#coreyescoto

Valery Jung Estabrook and Corey Escoto discuss their use of humor in their work to reveal uncomfortable truths, where they find joy in their lives, growing up/living in rural America, and navigating internal and external pressures to make identity-based art.

Valery Jung Estabrook (VJE): So I guess I’ll start off by saying that I’ve been thinking about your recent paintings, and how you deal with death and fear in your work. Because these are such universal subjects, I find it challenging to make work about them in a way that doesn’t feel redundant. I’ve noticed that we both use humor, which makes difficult topics easier to swallow, manage, approach. The challenge for me is trying to find the right amount of “joke” when talking about really serious things, like death, trauma, etc. Do you struggle at all with finding a good balance between darkness and humor? There’s definitely a confidence in your execution, especially in your paintings - does striking that balance come naturally to you or if you find yourself going back and forth on if an idea is too disturbing/not serious enough?

Another topic I’ve been thinking a lot about is capitalism, currency, and how we decide what things/people have value. It’s been on my mind for a few years, but 2020 made it a topic that I couldn’t turn away from - both from seeing the obvious fatal consequences of wealth inequality, but also at home managing my wavering personal finances. [I think] I hold some very anticapitalist values for an American, but also struggle with functioning in a currency-based system where basic necessities are things that need to be purchased. (Certainly there are ways to consume less, buy less, and be more “off the grid” but it could also be argued that being able to transcend consumerism is a kind of privileged existence, and requires money anyway.) Meanwhile I also feel that capitalism is diametrically opposed to the purpose of art, yet a huge aspect of our being able to have an art practice is dictated by access to financial resources. Could you talk a little bit about your thoughts on capitalism and wealth? What’s your relationship with money?

Corey Escoto (CE): Let me say first, thanks for getting us moving forward on this discussion, as well as asking me (also thank you Alex) to be involved in this dialogue.  I find it supremely important as a document of the ideas of our time as well as a chance to organize my own thoughts.  Unfortunately, as with so many complicated human dilemmas, I’m not so sure I have very many, if any, answers, but I hope what I’m feeling is accurately expressed and felt by others, and with that knowledge hopefully some solidarity is found.  

I think the idea of recording this exchange sprouts from an impromptu studio visit where I was somewhat excited-nervous (but really more nervous and completely un-confident) in showing you and talk truthfully about this new work that I haven’t really shared with anyone yet.  My memory of that visit is marked by a passionate expressing (verbally) of my deep disappointment over and over in various way, with various systems, contradictions, actual people in my life (that reflect a broader political pattern), as well as uncertainty in my own position in a way.  It is a bit atypical for me to have been on such as roll as that evening that you stopped by.  Perhaps this uncertainty also manifests itself on multiple levels, uncertainty in what this work is about exactly, or not wanting to believe that I was making work that pointed toward or reflected institutions and ideas that were so flimsy and meaningless to me.

I felt like I didn’t really have anything positive to say, and perhaps I felt close enough in your presence to let it all out and in the process acknowledge to myself where the ideas were coming from.

You reference the ideas of capitalism, currency, death, and tone, in your thoughtful opening to this correspondence and I think it's important to get back to the details of the conversation for the sake of building a context and grounding the ideas in lived experience.  One of my deepest disappointments expressed during the conversation was the idea of “Life, Health, and Death vs. All Things Capitalism.” The dissonance between the feelings brought forth from death and uncertainty during a global health crisis, coupled with my feeling that not since 2008 have I heard so many people so excited and talking about the stock market. At the particular moment of the studio visit, I think only medical professionals and the like are being vaccinated, so the threat and continued fear of the virus is still very much very real, and in a year mostly without sports I found it alarming to observe that discussions about stocks, cryptocurrency, and investments, had displaced talk about sports, or movies, or even the weather.  Even people that had never expressed any interest in such financial subjects, were suddenly everywhere and seemingly unavoidable. I just couldn’t care to hold the two simultaneous realities in my mind, or rather it felt so disrespectful to the dead and dying and immoral in a kind of way.  I think maybe from a further distance now, maybe I took this observation of capitalistic euphoria, from a political level of “reopening the economy at any cost”, as well as at a personal level -- seeing friends enthusiastic embrace and follow in the ways of the “Church of Capitalism” (as I came to call it) a personal affront in a way.  Having had a very tough battle with the virus myself, and having lost two grandparents, having rode my bike past trailers filled with bodies, and having walked beautifully empty streets, watching those with means flee the city, and having tearfully cried “say her name” until the words were only a sound, and recognizing the magnitude of these times unfolding, I suppose I wasn’t all that interested in Gamestop.  So it is fitting or ironic that these works are exactly a reflection of this, a leaning into this tension --  abstracted repetitions of gravestones, a swampy landscape, “Big Debt Energy,”a big clock, “tax man”, “das Kapital”, “das Racist.”  

