Hand-signed by the artist, with title, date, and edition number inscribed in ink on an archival label affixed to the reverse side of the mounted photograph.
A few flecks of green glitter have caught in the eyelashes, and they change everything. Without them you might take this shimmering field for a backdrop, a screensaver, some digital weather. With them you understand: the sparkle is a substance, and the person is in it, under it, wearing a thousand tiny mirrors like a blanket. One almond of face stays clear, an eye looking out of an emerald drift with the composure of someone who has decided that panicking would only let more glitter in.
The comparisons queue up and none quite serve. A keyhole, except the room is looking at you. Snow burial, except the snow is having the time of its life. The Emerald City, except no wizard, just a steady, unembarrassed gaze. Glitter is the most frivolous material on earth and the most tenacious; it outlasts the party, the outfit, sometimes the friendship. Harvey takes that dime-store persistence and gives it the scale of geology, dunes and hollows, so that frivolity becomes terrain. Somewhere in Maine a person lay down and let this happen, which is either an ordeal or a spa treatment, and the eye declines to say which.
For a photographer celebrated for gardens, fog and fruit, this is the logic of her sensuous world pushed to its limit: color no longer describing anything, just engulfing someone. The archival pigment print is up to the job, holding each fleck as a separate glint. Her books (The Blue Notebook, You an Orchestra a Bomb, Blue Violet) and her place in American museum collections say the rest; the eye, meanwhile, keeps its own counsel.
A few flecks of green glitter have caught in the eyelashes, and they change everything. Without them you might take this shimmering field for a backdrop, a screensaver, some digital weather. With them you understand: the sparkle is a substance, and the person is in it, under it, wearing a thousand tiny mirrors like a blanket. One almond of face stays clear, an eye looking out of an emerald drift with the composure of someone who has decided that panicking would only let more glitter in.
The comparisons queue up and none quite serve. A keyhole, except the room is looking at you. Snow burial, except the snow is having the time of its life. The Emerald City, except no wizard, just a steady, unembarrassed gaze. Glitter is the most frivolous material on earth and the most tenacious; it outlasts the party, the outfit, sometimes the friendship. Harvey takes that dime-store persistence and gives it the scale of geology, dunes and hollows, so that frivolity becomes terrain. Somewhere in Maine a person lay down and let this happen, which is either an ordeal or a spa treatment, and the eye declines to say which.
For a photographer celebrated for gardens, fog and fruit, this is the logic of her sensuous world pushed to its limit: color no longer describing anything, just engulfing someone. The archival pigment print is up to the job, holding each fleck as a separate glint. Her books (The Blue Notebook, You an Orchestra a Bomb, Blue Violet) and her place in American museum collections say the rest; the eye, meanwhile, keeps its own counsel.