Kathy Kelley on Castoffs, Real Space, and How Writing Reveals the Artist

by Hannah Dean February 1, 2021

Works by Kathy Kelley

The following conversation is from a phone call between Hannah Dean and artist Kathy Kelley in January. It has been edited for length and clarity. 

Kathy Kelley is an artist and doctoral student in Fine Art: Critical Studies and Artist Practices at Texas Tech University in Lubbock. Her research explores the possible functions of the writing practices of visual artists who are prolific in art production, recognized in the art world, and sustain their art making practice throughout their lifespan. Kelley is the founding president of BOX13 ArtSpace in Houston, and she’s had solo exhibitions at Women & Their Work (Austin), Lawndale Art Center (Houston), Houston Art League, G Gallery (Houston), Darke Gallery (Houston), Louise Hopkins Underwood Center for the Arts (Lubbock), among others. Her work has also been exhibited in Mexico, Peru and Spain. Kelley has received grants from Houston Arts Alliance and Buffalo Bayou Art Park, as well as full fellowships for artist residencies at I-Park (Connecticut), Vermont Studio Centers (Vermont), and Darke Gallery (Houston). 

Hannah Dean: Let’s start with a bit of personal history. Where did you grow up? How long have you lived in Texas? 

Kathy Kelley: My dad was in the military, so we moved a lot. Washington D.C. to Houston, and more times that I don’t remember because I was little.

I learned to ride my bike on Governors Island, the little one next to the Statue of Liberty. It used to be a military base but was donated to the city and now it’s an art residency site, among other things.

We came to Texas when I was in sixth grade. I was so disappointed when we stepped off the plane in Houston and it didn’t look like a John Wayne movie. College Station ended up being “home,” but I’ve lived in Lubbock starting in 2014. 

HD: Have you always been an artist? 

KK: I started out as a biology teacher, pursing medical illustration in college. When teaching science, I didn’t like the layouts of worksheets, so I started changing them on a computer, which was new at the time. I ended up working on newsletters and visual projections for a church I worked for, and that led to a master’s degree in Graphics: Design Communication. Really, it was a degree in “how do people work, and how do we speak to that?” As part of the degree we took classes outside of our area. I ended up taking figure drawing from Luis Jiménez, who eventually said “come to the dark side, be an artist.” I consider myself a late bloomer — I still feel that at any moment someone will discover I’m not “really” an artist. It’s an odd profession, so that helps. 

Really, in grad school I saw a shift from design to art, through writing. I was doing a free-writing exercise from one of Julia Cameron’s books, and writing became the thing that helped isolate who I was. Why did it take writing to reveal I’m a maker? When I started to make artwork it was like a I came home to myself, at 40.  

HD: And you are working on your Ph.D. at Texas Tech University now. What area? 

KK: It’s interdisciplinary, and not studio art. Academic like art history, but much more flexible. I take a lot of coursework with music and theater people. The program started across the arts, but it has spread. Now I’m working with the language lab in the School of Psychology. One of my professors deals with music perception, science, and statistics.

HD: What sorts of statistics do you look at? 

KK: I look at patterns that are associated with certain behaviors in artists’ writings. Sort of like a Google search for certain phrases. When the Facebook data breach happened, we all felt worried because language reveals so much about us. Language is the proxy for what is happening inside of us. So, I’m looking at large trends.

So many visual artists write! Like Donald Judd, who was compelled to write; it’s almost like thinking. What these patterns reveal, and many studies show, is that certain writing behaviors regulate our brain function, even creative function. One example, though there are many more, is of “Value Affirmation” writing manipulation studies. One study found that around junior high school age, the testing performance of identity-threatened students (in this case, African American) plummeted in comparison to their white peers. The finding of these writing manipulation studies was that, for people with a threatened identity, writing about their values, especially those they prioritize most, could help students stay on course with their non-identity threatened peers. 

HD: How does that relate to you studio art practice? 

KK: Kids weren’t writing about racism; they were writing about what they valued. So in that way, writing an artist statement to appease a professor’s interests isn’t going to help you. Value, or self-affirmation kinds of writing can help order our thoughts. Within my own little world, climbing into a dumpster to gather supplies was not “acceptable.” In 2004 I saw a funnel on the side of the road, a huge one from a cement truck. It was all rusty, beat up, and I thought it was beautiful. It took a year to work up the courage to get it and take it away in my car. I was 42, and I think the only real threat to my perceived identity was myself.

Works by Kathy Kelley

HD: You still use castoff materials for your work. Why? 

KK: We value youth. We see things, even people, as not useful and therefore cast them off. I see these things as useful, even if it is in unexpected ways. OR, I have a sick compulsion to pick up trash [laughter]. I came from a family of engineers and scientists, all very concerned with practicality. On some level, if I’m using trash then I’m not being wasteful.

In a way, trash set me free — there is no pressure to make something beautiful, or have your project tied to some fiscal value. You wrestle your materials, and can’t have full control. I have to negotiate or they’re going to kick my butt. Or gravity will. If you’re not a painter, gravity is a problem. When my dad was alive, he would text me each morning to make sure I wasn’t dead under a piece of art. I would do the same to him — both making sure neither of us was lying on the floor for whatever reason. 