On tone and humor, Yes, for me that is so so so so important.  Your question is so well thought out it’s sort of an answer in itself.  Yes, as you clearly know, its very difficult to feel like you strike the right balance, but especially these days where people are so quick to be offended.  Humor is definitely a very effective strategy that is not without risk in terms of aligning your message and your intention.  I am always worried that the audience is going to lightly “get the joke” and then not think any deeper.  My other worry is that I will make work that people don’t want to see. Maybe too truthful.  I go to art fairs or galleries in the city and they are filled with works that are such art-fashion objects, so empty feeling to me. We might as well have Pantone telling us what color paintings they want to see this year. Sometimes I wonder if these artists and arts professionals are living in the same world as I am?  So I suppose humor helps me create work and not entirely abandon my audience.  I think that humor is closely aligned with truth.  It’s wonderful that you can tell a humorous fabrication of a statement and land in a very truthful territory. When someone laughs at a joke, it is a subconscious recognition of something truthful.  That’s why comedians are so valuable and so good at getting to the heart of a matter so efficiently.  I just watched a tv segment of Jon Stewart on Tucker Carlson’s CNN show Crossfire, from 2004.  It is so revealing, so sad, and so truthful. I laughed and cried watching it, and who is there to deliver truthful hints of the future but Jon Stewart. As an artist you are putting images and things into the world and they are messages in bottles in a way. I feel like the calculus that goes into creating a work is quite complicated and thus a result in complex outcomes.  A climate of hyper political correctness probably runs counter to good art in my mind. It tends to be moored down in diametrical oppositions, and produces a sort of intellectual fear climate. I do my best to retain some independence of thought, questioning everything, all sides, and imagine perspectives outside of our own.

View of Corey’s studio where the conversation began

CE: One thing I love about your work is how well you utilize the tools of capitalism against itself.  You make really fantastic satirical sales videos, branding, and seductive display. It’s simultaneously high concept and accessible at the same time.  I’m curious to hear your thoughts about how you approach the accessibility of your work.

Addressing your question on Money: I think it’s funny how we are taught in many ways to not talk about money generally.  I think we all aspire to hold equal footing on the idealized “level playing field.” But of course this is never true, and being a little better off income wise and running the risk of being out of touch with common person problems, or being poorer and playing catch up, upsets the collective desire for some kind of happy equilibrium. This widely held and well-intentioned desire to inhabit this equal stature reminds me of the flawed concept of race-blindness.  While in the last 4 years so much has regressed in terms of race relations, I feel as though the fight, is more rooted now in class and economics, and helping people to understand that, and clearly see their place in it all.

Personally with respect to money, I feel so wrapped up in contradictions with an inability to see a way out of the contradictions.  Poor guy making money doing a job that you don’t care about, in order to pay an apartment and studio rent, while selling bronzes and drawing/paintings to rich people that you kind of hate on some level, happy to break even, hoping to make the operation sustainable, all while wishing you had more time to devote to your passions.  During the pandemic I did a Zoom art talk for Washington University in St. Louis that was broken up into a jeopardy gameshow format.  One of the categories was money, and I pretty much broke down everything about my finances to help them understand how much it can cost to be an artist in a very real way.  I hope it was helpful to them, money was something I certainly thought about when I was in school.  I suppose this was the reason that I turned down the expensive name brand schools and I am grateful that I graduated debt free instead.  

It’s difficult for me to address something as large as Capitalism and wealth.  I have to break it down much smaller into small bites of reality that I see and connect to capitalism.  I can’t help it, but I have a very strong response bordering on hate when I see stroller after stroller in the Upper East side being pushed by immigrant woman of color.  I have a reaction bordering on hate when I see a row of grocery store clerks, or fast food workers, or big box store employees, all people of color checking out long lines of mostly white, more well to do customers. I have a feeling bordering on hate when I observe the L train demographic and how it looks depending on how early you get on or how far from Manhattan you live. It kills me to see how some schools in NY look like prisons and other ones look like art museums. I feel terrible in part for thinking these thoughts, but I think they are rooted in some difficult truth.  And I think the hate is directed at the system and not the individual actors but of course it’s difficult to keep the system of injustice and the color-based patterns that seem to emerge as two separate and distinct ideas. This is Capitalism to me. New York is so far into the deep end of Capitalism in my mind. Having grown up in Amarillo TX, and thinking about all of the people who come from nowhere places, I could understand how class issues might not be quite so visible in the same way.  

To think about it a different way, a memory comes to mind.  I had a student once, a much older woman than I. She was one of my favorites, a lovely presence in class.  She had such a long-haired gentle presence, and age-wise she definitely could have fit the counterculture timeline. So one day when talking about the 1960’s I asked her if she was a hippy back in the day to which her response was, “Nah, I was way too poor to be a hippy.” An idealized image of what a hippy was was all of a sudden grounded in a new reality for me, and it made all the sense in the world.  

