Between Skin and Myth: Aislinn Feldberg’s Textile Worlds

Artist Biography

Aislinn Feldberg (b. 2001) lives and works in Queens, New York. Her work recalls a maenad’s dream about a mother-daughter relationship and intense physicality. She uses organic materials, such as henna, fabric, soil and makeup to explore the relationship between concepts of the grotesque and the woman’s body. She is inspired by the abject, Asian and European folklore and feminist horror regarding womanhood, grief, the supernatural, eating disorders, women’s relationships with each other, themselves, society and men. Her work has recently been exhibited at the Greenpoint Gallery and A Space Gallery. 

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Artist Website: https://aislinnfeldberg.cargo.site/

Inquiries: aislinnfeldberg7@gmail.com

Artist Statement

A maenad stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes and mouth, and recounted her tale of her mother’s shadow: “My mother is of the earth, yet not, I stuff her in, I mold her in my image- there is no Adam. No lover. No men. My father and brother have disappeared into our stomachs, ground down to the marrow, and they were delicious. No fathers and brothers exist here.

No. 

Just me and my sisters.

- : of mud, my sisters’ clothes, hair, blood, hers and mine, paint for our faces and bodies. 

I scream and wail as I ground my nails into the filth, the unnameable substance sticking to my cuticles, layered upon layer, and I cannot remove it. My sisters and grandmother hear and tremble. They try to console me, but I would not be consoled. I must finish, I tell them, Daughters Ascend their mothers. Her heart is down my throat, what remains drips from my lips onto the floor, yet her chalkboard voice drags tears from my eyes and it is all my fault- her stain is still here-, but it has seeped into my being, and I hate it. A buzzing cloud, a revelation that didn’t mutilate or dismember my conscience, but swells into every one of my organs. Cut. It. Out.

A bloated snake eating its own tail rips itself from the navel, mine? Or my mother’s? 

I and my mother’s shadow are formless. And so I mold. Ever shifting into creatures passed down from mouth to mouth. A deformity’s beating, black form. I grind my mother with my teeth, swallow and spit her back out again, smile, and so I mold.”

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The paintings in my body of work thrive on what is hidden, such as memory, photo references of my body, bodies of friends, poetry I had written, and books about the grotesque, folklore and brutal feminist stories. A tale for your children is a poem in itself, which alludes to my relationship with my mother and methods of coping, such as physicality (scraping paint/ bodily adornments with a palette knife and reapplying, and molding soil mixed with paint, with my hands. My use of the grotesque dismantles expectations society and my mother has for me. My labor- a continuous attempt-obliterates the power that my mother holds over me, but is ultimately liberating. My hope for the viewer is they feel encouraged to express their shame.

Interview with Aislinn Feldberg

Q1. Having studied Studio Arts at Bard and now working within SVA’s MFA Fine Arts program, you have encountered two distinct artistic and educational environments. How have these experiences shaped the kinds of conversations you want your practice to enter?​

I attended Bard College in my undergraduate studies, where my art was entirely different from what it is currently. It was an amalgamation of painted, assembled butcher paper resembling figures engaging in violent scenes, with the themes of reproductive rights and violence towards women. I took away two contradictory lessons from my senior thesis: one was to not be afraid of making people uncomfortable and the other was to give your audience a “glimmer of hope” if you’re making work on heavy topics. As I am naturally drawn to the macabre, I focused on making people uncomfortable and on themes of trauma, and rejected the optimistic approach after I graduated and began attending SVA. My work became more true to myself. Rather than discussing other people, I centralized my practice and narrative around something far more personal: writing poetry about my relationship with my mother and creating textile-based paintings in response. I also leaned into my strengths more: creating gnarly, brutal textures, working with color, and researching the abject.

Q2. Your work draws on personal memories, photographs, poetry, folklore, and feminist horror. How do these different sources enter the studio, and at what point do they begin to form a new narrative together?

