more sculptural, object-based work?


MCR:  Almost all of my sculptural work has a reflective element to it so that I can capture the light within a space and pull it from context to enable it to become even more than it already is.  I am extremely sensitive to light so reflective material holds a certain fascination for me. At the onset of my migraines when I first begin to experience auras, my eyes will be caught by anything reflective. It can be anything from the head of a nail in the wall, or the sliver of a mirror almost out of view, or a gum wrapper. These little details are never something I would have otherwise noticed. You will often see mirrors, foil, gold leaf, pyrite, salt crystals, and glass employed as light sources within my sculptures to pull light out of context and make it tangible for others.
After a day of sun-worshipping, we return to Maggie’s home, a space alive with light and air: all-white walls that carry and hold the contents, including us, in an effortless way.
There is finesse in her life here, and a seamlessness between living and working.  She brings out two glasses of rose that I notice immediately are crystal because of their fragility, weight and tone. We cheers and hydrate and start to clean up for the night.  Los Angeles is quickly turning into it’s dusty-evening self, and later we will meet up with several other artists also living and working in the city. We’ll share stories of success, hardships, and the burgeoning LA creative community. The chilly desert air will pass over us like rudders out on the sidewalks of Los Feliz, each of us a working piece in the complex system of the city.


Adam Boehmer
December 19, 2013

KEPT is a collecting. Simply by being alive we are collectors and in a certain state of mind, objects, our thoughts, and people we know present themselves as collectible and so we keep them. We keep them around and arrange them, like a physical spell: all of the objects for our pieces, all of our pieces for the show. A city can keep you, and you can keep that city. You can keep a lover long after you have lost them. You can be kept.