These last couple of years have been interesting and the differences in our particular perspectives come to mind.  In the running up to the election of Donald Trump I was living in Pennsylvania and doing lots of cross country roadtripping.  I feel like I had a much better idea of the popular sentiment beyond NYC and so when he won, it came as no surprise to me.  I saw the enthusiasm hand painted on every barn across the entire state of Pennsylvania, from Pittsburgh to the Delaware river water gap.  Now that I have been in the city for the last 4 years or more, I wonder what I’m not seeing in the same way.  What do you see?

Corey Escoto, This Pain, Cast bronze and tissue paper, 2020

VJE: Having been here in New Mexico since 2016, I have felt both cut off from the rest of the country and also feel like I’m seeing a slice of America that I otherwise would not have known existed. Not in the rural sense - I grew up in a rural area, but demographically the population and culture here is very different from what I grew up around. People are generally “liberal” although that label doesn’t quite fit completely. There’s a big gun culture here, a lot of “stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours” mentality. It’s majority minority, with most people some shade of brown, although not many Asian or Black people. Meanwhile there’s also an unfortunate, very visible social strata here, with the very rich white retiree population gating themselves off from the rest of the working population.

I moved here to exit the rat race of New York. The constant struggle of having to work full time just to exist and not much more was wearing me down, and I knew that simply being in a place wasn’t my end goal in life. Living like that feels like a trap. But while living in New York, I would drive down to Virginia (the red part of the state) a few times a year, so was very aware of the political sentiment outside of the city. But it’s also the same political sentiment that I grew up around, so it’s not like that much had changed. I feel like issues get kicked up, and people talk or fight about them for a little bit, but eventually the dust settles and people go back to living as they did before. We’re creatures of habit, and habits don’t break without something that forces you to change (internally or externally driven). There seems to be a cyclical pattern when it comes to social progress - two steps forward, one step back. One step forward, two steps back. Ultimately I do think we are inching forward, but like ants on a branch sometimes it’s hard (impossible?) to see the big picture.

Apologies if it seems I’m jumping around a bit - you brought up a lot of things that I want to make sure I come back to. So let me jump back to your studio visit we had. Aside from three extremely small outdoor meetups, my recent trip to the East coast/New York was actually the first time in over a year that I had really socialized with people outside of work or my pod since the start of the pandemic. When I arrived I was very much in a state of blissfulness, coming off the natural highs of seeing close friends for the first time in a long time. Also a little nervous too - after not socializing for so long, seeing people in person felt awkward and strange; I wasn’t sure the rules of pandemic etiquette. Is it ok to take off our masks? Are people hanging out indoors? Do I stand 6 feet away if we're both vaccinated? So many questions. I guess I was so wrapped up in my own head that I didn’t at all perceive your nervousness or un-confidence you described!

Anyway. So I was excited to see your new bronzes in person. But the paintings ended up being the thing that’s been with me since I’ve left, and with them the conversation we had about finances and the stock market and capitalism. I think the reason why it stuck so hard is because of the feeling of deep shame I felt/feel for being one of the people you were describing who jumped on the stock market wagon. Having not talked to anyone up to that point, I didn’t realize it was a thing that people were talking about in everyday life. But that feeling of disappointment in myself that I felt that night has stuck with me, and I think that’s what makes the work so successful. I’ve found myself really digging internally about my own motivations regarding wealth and survival. It’s like when you watch a movie and you’re not sure if you “like” it because you don’t feel elated at the end of it, but you find yourself still thinking about it days or weeks later, and you realize that it’s because of the long running thoughts it gave you that you love it.

Having had a very tough battle with the virus myself, and having lost two grandparents, having rode my bike past trailers filled with bodies, and having walked beautifully empty streets, watching those with means flee the city, and having tearfully cried “say her name” until the words were only a sound, and recognizing the magnitude of these times unfolding, I suppose I wasn’t all that interested in Gamestop.

Money and death. Yes, it absolutely feels gross to think about money and stocks, to be excited about striking it rich, when there’s a virus still out there killing thousands each day, knowing that there’s death and injustice everywhere. When I let myself think about it, it’s paralyzing. I also know that when I think about it I’m not even grasping the full extent of what’s happening. So how much more suffering is out there that we can never know?

The start of the pandemic was marked by a distinct feeling of “pre-grief” (which was then replaced by actual grief). I had just returned from New York, miraculously unscathed by the virus while almost everyone I knew started to come down with covid symptoms. Two of my friends were in very bad shape, and when I stopped seeing or hearing them online I started to dread the worst. (You were one of these friends. And when you popped back online, alive albeit still recovering, I was so so so relieved and so grateful.) But death, and our proximity to death is something we don’t talk about as a society. I think it’s why people are so easy to forget that there’s still a pandemic going on. Out of sight out of mind. And perhaps that’s why people are able to talk stocks and fantasize about becoming rich. But I also think for many people, it’s a way of coping with everything that happened that hasn’t been processed yet. (For me, during the pandemic I lost all my usual modes of income, so I do truly hope for some financial relief.) Many if not all of us lost friends or family this past year, but even for those of us who lost someone, how many of us have been able to fully grasp the realities of those deaths? I lost an aunt and an uncle, and it still feels surreal to me. My family hasn’t held a funeral yet, so right now their deaths only exist as knowledge, not an absence that I’ve been able to truly feel and process. I believe at some point in the near future there will be a reckoning of each of our individual losses, which will be felt in waves and ripples for everyone.

The deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and so many others also hit me hard (as I know it did countless others, including you). Watching or reading about anyone’s murder at the hands of police is disturbing, and should make everyone upset and angry. Then seeing videos and images of police beating protestors, it started to bring up some really horrible memories. With everything going on, there were more than a few occasions last summer where everything felt broken and hopeless. I would get in my car and find myself sobbing in a parking lot, unable to drive or do anything. I think in the face of so much death and suffering, it’s difficult to find purpose as an artist. Or at least it was for me. There would be times when I would stare at a piece of blank paper and just think, what the fuck am I doing? How is this helping?

One thing I love about your work is how well you utilize the tools of capitalism against itself.  You make really fantastic satirical sales videos, branding, and seductive display. It’s simultaneously high concept and accessible at the same time.  I’m curious to hear your thoughts about how you approach the accessibility of your work.

Well first off, thanks. As far as the consumerist mechanisms within my work, I think all that stems from working in the ad/tv industry for a decade and then getting fed up with it. There was one day that I was working on a video edit for a Gillette pitch, and I felt like I was going to die. I was being asked to chop people’s interviews up and have them say things they didn’t say. I was being asked to make hand drawn animations for CEO retirement parties. My soul was dying. But I learned a lot. Namely, the ways people expect to interact with video, the kinds of images and sounds they expect to see and hear. And how could I not utilize that knowledge in my work now? I don’t know if I successfully manipulate people the way ads do (that’s not my goal), but it is my goal to get and hold people’s attention for as long as they’ll let me. Although, as I get farther and farther away from my “past life” of commercial tv, I am more interested in seeing how far I can push people before they break away. How boring can I make this tv loop? How long will someone stand here and watch this, just because I’m watching them watch it? That’s my own sense of humor, which I don’t know if people get. Half the time I’m waiting for someone to give me a knowing look and share a laugh, but that so rarely happens because people take everything so seriously. And nobody wants to feel like the joke is on them. Anyway, people react to art differently when they don’t see it as art. I would much rather have a show in a space disguised as something else and have people wander in not knowing what it is they’re looking at and letting them discover it on their own terms. Retail settings are perfect for this because the relationship and rules between viewer and object are established. People are supposed to look and browse and decide if they like something, and as such the work is allowed to be touched, picked up, and eventually acquired. I certainly have had some failings though in this respect. Try as I may, the “retail settings” that I’ve created are still obviously modified gallery settings, and so I haven’t fooled anyone. I’ve had the most luck with my coin shop; I think filling the space with obvious crap helped people feel a little more comfortable engaging with me and the work.

Regarding modes of interaction, I think the form and materials often help break those barriers and help artwork be more accessible. If something is functional, or has the ability to be a stand in for something functional, then there's an immediate relationship that someone doesn’t have to learn. And of course, you can then build off that relationship into more complex or unexpected ideas. I think you do this with your kleenex box sculptures.

...while selling bronzes and drawing/paintings to rich people that you kind of hate on some level...

I can definitely relate to the contradictions you talk about. On one hand I want to make works that are conceptually accessible and [actually] affordable, but I don’t just want to make “stuff” to clutter the world. And I don’t want people to buy my stuff just to buy more stuff either. But then I also have people telling me that a higher price tag will help me as an artist and that I need to value my own time and work more. But then who gets to own my work? I’m so much more interested in conversations with people who aren’t collectors or even other artists. It feels weird to sell work to people that you’ve never spoken to while the person standing in front of you holding your work and talking for an hour has to leave it behind. The truth is we’re all trapped in this reality of value being quantified by a dollar price tag. Perhaps the best way forward to looking for ways to mitigate this contradiction, like a giant knot that needs to be untangled slowly. This past year I have been looking and thinking of ways to live a life with more integrity while also figuring out how to have a practice that isn’t so reliant on sales (because I don’t have them lol).

“Nah, I was way too poor to be a hippy.”

It’s interesting that you shared this anecdote because it reminds me of the reason why I left Taos. Taos is and remains one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever lived. But after meeting people from the area, the town started to emerge disjointed demographically. I had mentioned that this state has very visible social strata (and maybe you are aware of this from your travels here), and that divide is obvious in the more well-to-do cities: Taos, Santa Fe, Los Alamos. In these places, a lot of artists and art-adjacent people are self-proclaimed hippies: out on the mesa, drinking beer, joking about how they have no money, yet they would also talk about how they would never visit the south side of town, or how rough and scary Albuquerque was. I don’t know how less to say this but to be blunt about it: everyone who fit this description was white. And they were all afraid of visiting areas where mostly people of Mexican or Hispanic descent lived in poverty. Everyone was talking about everything except race, yet their omissions spoke louder. I couldn’t engage with that kind of community.

