When looking at the works of artists who dabble in figuration, one can notice a tendency to use particular imagery or motifs. I had to think of this while looking at Maja Ruznic's show at Contemporary Fine Arts in Basel, but only because she subverts this “rule.”
Ruznic is not your typical figurative painter, but her gessoed linens are often inhabited by forms and structures that resemble scenes dominated by ambiguous protagonists. Yet, instead of having a cast of characters or imagery that she keeps revisiting, it’s the color palette, and even more, the way of handling paint with an extra dry brush that makes the body of work so cohesive. And when I say color palette, I don’t mean a certain corner of a spectrum that Ružnić works with, but a certain tone of the entire spectrum that she’s intuitively tapping into.
Comprising a new body of medium- and small-sized oils on linen, presented in the gallery’s intimate, somewhat secluded space, Who Tastes Fire and Cannot Speak is a great opportunity not only to see but also to feel the Bosnian-born, US-based artist’s work. And really, after the bustling fairs, the grand museums, and floating in the Rhein’s refreshing stream, stepping into CFA’s space hidden in Basel’s stairway felt like a precious retreat. I’ve seen other shows presented in this space over the years and can say that these works altered its vibe, making it a place for quiet, almost meditative consideration and appreciation.
Starting with deep introspection (and I’m not saying this as a buzzword), Ruznic uses an alchemic painterly process to transform memory and emotions into mostly somatic visuals. By layering and scraping off thinned-down oil paint, she builds the luminous, “breathing” surfaces that keep things light. Often revealing the linen’s weave between devoted, wilful, occasionally fanatical brushwork, the images, surfaces, colors, and forms give shape to the weighty themes or experiences of displacement, motherhood, or identity. “Sadness is the one thing that my body has remembered, and I’ve learned to love,” Ruznic mentioned once, in a way explaining how melancholy can feel so intimate, precious, and exalted. —Saša Bogojev
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