Yngel I

Molten-seeming coagulations of glass, rich in colors which glide and fade and sizzle from lichen green to claret to beige, are frozen in the contorted flux of becoming. They hang suspended on ropes, they sit, paralyzed mid-writhe, on steel planes, they are pinioned by metal lances and held aloft on industrial scaffolding. Regulation and entropy counter each other between the luminance and the partial darkness of the exhibition spaces, between the lush dynamism of the glass and the orthogonal metal environment in which the glass resides. Not only is there a tension of betweens, but also tensions within: in the glasswork itself, which is coiled and fractured and sprayed and iridized and silvered and scorched and drizzled and distended. These objects resonate with the lightening heat of the furnace, the manic will of the artist, the obstreperous assertions of the material itself. Koshenkova has long mastered an astonishing range of effects and processes, engaging glass with an intuitive fusillade of techniques, impulses and responses–harnessing what she describes as “an almost muscular tension in objects.”