What do I see now? Here in Albuquerque my life remains somewhat isolated, with the occasional grocery store visit or open air dining. When I walk around I see a lot of people hurting on the street. I live near the downtown area, and there are a lot of homeless people. There’s been a visible increase in homelessness, and I also suspect a decrease in resources for that community. The modest wave of gentrification was slowed by the pandemic, with lots of businesses and restaurants closed permanently. Downtown is quiet, almost completely abandoned, but a few older establishments have survived: a two story dive bar, a pool hall and a strip club. I’ve had conversations with patients (for those who don’t know, I teach art and cooking workshops at a rehab facility) on both sides of the political spectrum, and it’s always been refreshingly respectful (luckily no Proud Boys, at least that I know of). The few coworkers I have are nurses, so they update me about the horror they see in the local hospitals. That job brings me in contact with a much more diverse group of people than my university job ever did, I think because addiction truly cuts across income levels. It also reminds me of how easy it is for a person’s life to unravel. I feel lucky to have made it this far without losing my footing too much.

This might sound like a veer in the conversation, but I’m curious where you find joy? I can easily fall into a dark hole when I think about what’s going on in the world, and as an empath that scores high as an HSP it’s really important for me to create moments of solace and specifically joy for myself. Do you feel like your sources of joy have changed since the start of the pandemic, or have you found new unexpected ones? I know that you spend a lot of time outdoors, which I imagine is a great source of calm - how much does that inform your work? I was surprised to see the swamp landscape painting, even though it seems so obvious knowing where you usually spend your downtime.

Valery Jung Estabrook, Paul Manafort, 2018; Michael Flynn, 2020; Roger Stone, 2020; Stephen K. Bannon, 2020; die-struck zinc alloy and enamel coins.

CE: I very much appreciate the opportunity to turn toward a brighter direction. I was so worried I was too focused in a negative mindset. Thanks for joining me there for a minute.

The first thing that comes to mind is of course fly fishing, fly-tying, and just being outdoors.  I could speak endlessly about this but I won’t go on too long.  It’s funny to me that I moved to NY and started fly fishing more than I ever had before.  I find it’s all the more necessary to recharge and find myself engaging in an activity that is unburdened by any sort of professional aspirations or lofty humanistic goals.  It’s difficult to set that mindset aside when you identify as an artist and see yourself as that primarily, so I fish I suppose. It’s an almost pure pleasure.  I say almost because, for me it’s increasing difficult to see and experience the world in an apolitical way, but I think this is also a sort of zeitgeist.  It is interesting to think about who is a flyfisherperson?  Traditionally, the sport has been one comprised of a more affluent older white male demographic, but that is certainly changing.  With instagram accounts such as @brownfolksfishing, or forward-looking retailers like Patagonia spotlighting indigenious peoples in video shorts, or the fact that millennial women are rapidly taking to the sport, it has been interesting to see how the community has had to make room for a wider audience.   As someone who has introduced many people to the “way of the fly” as I like to call it, I have firsthand experience of the tension of standing out and defying the expectations of who a flyfisherperson is supposed to be alongside a spectrum of other first time flycasters. I think it’s interesting to think about the countless lines that might divide, urban vs rural, brown vs white, political party affiliation, education, firearms etc. and think about how flyfishing is a common thread that might bridge that divide.  This thought was at the forefront of my mind early one morning, after driving deep into rural PA and seeing numerous enthusiastic Trump 2024 displays, when I encountered a fellow fly fisherman, an older scruffy outdoorsy type who was carrying a handgun outside of his waders. I engaged the man in friendly conversation, telling him it was my first time on that particular river and he was nice enough offer some suggestions.  The subject of bears came up and he motioned to his holstered handgun; I showed him my dangling red can of bear spray.  The man was generous and the interaction was positive.  I certainly don’t think a handgun is out of place in this remote area, but the thought definitely plays a role in the overall safety calculus that one must think about when fishing alone in deeply conservative rural areas.

I think I mostly want to keep my art and my fly fishing separate although occasionally I allow for the two worlds to overlap. It’s nice to have a break. One of the big overlaps however is the fact that when I first started making art in a consciously more serious way (in high school) I was making watercolor and pastel landscapes, sometimes from photographs that I had taken while on a fishing trip in colorado, or sometimes en plein air in the nearby canyon that I explored after school and/or work.

How about you, where are your happy places?  Music? Food? Antiques?  I know we have so many overlapping interests, but you have always impressed me with your sneaky musical ability and kitchen know how.

VJE:   Yes, food and singing. I think my love of home cooking and karaoke would also qualify as activities “unburdened by any sort of professional aspirations or lofty humanistic goals.”

Food has always been important to me. My mom held cooking classes in our house when I was really young (“Su’s Oriental Kitchen”). Growing up around that you easily develop a love of eating. And then when my parents decided to start a “Korean pear orchard”, food yet again became embedded in my identity. So of course food holds familial and cultural importance for me. But as far as my serious cooking aspirations, I have to credit two friends completely unrelated to my family background: my best friend from highschool and my roommate after college. These two people introduced to me thinking of cooking as a way to make special moments to share, food as an event in itself. And this ultimately is how I now view cooking: creating something that immediately gives sensory pleasure and also sets a stage for personal connection and shared memory.

