Artistic Research Statement

Alexandra E. Leonetti

 

My work exists at the intersection of materiality, memory, and narrative, exploring how oil paint can both preserve and reinterpret the silent stories embedded within objects.

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Through still life, I examine the human connection to the inanimate; the ways personal history and emotion become intertwined with material things. The objects I paint may at first appear as a collection of unrelated, discarded items, yet each carries its own quiet significance. I invite viewers to look beyond the surface, to notice the broken chains, chipped cups, and worn garments, and to assemble these fragments into a story, whether my own or their own. In doing so, I aim to reveal the quiet dramas objects hold, transforming the familiar into vessels for reflection, connection, and imagination.

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Painting, for me, is an intimate conversation, a quiet exchange between myself and the canvas. Each brushstroke becomes a response, each layer of paint a moment of reflection. The process requires patience and vulnerability, a willingness to listen to what the work needs to say. It is through this dialogue that meaning begins to surface, often revealing emotions or memories I had not yet articulated. In this way, painting becomes not only a form of expression but also a space for discovery and connection, bridging the inner world with the physical act of creation.

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My recent body of work investigates themes of memory, loss, and what remains in absence. Each painting becomes an act of storytelling, where objects are deliberately chosen and arranged to evoke relationships, moments, and the passage of time. Phones left off the hook, uniforms gathering dust, shoes that will never again be worn, and photographs of fading memories all serve as meditations on the fragility of life and the persistence of remembrance.

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In Some things don’t go just away; They stick, They echo (2022), [see portfolio] I explored the experience of sudden loss and the disorienting separation that occurs when a life unexpectedly ends and innocence is broken. As a child, death felt abrupt and incomprehensible: one night my grandmother was there, and the next she was gone. That first funeral became an imprint on my memory, resurfacing years later in recurring dreams of answering her phone call only to be met with silence. As an adult, I find myself questioning the authenticity of those early memories, wondering whether they are lived experiences or reconstructions shaped by photographs and stories retold.

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I remain particularly drawn to the telephone as a recurring motif, a conduit of communication and disconnection that continues to evolve both technologically and symbolically. My ongoing research and practice extend these investigations, moving from the personal and domestic toward a broader inquiry into how objects mediate intimacy, absence, and the collective memory.