'One Hot Ear' / Lotte Frances [NGBE Gallery, April 14th]
Lotte Frances’ first solo show last year is brandished in my mind. Their paintings were torrents of deep aqua and coarse reds alighting the gallery walls. And their colours were contagious: the crowd was energized, fluttering. Animated chatter echoed through the room.
My friend and I were still amongst the bustle, ruminating on their painting ‘Just Feeling a bit Nervous’. Two oblong blue shapes lay in layers of rusty oranges and reds.
That blue shape, my friend said, is definitely an eye.
No. I think it’s a canary.
Frances’ work is like that, though. An eerie familiarity resonates through their abstractions. It’s entrancing.
After three solo shows and a handful of group shows last year, Frances is entering 2023 with a new, interdisciplinary focus. One Hot Ear is a collection of visual art, poems and prose. The book, published with Stray Pages, lays Frances’ process bare. Thoughtful meditations on queerness, childhood and memory elucidate Frances’ rich visual worlds. One Hot Ear invites us into the dreamlike logic of their signature work – polychrome floods, peculiar textures and uncanny shapes. It’s a sensory chamber of colour and contemplations, the blend marking a new era for the artist.
One Hot Ear isn’t Frances’ first artistic transformation. Seven years ago, Lotte Frances was synonymous with quirky, cartoon-like figures. Their current work seems aeons away from where they began. Contradictions mark Frances’ abstractions. In One Hot Ear, Frances uses pencil or texta in childlike, quiet strokes. In the same frame, they etch harrowing figures, or render space into horror. Disparity is married through a sharp command of colour and shape. While Frances’ work has changed substantially, I’ve always felt the spirit of their early works lived fully in their new, complex worlds.
One Hot Ear proves me right. An air of play echoes through the book. It’s in the liquified figures, falling through the realm of definable like sand falls through fingers. It’s in the colours that leak through borders, resisting restraint. But mainly, it’s in their writing. Frances’ words breathe structure into the spirit of their work. The notes unravel Frances’ memories, often speaking directly to their images. Their writing is handwritten and unedited, forging an intimate communion between artist and reader. And while they convey stories that are personally and politically profound, Frances’ tone is casual, often humorous.
For instance, the Max is set when Frances is aged five. They remember their first chosen name, Max (after Max Keeble’s Big Move). The piece traces the contours of living as a queer child in a cis hetero-normative world. Frances vignettes resolution and uncertainty, affirmation and derision. It’s as heartfelt as it is cheeky. When Frances retroactively reacts to their choice of ‘Max’ as a name, they write: I realize it was trash, but hey I love trash. At the end of the piece, Frances playfully slashes the boundary between childhood and adulthood: I am the Max, I am writing this as the Max, and the Max says Hi. The book concludes with a portrait of Max. They are pink, scraggly, and have six fingers.
The derision of binaries – like childhood and adulthood – is core to Frances’ writing. Like their visual work, their writing defies categorization, asserting that multiple truths can coexist. In Lemon Tree, Frances recounts finding comfort in prickly grass, and feeling supported in loneliness. Later, in Delicate, Firm, they write:
my trans body can be seen like a painting. Loose, stiff, transparent, transforming, delicate, firm.
Like the visual synchronisation of conflicting textures, colours, and strokes, their writing weaves clashing descriptors. It’s wonderful. And it’s what I admire most about One Hot Ear. Frances sensitively recounts what it means to exist outside socially fabricated binaries, and their work embodies that. The work itself refuses to fit into any one category. Itchy grass is comforting. One can be loose and stiff. Frances is Max. Their art is haunting and sweet, technical and juvenile. One Hot Ear is process, and it’s complete.
Frances leans into complexity, nakedly and honestly. Their approach is fitting for a process-based work. Because process is not a linear, definable act. It’s complicated, and it’s messy. It’s an exploration of our inner worlds; it excavates our subconscious, casting it into something concrete. Frances pours their practice into the page in a medley of visual and written contemplations. This is a vulnerable feat: to learn about an artist’s process is precious. We get to step into their lens, into the practices and rituals that sustain them. One Hot Ear reveals that Frances operates from a lens of nostalgia. Their work is grounded in reflection and memory. And while their work is constructed in relation to their own experiences, ultimately, they portray emotions. The complicated, muddy kind. Emotions that dwell in the cracks of language, eluding description. Something we can all relate to, in our own ways. I think this is why, last year, I saw a canary, and my friend saw an eye. Frances’ abstractions evoked our own, individual associations - our own nostalgia.
The visually arresting images and tender introspection of One Hot Ear have the same effect. It's like an episode of déjà vu. Frances creates the climate for us to find our memories by offering us their own. Slashing the boundary between self and other.
One Hot Ear has only made me fall deeper in love with Frances’ work. It’s a poignant exploration of personal history and identity. It’s nakedly intimate. It’s dreamlike. I want to float in it. Wander around the pages, fall into the textures. I’ll meet you there. Page 29, 6.00 PM. We can live in Frances’ world. A sensitive, ever-changing world. There, we’re all gay, eat smith chips, and have six fingers. We have many names. Our sole form of labour is art. Quite nice, if you ask me.
One Hot Ear is launching at NGBE Gallery on the 14th of April. There will be installation art, live readings, and a Q&A hosted by Vera Boylen. Come, have a drink, and grab a copy of their book.
Written by Ava Nunan (@ava.ava.ava.a)
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