Altered Digital Photograph, 2017

James Bradley is an artist living and working in Portland, Oregon. He received his Master of Fine Arts degree from the California College of the Arts in 2009.

Direct all correspondence to:
jamesbradley [at] startmail [dot] com



October 1st – 31st, 2019 / Reception Saturday, October 5th 5-9pm

URBANITE 1005 SE Grand Ave, Portland, OR 97214

Swan Princess in High School

From its very depth, it remains a mere whisper—nothing but a hushed breath vibrating with the undercurrents of sound waves. Into the listener’s ear it remains a whisper, the words heavily breached by the constrained chords, so that in their quietude they strive to reach the mind’s vestibule. And these cryptic words collide, forming a bog of confusion—vaporous layers of truth separating, merging and swirling into each other’s disguises because the air is so saturated with the fog of war. These nebulous palimpsests and collages, erasures and additions, form the landscape one must navigate through.

And when the strata begin to settle, thinning into a precision approaching form and floating unhindered, they are soon eradicated by the slightest dexterous gesture—even the intention of approach is enough to dissipate them. And as you wander through the bog, you touch upon many of what are at first believed to be truths but they either 1) never existed to begin with, or 2) divert to other truths that again prove unsatisfactory—and you are pulled back into the blurred landscape where nothing begins or ends at any point. Whispers traveling ear to ear flower and wither without having had any true existence to begin with.

A tense breath carries with it the seed of truth that, like so many, quickly passes away, and this brief exchange officiates the whisper as viewed from the outside, where the eyes are closely watched and the hands are seen to betray the words themselves. Caught in this tension between withholding and exhibiting, the bog spills forth bringing with it all the possibilities of truth that never settle into any one thing. And this quiet rush is the breadth of bombardment that holds no inner core. Fingers can point in all directions whilst keeping the same position. Phonetics slips past the hoarseness of air passing and quickly dissolves into the stream of closure.

Brittany Ham