I remember having a tire blow out on a trailer around Denver. I stopped in a mom-and-pop store and saw a heap of inner tubes for tires. They were like flesh. I asked if I could have them on the spot, and started sewing them with wire. It was this weird femme, industrial, human thing. Most of my work is what is happening on the inside. 

Works by Kathy Kelley

HD: Most of your work reminds me of the body — orifices, intestines, orbs that could be eyes or testes. What draws you to that? And at such a large scale? 

KK: Many materials lend themselves to this. I have in mind what I’m doing at present and responding to something outside of me, but in retrospect when I wrap it up it is me, not a cultural comment. Maybe both. For scale, I work with my whole body. I like gestural, physical engagement. If my work reflects what happens inside, that doesn’t feel to scale — it always feels much bigger. It’s like my brain has to catch up with what my body knows. 

HD: What about your recent small digital drawings of your (now late) father? 

KK: While living with dementia, you have to set certain emotions aside. It may be conjecture, but maybe I’m grieving [him with these drawings.] I’d like to say my work is cultural, but it’s not. I went to a Judy Pfaff lecture and I loved her artist talk. She didn’t wrap it in theory, but said she was flying and saw clouds, and “this is that.” Part of regulating emotions is being honest with yourself, and when I read certain writers like Robert Morris, or Donald Judd about Andy Warhol, they were candid. Judd said something like “looks like shit, smells like shit, it is shit.” I don’t see Judd as overly playful. I bet he meant it. 

Drawing by Kathy Kelley

HD: Circling back to honesty, grief, the mind, the body, and your work — can you talk about the series of drawings, photos, and writings you share (as a body of work) on Facebook? 

KK: I don’t separate any process as “art” and “not art.” I took so many photos of [my aging parents.] I was aware that my folks could see them on Facebook, so I think I censored myself.

One day, before dementia, my dad asked me to cut his toenails. I didn’t think about not being able to bend to do that! It was shocking; they were incredibly long. He said “Where’s your phone?” Meaning, “Aren’t you going to share this on Facebook?” After that I felt more free to be candid. My dad’s body was wasting away, but sort of like the funnel, I found it so beautiful. I wanted to draw him from life, but was too exhausted, so I started taking more photos. Not of everything, like him walking away from me naked to use the bathroom, but other intimate moments. 

Watching that kind of suffering was the hardest thing in my whole life. I’m grateful I was in school so I could stop and go take care of him. I wouldn’t say take care, actually, I’d say partner with my dad through this. A lot of friends my age are dealing with what happens when the body and mind no longer do your will. I didn’t grow up thinking I would be an artist. I grew up watching people. 

I considered an exhibition for the photos, but they were too hard to look at. The drawings give dad a little privacy, more distance. Though, one of his friends says he’d be upset with these being public. My brothers say “Can’t you find a happy picture of dad?” They love me, but I get what they are saying. It’s funny — we all work in real space. One brother is a nuclear engineer but has built three houses. The other constructs large projects, like hospitals. 

HD: How was (or is) 2020 for you, in conjunction with losing your dad? 

KK: I thought the whole thing would make me super productive, but it has not. I don’t know if that’s a function of grief — I had all of this time and could totally be cranking out work but I did not. 2020 did give me an insider view of palliative care. I actually got a job at the nursing home so I could see my dad at lunch or other breaks. One thing I discovered was that I really like old people. Similar to people watching, but they are lonely and willing to tell you things about themselves. I hate to say it, but it fits my interest in that which is cast off. Call your grandmother! 

Our main psychological needs are the need to belong, a sense of competency, and a sense of autonomy. As people age we rob them of this. At that age, their friends are dying and they are losing a sense of belonging, and then we uproot someone from their lifelong home. We finish their sentences or do other things they are capable of because it saves time, but it takes away someone’s autonomy. Their relationships change, and the lunch room becomes a bit like a junior high lunch room. I think they missed each other as much as family during Covid restrictions. 

HD: What is your relationship with social media? 

KK: I try to be as honest as I can. Occasionally I get preachy. It’s all viscera, happening inside even if I feel it’s outside of me. In 2006 I started blogging, processing what I was doing and got in to the habit, especially at residencies, of posting each day. People who follow that, or my Facebook, probably know me better than I do. I try to be a maker, even of content. Social media lets me process out loud, and it’s me attempting to be real. With my dad, a quiet person, I tried not to violate him. With my mom, she would laugh and wonder how many “likes” it got. 

I can’t be separate from my culture. If I write about something outside of me, who gives a crap? If I point to myself, and say How am I complicit?, I can investigate that. In writing, and art, creativity is finding novel solutions or interventions. There is such a social component — not always big-C creativity that shifts the field, but subtle activities that can alter your brain function and be useful. Especially in a world where everything is not working, like the climate crisis. When one group is creative, you’ll see other fields excel. After war, or a major migration, you see rises in creative functions. Those events make “normal” not normal anymore.  

I way overshare. I feel I say what everyone else is thinking but [laughter] that turns out to not always be true. Even so, it was art that gave me a voice.  

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