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They enter the studio because of an element they have in common: they have been nagging at me. I therefore have to paint them. I first acknowledge why they are on my mind, print out photographs of feminist horror films that are related to a poem I wrote and a memory I had, bring them into my studio, and make a piece about them. For instance, I recently watched the film Mother of Flies. It is not confirmed, but I believe Toby Poser and John Adams, directors of and actors in Mother of Flies, were inspired by the Slavic character Baba Yaga. Baba Yaga and Solveig, the witch from the film, are grotesquely feminine; they take on motherly roles, reside in a cabin in a forest, and guide protagonists in unconventional, seemingly menacing ways. The protagonists emerge from their journeys renewed and transformed. I took photos of Solveig from Mother of Flies and a pierced, hair-covered nipple, which I am currently making paintings about. My mother, a teacher, believes that piercings are taboo. Piercings are related to Baba Yaga because of their connection to portals. Piercings create holes, or they are gateways in flesh. They serve as protection from malevolent spirits entering gateways or whispered influences, whereas Baba Yaga controls the spirit world. To enter, a traveler must follow strict observances of taboos, such as speaking respectfully and bringing the right offerings to avoid being consumed by spirits. Furthermore, getting a piercing is a rite of passage in the transition to adulthood; visiting Baba Yaga is a guide to being symbolically reborn.

Q3. The title Daughter’s Ascension over Mother centers the idea of ascension. What does this term mean to you, and how has it developed across your recent paintings of mother–daughter relationships?​

​Ascension refers to replacing one’s mother in a rite of passage, or ceremony, through the act of cannibalism. Cannibalism is a relatively new concept in my work, so I am researching its biological appearances, cultural significance, and significance in feminist horror. However, Mother and Daughter wondered if they were enough for each other portrays a large spider, meant to represent my shadow and my mother’s shadow, consuming me in a blanketed room. For years, I have struggled with my shame regarding disliking my mother, which I used to consider unsayable, or abject, but in recent years, starting from my undergraduate years, I have begun to develop the confidence to voice it out loud. I am embracing my monsters, or my shadow and my mother’s shadow, so to speak. This desire to replace my mother and become better than, or “ascend over,” her is visually manifested through cannibalism and references to powerful figures in folklore, such as Baba Yaga.

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Aislinn Feldberg, Mother and Daughter wondered if they were enough for each other, 2026, water soluble oil, acrylic, soil, fabric & synthetic hair on canvas, 48 × 60 in.

Q4. Your references span Asian and European folklore, each with distinct cultural histories. How do you research and move among these traditions, and how do they change when they enter your own visual mythology?​

I narrow my research down to characters in Asian and European folklore who engage in filial cannibalism, give women agency, or exist as famous sources of horror for society. I move among these traditions at random, depending on the literature, podcast, or film I have engaged with. As of right now, I do not focus on one character or one country to avoid conceptualizing my work before it has been created. My avatars confront the viewer with their presence and may offer a perspective on how the scenery in the folklore I am interested in can change, such as how Baba Yaga’s house or her conjurings appear to travelers, through the lens of the relationship between me and my mother—it doesn’t change tradition. I see her as multifaceted, but I make work about her to heal. I, however, can change one-dimensionally frightening characters, such as the Jiangshi (hopping corpse), into a benevolent guide, an outlet for trauma.​

Q5. In Scratching, you use henna—a plant-derived dye associated with staining and adorning the body—while Mother and Daughter wondered if they were enough for each other incorporates synthetic hair, a manufactured material that imitates part of the body. What interests you about these different forms of bodily association, and how do they operate within each work?

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I am interested in henna for its ability to be absorbed into fabric. It looks bodily and like a part of skin. Viewers believed that Scratching depicted a fetus being ripped from the uterus. That wasn’t my intention for the subject matter—I wanted it to look like a woman drowning in blood, but my intention to evoke a mother’s feeling of suffocation and drowning because of a daughter was successful. Therefore, an organic material associated with and intended for adorning a woman’s body was used. While Scratching was more abstract, Mother and Daughter wondered if they were enough for each other was representational (of a spider in a room). This giant spider does not exist in reality, so I was interested in using materials that are not related to spiders, such as soil and synthetic human hair. This material combination created a sense of fear and an oddly familiar and comforting smell. To me, the spider smelled of what it was made of: soil and paint, but others have said that it smelled like coffee.

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