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just a rock

just a rock

2013; HD projection, black and white photographs, 4' x 8' charcoal on drywall

How can one see a thing as something other than what it appears to be?

I come from a large family of rock lovers. My great grandfather was a rock hound, wading in cold cricks, picking up stones that would eventually be wrapped in silver as leather-strung bolos or belt buckles nestled into bulging bellies. Everyone has special rocks as children, tiny pebbles in tiny hands seem precious in our innocence, yet even in our adult lives, we cannot refuse their silent longing to be touched.

We gently pluck them from the loose gravel roads and soft black dirt. Squinting our eyes against the sun, we first wet them with our spit, cleaning the dust from their round bodies. These are collections of common rocks; the ones we might sweep from our homes or pick from gardens, the ones we pick from fields as hidden hazards for rusty tractors. We wash them with care, cupped in our hands, as we remove thick blankets of dirt to reveal their glistening skins. Then we proudly display them in windowsills as stacks or neat little rows, always still, always watching.   

In my 27 years, I’ve never found two of the same rocks; each one looks and feels differently. There are endless and always surprising variations of colors, textures, lines, and weights. I pick up rocks while I walk, rub them as I think while pressing my skin into theirs until I can feel our warmth. To see them best is with closed eyes; slowly running your fingers across each face, each crevice and peak as you would a lover, mapping each surface and every curve all the while moving in tension with the other.

Each rock carries with it a story of its discovery, its beauty, and a hidden mystery recorded in the striations, cracks, smoothed surfaces, and rough edges. Fascinated by an opaque history we try to read the wrinkles of their palms, try to understand their lives. We find this undecipherable history so intoxicating, laced with a sense of time greater than ourselves that we can never understand. Their silence is their beauty.

Whitney Polich

Just a Rock_1w.jpg
Just a Rock_2w.jpg
 sold

sold

detail_100dpi.jpg
detail2.jpg
detail3.jpg
install2.jpg
install3.jpg
IMG_2421.jpg
IMG_2499.jpg
IMG_2526.jpg
IMG_2620.jpg
install4.jpg

just a rock

2013; HD projection, black and white photographs, 4' x 8' charcoal on drywall

How can one see a thing as something other than what it appears to be?

I come from a large family of rock lovers. My great grandfather was a rock hound, wading in cold cricks, picking up stones that would eventually be wrapped in silver as leather-strung bolos or belt buckles nestled into bulging bellies. Everyone has special rocks as children, tiny pebbles in tiny hands seem precious in our innocence, yet even in our adult lives, we cannot refuse their silent longing to be touched.

We gently pluck them from the loose gravel roads and soft black dirt. Squinting our eyes against the sun, we first wet them with our spit, cleaning the dust from their round bodies. These are collections of common rocks; the ones we might sweep from our homes or pick from gardens, the ones we pick from fields as hidden hazards for rusty tractors. We wash them with care, cupped in our hands, as we remove thick blankets of dirt to reveal their glistening skins. Then we proudly display them in windowsills as stacks or neat little rows, always still, always watching.   

In my 27 years, I’ve never found two of the same rocks; each one looks and feels differently. There are endless and always surprising variations of colors, textures, lines, and weights. I pick up rocks while I walk, rub them as I think while pressing my skin into theirs until I can feel our warmth. To see them best is with closed eyes; slowly running your fingers across each face, each crevice and peak as you would a lover, mapping each surface and every curve all the while moving in tension with the other.

Each rock carries with it a story of its discovery, its beauty, and a hidden mystery recorded in the striations, cracks, smoothed surfaces, and rough edges. Fascinated by an opaque history we try to read the wrinkles of their palms, try to understand their lives. We find this undecipherable history so intoxicating, laced with a sense of time greater than ourselves that we can never understand. Their silence is their beauty.

Whitney Polich

sold

just a rock
Just a Rock_1w.jpg
Just a Rock_2w.jpg
 sold
detail_100dpi.jpg
detail2.jpg
detail3.jpg
install2.jpg
install3.jpg
IMG_2421.jpg
IMG_2499.jpg
IMG_2526.jpg
IMG_2620.jpg
install4.jpg