And then there’s Karaoke. There’s the aspect of being in the same figurative place with others (that shared sensory experience thing I was mentioning before) but there’s also a dynamic of performance: giving energy to an audience, and having that energy reflected back in the form of applause. And that it isn’t just one person performing, but something that everyone does. So we all take turns being silly and loud and nervous and then being cheered and supported. It’s an amplifying feedback loop of positive energy. And just from a purely physical perspective, singing is really fun to me. Of course karaoke remains one of the most high risk activities during this pandemic, so I haven’t done that in a long time...

I think my pure joys come from 1) connecting with people and 2) discovery. And if you can combine those two, then that’s even better. I imagine each of us as tangents curving into space, separate entities yet constantly intersecting or running parallel alongside each other. When I think about the sheer number of people in the world and the countless factors that influence our moods, our thoughts, our actions, it’s astounding that we are able to share emotional experiences. And when they do happen, regardless of whether they be quiet revelations with a lifelong friend or uninhibited laughter with someone you’ve only known for a few hours, they are still a kind of mutual discovery and therefore special.

This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy being alone. Throughout the pandemic, quiet solo activities like art making, gardening, or going for a run are when I am able to clear my mind. Lately I’ve really enjoyed ceramics, which I never seriously worked in before. And because gathering in person wasn’t possible, this past year I found myself funneling my energy into “slower” forms of connection: making gifts, testing recipes for future shared meals, writing letters and cards, that sort of thing. And it’s been especially exciting when I receive surprises from friends.

Your story about the flyfisher with the handgun reminds me of a lot of interactions I have with people when I visit my hometown. When I meet new people there I’m simultaneously “on guard” yet still seeking a small connection. And while this is related to just being a friendly person, that kind of interaction feels more like gauging whether or not that person is safe for me to talk to (both as a minority and as a woman).

How do you feel about rural/conservative areas of this country? Earlier you wondered about what you weren’t seeing after having moved to New York. Is the general conservatism of rural America something you feel you are able to/want to co-exist/engage with, or do you notice yourself bypassing contact with people in these areas and just wanting to get out into nature? You mentioned the growing diversity within the flyfishing community but also that you “have firsthand experience of the tension of standing out and defying the expectations of who a flyfisherperson is supposed to be.” I wonder if you could elaborate on that tension, and if you feel that tension shapes who you are or how you see yourself?

CE: Feeling like I standout is a fairly routine experience that has occurred in numerous instances in formative times of my life. Growing up I was never Mexican enough for many in my community (class, language, and education all being a part of this exclusion), and certainly not white where whiteness was the dominant group, so through a form of rejection I suppose I had to ask myself and define for myself an identity that was more true.  Even then I could see how, for me at least, the various identity categories and national identities are so inept, especially while moving rapidly toward an age of accelerated information exchange. When I examine the interplay of art and identity now, in galleries and museums etc, it bothers me quite honestly to see such one dimensional displays of identity celebrated and held up under some banner of diversification.  I feel as though the risk averse museum world is more likely to reinforce well established stereotypes while artists themselves routinely fall right into the trap of reflecting these internalized stereotypes that society at large has fed to them their whole lives. The lack of imagination and fear of standing outside of the well established identity boxes is disappointing to say the least...and this is before we even talk about the commodification of identity that we are seeing in the artworld right now. While the aforementioned tension has certainly shaped my development and the way I see myself up to a point, it’s something that I recognize and shake off pretty easily now.  As a curious person I have often found myself floating between odd groups and maybe found an identity that was more interested in finding a small niche in an odd group than finding comfort among the more like-minded.

To your question of the conservative nature or rural areas, and if I care to interact with people in these areas, I very much see the common interest (nature/fishing etc) as a potential first step toward a genuine connection or some small personal public relations effort in the bringing together of this growing divide.  Honestly as a Texan, I can understand, on some basic level, the conservative perspective (despite it moving toward an unprecedented level of bonkers), and can translate in a sense.  I am willing to say I like monster trucks, and county fairs, and rodeos, and demolition derbies. Sure, many of these activities are not the most environmentally friendly, or PETA approved, but they are nonetheless a well-established culture.  One thing I enjoy about the conservative mindset, is that it is so much more free from the all consuming political correctness judgment game.  Rodeos are so fucking cool on so many levels if you allow yourself to overlook the animal cruelty part for a couple of hours.  I know it’s a controversial statement for many but the world is so full of contradictions, I have a difficult time understanding where, when, and why people will publically draw and stick closely to certain political lines, other times so loosie goosey. The urban and left-leaning mindset is so internally critical and performative, better suited to utilizing private school educations to cut each other down (while feeling smart), rather than making actual change.  And change comes embedded in this tension and the willingness to confront, endure, dialogue, coexist, befriend, and potentially swing a stranger’s disinformed notions. I still want to believe this country is worth saving, but you have to be willing to let your hair down a little and meet somewhere messy and real, outside of a pure ideological comfort zone.

