Charlotte Baker
Art by Elizabeth Ibarra
Charlotte Baker
Art by Elizabeth Ibarra
Elizabeth Ibarra - Untitled Figure (2019)
Pigment block and charcoal on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Returning from a Walk
after Monica Youn
three
big
less big
small
bowls knocked from progression, with
hot
less hot
cool
porridge sampled in succession.
chair broken, beds slept in, window turned into door,
“Jesus Christ is this not a safe neighborhood anymore?”
The bears hew cedar wood from a big backyard tree, and build a new chair for small bear number three.
A new white picket fence hugs the backyard, and cameras belt the thick roof to look out and stand guard.
the house is boobytrapped now
“With a thick iron lock to safeguard our door,
She can’t take naps in my bed anymore.”
sit proud atop chairs,
refilled bowls steam on the
table downstairs,
like three big fat hugs,
sofas relax into smooth,
patterned rugs,
vase bellies swell,
and the front door seems
proud to don its new bell.
“Thank god for trustworthy homeowner’s insurance!
Geico’s asset protection is a great reassurance.”
Elizabeth Ibarra - Lamp (2019)
Wax pastel and marker on paper. 11 x 8.5 in.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Self-Portrait as a Puddle after the Rain
Moments ago, tourist water-droplets landed, raced to the Venetian canals surrounding me,
and squeezed through my front doors like an oversized foot into an old rain boot as I boiled.
Now
the sky stretches
like a freshly washed top sheet
over my flat face. I mind when
it breaks on the pavement
as pigeons jump on the bed
to shake the watercolor paint off their wings.
You are mindful of my concrete edges, which,
like proofreader’s red pen on paper,
mark where someone ignored the “Caution, wet cement!” sign.
From my shores, you admire
the sunken ships, crown jellyfish, and sea flowers
that hide in the depths of my untiled pool.
Elizabeth Ibarra - Peacock (2019)
Colored pencil, charcoal, and oil on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
“It’s subtle, and subtlety is what I love,” Gregory remarks.
a found poem
Gregory is an architect and interior designer. Every room in his house has its own story to tell.
His kitchen, for example, screams food, family, and functionality.
I made Jesus-shaped pancakes but I burnt them.
The cozy kitchen sparkles in its serene scheme of tranquil blues and contemplative grays.
Gregory’s inspiration? “‘Simplicity,’ ‘utility,’ and ‘authenticity.’”
Will I go to hell because I burnt them?
Gregory designed the dining room chandelier to evoke a paper lantern. Slender beeswax candles also provide ambiance during every meal. “These rustic touches create an interesting tension,” he says.
What kind of bee produces milk?
“We wanted to stay humble by using highly functional natural materials...One might argue that marble is not humble, but it’s a very hard-wearing, native material, akin to oak.”
Today I got a package of candy canes and I sharpened them all to a point with my tongue.
The bench by the kitchen table has a Shaker-meets-Scandi vibe.
If I eat myself, will I be twice as big or will I disappear completely?
Elizabeth Ibarra - Untitled Stick Figure (2019)
Graphite and wax pastel on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Notes on Boredom
In my kitchen
curvy, glass sculptures sit on shelves.
They remind me of
frozen,
blue
lava lamp
lava.
I try to imagine what they would sound like if they were sounds.
I dress my breakfast pasta
in spicy tomato sauce.
The sauce is slimy.
It slides around each spaghetti strand like hair conditioner,
and burns my mouth.
I hate this sauce
but I have to put it on the pasta
because I shower the pasta in the sink
and it’s angel hair pasta
so it has to be conditioned at the end of its shower
or it'll be too difficult to brush with my fork.
The sculptures would sound like the word “ululate” if they were sounds.
Elizabeth Ibarra - Get Out Of My Cloud (2019)
Pen, marker, and colored pencil on handmade paper. 6.5 x 11.5 in.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
The Cicadas are Coming
Me: This summer, after seventeen years of underground gestation, billions of cicadas will resurrect from the dirt.
Ghost-white, wet-winged zombies.
Brain: They’re almost as old as you are.
Me: When the cicadas mature, they change colors. They’ll have red eyes.
Halloween-y accents.
Brain:
Me: When they surround the whole house, the males’ stomachs will buzz and they’ll screech all together. The sound of them luring mates will be inescapable. As thick as peanut butter.
Brain: You hate peanut butter.
Me: And then they’ll have bug sex.
Brain: Bug sex.
Me:
Brain: Bug sex.
Me: When they finally die, their bodies will fill the grass. Their black exoskeletons will cRuNch when they’re stepped on.
Brain:
Me:
Brain:
Me: I can’t go outdoors until August.
