It is almost always a fruitless quest, to see what lies beyond the veil and into the mind and heart of another artist: It is a hidden world, to which they are both master and slave; to their desires, hopes, fears, and dreams.

Ones that are only restrained by frail fibres of brush, or the cold caress of the painter’s knife. But in Ingvild’s case, such restraint is not present, barrier to expression is only cumbrous flesh, for she paints without the mere tools upon which so many rely.

So, with merit in style raised and ignorance of intent acknowledged, what more can I say, than point to the world I see, bound within to eternal flux of canvas. And, to me it seems to be a work of symbols and stories.

Within it I see many things, though all seem to rest in a conflict. On one side there are the enlarged breasts, projected womb and stark separation of loin and leg. All of which draw out a profound sense of raw sexuality and eroticism for me, though one that is conflicted.

The face is unclear and recessed and with it the uncertainties reign. It draws out images of the Seán-na-Gig, Maya and countless other visions of the sacred feminine. Of woman being the goddess that she is: whether the culmination of creation in dust twice-refined or the one who nourishes all creation, in near eastern and other traditions.

But then, is the face obscured from pain? From the sheer projection of sexuality but at the loss of the fragility of self? A mere object of idolatry and not the idol that she should be? The conflict remains. And in Ingvild’s work, the paradox is reinforced to my eyes.

A true master, beyond doubt!

[Sorry for the delay sweetie. Take care of yourself!]