So much of your work actively confronts and operates in this space, I’m sure you have plenty you could add, please jump right in :)

Also, I love that your pure joys are rooted in discovery and building personal connections, it’s a wide philosophy upon which you can find pure joy around any corner. It’s good to keep that at the forefront. And speaking of joy, I’m curious to hear more about the ceramics and where they are going.  I have seen images of their delicate leaf-like forms. They are quite stunning and can’t wait to see how they develop. Can you speak about where these are going or where they are coming from?

VJE: Thanks! Before I talk about the leaves I’ll address the subject of rural America.

Specifically about Virginia and the county where I’m from: five years ago I would have told you, I’m never going back. There are so many shitty people there, it was simpler and easier for me to cut it out of my psyche. But after my dad died, I was thrown into a situation where I had to return. He put me in charge of the farm and asked me to look after my mom. So for the past 4 years I spent many months out of each year (alternating with my brother) going back to help out and do whatever needs to be done.

Up to that point I hadn’t lived in Virginia since my late teens, and I realize that the decision I had made to never return was one that I made as an angsty young adult. Having recently spent multiple extended trips there, there’s lots that I love: the mountains, being close to nature, having space to grow things, being away from neighbors. There are people there that obviously love my mom and help look out for her: they drop off groceries, plow the drive when it snows, hunt in the woods behind her house and give her venison. When my dad was really sick, the water heater broke and the guy who fixed it refused to let us pay him. My family was so stressed, worried about money and my dad barely able to walk; that act meant so much to me. Beyond generous, it was compassionate. I haven’t directly talked politics with any of them, although I suspect most (all?) of them voted for Trump. The “all consuming political correctness judgment game” of contemporary liberalism has created societal pressure for us to not only distill our standings on issues into definitive terms, but also to keep/cut out people in our lives. I can understand cutting some people off - toxic relatives and old acquaintances who have become too fringe to hold a conversation with - but that would be the case no matter what’s happening on the national level. Chunking out huge swaths of the country as worthless is only another form of dehumanization (and also ends the conversation before it can start). I don’t think it’s my place to interrogate someone to confirm where they stand politically, especially if they don’t play a huge role in my life. I mean, agreement doesn’t equate to kindness; a person can agree with you and still be an asshole. Maybe it’s my own idealism, but I hope that by reciprocating positive interactions, as someone who maybe they look at and assume didn’t vote for Trump, I’m opening the door for more substantive understanding -- if not with me then maybe someone like me down the road.

In middle school I hung out with slightly older kids. After school we would walk to the cemetery where they would smoke cigarettes and I would watch. Then we’d go to the one pool hall in town, before getting picked up at the library. I felt like that group of friends was very much “mountain misfits”: cool, rural freaks. These friends were very much into 90’s grunge/post-hippie culture (I was too), but also introduced me to bluegrass, which later led me to country music. Bluegrass and country songs are so sad: despair, loss, heartache, jealousy-fueled murders. I mean all the life events that really stick with a person. And I’m not one of those country snobs that say “only classic” country because I will jump at the chance to belt out some Shania Twain. I felt like such an outsider growing up that it took me a long time to recognize that I picked up gems from growing up in that area. Country music is definitely one of those gems that I happily carry today.

Valery Jung Estabrook, Blue Birds, Feel free to laugh and smile again, 2018; silicone, video, touch capacitive electronics, thermochromic pigment.

VJE: To be completely honest, I sometimes worry about sounding like an apologist. Not only here in this conversation, but in talking about some of the past work I’ve made. On the political scale I score extremely liberal, yet I too get frustrated with the over abundance of caution I have to put into everything so as not to be misinterpreted. Sometimes I think my attempts to be nuanced, or worse, my attempts to be funny, are misconstrued as celebrating or rationalizing something that I loathe. And I worry that my worry will cause me to fall into the trap that you described, of playing into stereotypes - in constantly reaffirming my intentions I also end up flattening the message. Leaving space for individual interpretation can be terrifying in this political climate, but I think it’s necessary, and something that I’m really trying to allow in my work. I don’t know how successful I am, but I am trying.

I think that’s one of the reasons why I’ve been enjoying working in clay so much. With all the madness in the world, it’s been really nice to create something that doesn't drain me of emotional energy. I started making the leaf forms out of my fascination with and admiration for the datura genus of plants, also known as jimsonweed. They grow wild here in New Mexico and at my home in Virginia. The plants are toxic, and have hallucinogenic effects when eaten; I remember kids in school used to eat jimsonweed to try to get high (which is incredibly stupid btw). There are stories of datura in witchcraft, and it still is used today in some Native American ceremonies. Anyway, did I mention the plants are toxic? Like, extremely poisonous. The toxin is concentrated in the seeds (something like half a teaspoon of seeds can kill a person), but is in every part of the plant and can be absorbed through the skin. The plants produce large, beautiful trumpet blooms, so they are popular among gardeners despite their toxicity. Some species are illegal to cultivate in certain states, but it’s still pretty easy to buy datura plants or even find them growing on the side of the road. I think they grow in parts of west Texas too, so maybe you’re familiar with them. Anyway, I think it’s funny that here’s a plant that obviously doesn’t want to be eaten or touched, and yet we humans keep insisting on trying to consume and/or cultivate it. We talk about American arrogance, but what about plain human arrogance? It’s so obvious that plants will be here long after we’re gone and yet we think we’re at the top of the pyramid.

