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Amber White
Unmaking Memories (individual images are untitled)
2014
Found Photographs Altered by Molten Aluminum
Unmaking Memories (individual images are untitled)
2014
Found Photographs Altered by Molten Aluminum
Work Statement: My connection to dementia through my mom’s decade-long journey was harrowing yet speckled with moments of connection and creation. When my mom, Judy, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s-related dementia and progressive aphasia (loss of speech & language comprehension) at the age of 58, she had already been struggling for a few years. It required a sort of intervention to complete her application forms for medical assistance and drag her to see a doctor, then on to a neurologist at the Mayo Clinic.
I began to wonder what it felt like; what a person knows or doesn’t know they are forgetting.
In 2014 when I started to learn more about metal casting in grad school, I tried to force a marriage between photography (my main background) and the new thrill of working with hot liquid metal. I spent time pouring molten aluminum onto small stacks of family snapshots that were set into rectangular sand molds. It was an exercise in developing empathy, a material experiment, a sort of intentional memory loss, and a necessary catharsis. I used the molten aluminum as an unpredictable and permanent alteration of memory. The photo negatives of these memories were also destroyed in the process so I would not be able to reproduce them aside from what I could remember, which would no doubt transform over time.
Dementia never gets better. It’s pretty much a one-way winding road into the dark. Some days there are glimmers of light and connection, and small victories, and more laughing than confusion. Mom was still Mom in some sense… I washed her hair in the kitchen sink like she used to wash mine as a child. Every once in a while there was an “Ope! Sorry!” when my pointy fingernail met her eyelid or ear lobe. Eventually she couldn’t tolerate the water on her head at all.
My sister who ironically works in a memory care facility was the real heroine through this journey, but I learned my own lessons in patience and forgiveness and vulnerability the hard way; trimming her toenails, washing her feet and hair, and feeding her by hand while she swore at me and mumbled and giggled.
After legal battles with my mom’s neglectful partner and moving her into a care home for own safety, her health declined rapidly. She was released from her disease at age 65, in December of 2019. While she passed just a few months before Covid-19 struck the U.S., six inches of snow fell that morning and I wasn’t able to drive to be there with her and my sister. No matter how many times I had said goodbye for months prior, and even though she couldn’t respond, I was never prepared to say goodbye over the phone.
While I hope there will be a cure or proven methods of prevention in the future, I’m grateful for the caregivers of this world and for those providing creative expression during the most difficult and confusing times. When I met Rosemarie Oakman at Franconia Sculpture Park in 2015, I still had little idea what was coming for me or my family, but I knew there would beany kind and creative folks along the way..
Many thanks to Rose and the Alzheimer’s Glass & Iron crew for this exhibition opportunity, and for collecting so many memories throughout the years in the work that you do.
I began to wonder what it felt like; what a person knows or doesn’t know they are forgetting.
In 2014 when I started to learn more about metal casting in grad school, I tried to force a marriage between photography (my main background) and the new thrill of working with hot liquid metal. I spent time pouring molten aluminum onto small stacks of family snapshots that were set into rectangular sand molds. It was an exercise in developing empathy, a material experiment, a sort of intentional memory loss, and a necessary catharsis. I used the molten aluminum as an unpredictable and permanent alteration of memory. The photo negatives of these memories were also destroyed in the process so I would not be able to reproduce them aside from what I could remember, which would no doubt transform over time.
Dementia never gets better. It’s pretty much a one-way winding road into the dark. Some days there are glimmers of light and connection, and small victories, and more laughing than confusion. Mom was still Mom in some sense… I washed her hair in the kitchen sink like she used to wash mine as a child. Every once in a while there was an “Ope! Sorry!” when my pointy fingernail met her eyelid or ear lobe. Eventually she couldn’t tolerate the water on her head at all.
My sister who ironically works in a memory care facility was the real heroine through this journey, but I learned my own lessons in patience and forgiveness and vulnerability the hard way; trimming her toenails, washing her feet and hair, and feeding her by hand while she swore at me and mumbled and giggled.
After legal battles with my mom’s neglectful partner and moving her into a care home for own safety, her health declined rapidly. She was released from her disease at age 65, in December of 2019. While she passed just a few months before Covid-19 struck the U.S., six inches of snow fell that morning and I wasn’t able to drive to be there with her and my sister. No matter how many times I had said goodbye for months prior, and even though she couldn’t respond, I was never prepared to say goodbye over the phone.
While I hope there will be a cure or proven methods of prevention in the future, I’m grateful for the caregivers of this world and for those providing creative expression during the most difficult and confusing times. When I met Rosemarie Oakman at Franconia Sculpture Park in 2015, I still had little idea what was coming for me or my family, but I knew there would beany kind and creative folks along the way..
Many thanks to Rose and the Alzheimer’s Glass & Iron crew for this exhibition opportunity, and for collecting so many memories throughout the years in the work that you do.
Website: www.amberwhite.net
Etsy: www.tangledantlers.etsy.com Instagram: @tangled.antlers @amber_joelle |
Artist Bio: Amber was trusted with sharp objects from a young age. Fillet knives, fish hooks, needles, and nails taught early lessons in dexterity and diligence. Her work reflects relationships formed through intense experiences of grief and wayfinding. Tree fragments, wasp nests, deer skin, bone, iron, and other non-human beings form a family of characters to confide in. The physical and emotional labor of the process allows for an attempt to preserve these interactions and a reminder of the urge for life to carry on.
Although raised by hunters, trappers, and farmers, Amber was the first in her family to earn a BA from the University of Minnesota (Morris) and an MFA from the U of MN (Twin Cities) where imposter syndrome nearly got the best of her. She has exhibited throughout the Midwest and international venues including Franconia Sculpture Park, Bemidji Sculpture Walk, the Edward J. and Helen Jane Morrison Gallery, Kunstverein Grafschaft Bentheim, The Beijing Film Academy, Duluth Art Institute, Sloss Furnaces Historic Landmark, and more. Amber currently lives in Osceola, Wisconsin. |
