Ange Nolan

Selected exhibitions
2025
PsyChic
2024
Contrast Fluid (solo)
Sundrome
2023
Mudslide
Canary in the Mineshaft
Then Sharply Turns
2022
VCA Grad Show (Honours)
2021
VCA Grad Show
2020
Cage Installation
I haven’t mentioned orange yet

Writing
Photo

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Solo Exhibition at Conners Conners, 2024.

Contrast Fluid exposes Nolan’s splintering appropriation of the image as both a sampled fugitive, torn from the floods of media and information culture, and as a carnal relic of personal desire.

Low Energy High Resolution, 2024, pirated CD slip, sanded UV print, canvas, 120 x 120 cm

Installation view of Contrast Fluid, documentation by Dane Lovett, 2024.

Installation view of Contrast Fluid, documentation by Dane Lovett, 2024.

Installation view of Composition 1, 2, 3, documentation by Nicholas Mahady, 2024.

Composition 1, 2024, perspex, swiss clips, photographs, mdf, 35 x 53 cm

Composition 2, 2024, perspex, swiss clips, photographs, mdf, 35 x 53 cm

Composition 3, 2024, perspex, swiss clips, photographs, mdf, 35 x 53 cm

Untitled (…textures of grass and denim) and Untitled (French Monotone), do cumentation by Dane Lovett, 2024.

Untitled (…textures of grass and denim), 2024, Woolmark advertisement, inkjet transfers, canvas, 147 x 120 cm, 2024.

• Textures of grass and denim. Archaeological plans flutter loosely against the fields surface held down by keys and what few stones to hand. The wind lifts their underneath and licks across the paper’s light-struck white, as if to remind of its own hand against the bearings of ink and graphite tracings. Elsewhere it delivers the same fleeting caress, curling and tumbling, lashing almost brutally at the rose chapped cheeks and lips of sailors in make-believe; their tales of salt borne onwards, illustrated against iron gates perhaps, whose lacework rusts in sympathy. The wind’s tease dislodges an acceptance within the boy; an exultation of longing which soon merges with and dissolves into the feeling of pushing through tall grass in the day’s blustery midriff. He is freed in knowing the earth beneath his soles.
  
  Fervour wounding separately, a shadowed man’s tears drag his dreams down from the hairline, burning texture into his face, the same way mud and water rake the fields in flood. As the crow flies is very different to earthly struggle and mortal toil, toil… Ache and denim it all comes back to, gathering at one’s thighs. Beneath, the field burns with its buried unsaid and his tears, trembling, sow themselves into the outstretched blades of grass, fallen, deliberately short of paper and plans. His hat shields the torment of his flesh from the sun’s enquiry. Bent towards his work, he turns his back.
  
  And the bend… sighing gesture of the blue that recedes us. Away then around. I think of how your shoulders carve an enclosure in space, how they once bound my roaming fears to the flat surface of your chest. A hard safety held upright and always before me by the flimsy cotton of t-shirts. The t-shirt separate from me and you, yet able to be grasped at and clung to, knotted in my hands. An intermediary, then a messenger, then an intimacy, wherein surface seems to disengage from one’s senses.
  
  Somewhere, nearby under same and unsame sky, farm machinery lies in the shed–mud clotting the tires and blades, while the crow flies with no misapprehension. Words are said with inevitable wounding and helplessly I watch myself attempt to locate the thorn in my side.