Part of the exploration is material, teaching myself how to work with clay and getting back into sculpting with my hands. I also started throwing on the wheel, which is very meditative. It requires a lot of strength, stillness, and focus. Last fall I started experimenting with pit firing, and am intrigued with the process of allowing the fire create a surface treatment. I have some ideas of what things might look like when I’m done, but because I’m still learning the physical limitations of the clay I don’t want to marry myself too early to a concept for the final form. At the moment I’m experimenting with creating my own glazes, and am crossing my fingers that something exciting will come out of that. It definitely has been a joyful process, and it feels really good to be in that mode.

I’m impressed that you’re able to shake off your past experiences enough to avoid the pitfalls of identity artwork. Do you have any words of wisdom or advice for how to do that? Asking for a friend.

CE: Thanks for this last collection of clearly organized thoughts, there’s so much here that’s resonating with me.  

Maybe I meant that my identity is not really an issue to me anymore like it was when I was 19 or 20.  I certainly don’t want to imply that I effortlessly transcend internal and external identity-based conflict, but I think early on I began to create and attempt to communicate an identity understanding that was rooted in specific experiences that were true of my lived life.  For example, in response to the infamous “where are you from, no, I mean WHERE are you from ?” or “what are you?” questions, I’d normally offer an abundance of information, sort of a short creation story that included the biographical information that the questioner was searching for but was also more granularly accurate of who I was and how I got to this point.  It was an approach that was reserved for those questioners who were trying to box me into a single word or concept or nationality.  Side note, in St. Louis where I lived for 5 years people would ask what school you went to (and they meant high school) as a way to sort of gauge your class and upbringing. So weird.

In terms of how a person’s identity gets translated into art, I feel like art students (and artists generally) are pressured or expected to make work about identity, as if identity pain is the only source of creativity.  I definitely felt that pressure as a student and again more recently in one way or another. On one hand it feels like a special club of the oppressed that one could belong to, but it also feels like a trap that really limits your work in a number of ways. When I occasionally think about making work that directly references identity I find most interesting the blending and overlap of cultures, and it’s very odd to me how we, as a supposed melting pot, have such trouble recognizing and holding up that blur as remarkable.  I recently met a 1st generation Korean-American woman, born of Korean parents, who grew up in NJ, and I could hear hints of a familiar Spanish accent that she picked up from her neighbors in her spoken english. That is one thing I do love about our country and about NY and perhaps more and more the norm as we approach the anxiously anticipated demographical tipping point year of 2045. It seems on one hand like such a distant science fictional date, and on the other hand right around the corner, only 25 short years from now. I feel like the media will continue to hype this milestone year and as it approaches I wonder how Americans will process that?  Will we be any closer to confronting wealth, class, and social mobility issues that underly racial tension. Maybe racism will melt away with the icebergs.

Valery Jung Estabrook was born in Florida and grew up on an organic Asian pear farm in rural southwestern Virginia. She holds an MFA in Painting and Drawing from Brooklyn College and a BA in Visual Art from Brown University. Her video and installation work has been exhibited at a number of venues, including EFA Project Space, Auxiliary Projects, SPRING/BREAK Art Show, Field Projects Gallery, Shenandoah Valley Art Center, Knockdown Center, NY Korean Cultural Center, Aggregate Space Gallery, Columbia Art Center, Collar Works Gallery, Currents New Media Festival, and CHANNELS Biennial Video Art Festival. In 2018 she received the Gold AHL-T&W Foundation Contemporary Visual Art Award, an annual award recognizing artists of Korean heritage in the United States. In 2020 she was a Vermont Studio Center Fellow and the Paula and Edwin Sidman Fellow at University of Michigan's Institute for the Humanities. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

www.valeryestabrook.com @valeryestabrook Corey Escoto (1983 Amarillo,Texas) is an interdisciplinary artist whose most recent works span mediums of Polaroid photography, bronze sculpture, cast resin light sculpture, and more recently oil stick drawings.  He is a resident of Ridgewood Queens and has a studio in Bushwick.  Corey has had numerous solo exhibitions in galleries and museums including venues such as Regina Rex, Corbett Vs Dempsey, Halsey McKay, the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis, and the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pitttsburgh, PA.  He is a recipient of the gateway foundation grant, a Kala fellowship award winner, a Skowhegan alum and fly-fishing enthusiast.