Elizabeth Ibarra - Untitled Figure (2019)
Pigment block and charcoal on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Returning from a Walk
after Monica Youn
three
big
less big
small
bowls knocked from progression, with
hot
less hot
cool
porridge sampled in succession.
chair broken, beds slept in, window turned into door,
“Jesus Christ is this not a safe neighborhood anymore?”
The bears hew cedar wood from a big backyard tree, and build a new chair for small bear number three.
A new white picket fence hugs the backyard, and cameras belt the thick roof to look out and stand guard.
the house is boobytrapped now
“With a thick iron lock to safeguard our door,
She can’t take naps in my bed anymore.”
sit proud atop chairs,
refilled bowls steam on the
table downstairs,
like three big fat hugs,
sofas relax into smooth,
patterned rugs,
vase bellies swell,
and the front door seems
proud to don its new bell.
“Thank god for trustworthy homeowner’s insurance!
Geico’s asset protection is a great reassurance.”
Elizabeth Ibarra - Lamp (2019)
Wax pastel and marker on paper. 11 x 8.5 in.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Self-Portrait as a Puddle after the Rain
Moments ago, tourist water-droplets landed, raced to the Venetian canals surrounding me,
and squeezed through my front doors like an oversized foot into an old rain boot as I boiled.
Now
the sky stretches
like a freshly washed top sheet
over my flat face. I mind when
it breaks on the pavement
as pigeons jump on the bed
to shake the watercolor paint off their wings.
You are mindful of my concrete edges, which,
like proofreader’s red pen on paper,
mark where someone ignored the “Caution, wet cement!” sign.
From my shores, you admire
the sunken ships, crown jellyfish, and sea flowers
that hide in the depths of my untiled pool.
Elizabeth Ibarra - Peacock (2019)
Colored pencil, charcoal, and oil on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
“It’s subtle, and subtlety is what I love,” Gregory remarks.
a found poem
Gregory is an architect and interior designer. Every room in his house has its own story to tell.
His kitchen, for example, screams food, family, and functionality.
I made Jesus-shaped pancakes but I burnt them.
The cozy kitchen sparkles in its serene scheme of tranquil blues and contemplative grays.
Gregory’s inspiration? “‘Simplicity,’ ‘utility,’ and ‘authenticity.’”
Will I go to hell because I burnt them?
Gregory designed the dining room chandelier to evoke a paper lantern. Slender beeswax candles also provide ambiance during every meal. “These rustic touches create an interesting tension,” he says.
What kind of bee produces milk?
“We wanted to stay humble by using highly functional natural materials...One might argue that marble is not humble, but it’s a very hard-wearing, native material, akin to oak.”
Today I got a package of candy canes and I sharpened them all to a point with my tongue.
The bench by the kitchen table has a Shaker-meets-Scandi vibe.
If I eat myself, will I be twice as big or will I disappear completely?
Elizabeth Ibarra - Untitled Stick Figure (2019)
Graphite and wax pastel on paper.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
Notes on Boredom
In my kitchen
curvy, glass sculptures sit on shelves.
They remind me of
frozen,
blue
lava lamp
lava.
I try to imagine what they would sound like if they were sounds.
I dress my breakfast pasta
in spicy tomato sauce.
The sauce is slimy.
It slides around each spaghetti strand like hair conditioner,
and burns my mouth.
I hate this sauce
but I have to put it on the pasta
because I shower the pasta in the sink
and it’s angel hair pasta
so it has to be conditioned at the end of its shower
or it'll be too difficult to brush with my fork.
The sculptures would sound like the word “ululate” if they were sounds.
Elizabeth Ibarra - Get Out Of My Cloud (2019)
Pen, marker, and colored pencil on handmade paper. 6.5 x 11.5 in.
Courtesy of The Pit, Los Angeles, CA and Rental Gallery, East Hampton, NY
The Cicadas are Coming
Me: This summer, after seventeen years of underground gestation, billions of cicadas will resurrect from the dirt.
Ghost-white, wet-winged zombies.
Brain: They’re almost as old as you are.
Me: When the cicadas mature, they change colors. They’ll have red eyes.
Halloween-y accents.
Brain:
Me: When they surround the whole house, the males’ stomachs will buzz and they’ll screech all together. The sound of them luring mates will be inescapable. As thick as peanut butter.
Brain: You hate peanut butter.
Me: And then they’ll have bug sex.
Brain: Bug sex.
Me:
Brain: Bug sex.
Me: When they finally die, their bodies will fill the grass. Their black exoskeletons will cRuNch when they’re stepped on.
Brain:
Me:
Brain:
Me: I can’t go outdoors until August.
