Mara Duvra

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Self Syllabus

Jane Eyre, Dario Marianelli (2011, soundtrack)
Upper Air, Bowerbirds
Fleet Foxes
To Build a Home, Cinematic Orchestra
The Middle East

Sylvia Plath
Emily Dickinson
The Yellow Wallpaper, Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Inside the Painter's Studio, Joe Fig
Nets by Jen Bervin

Kiki Smith
Judy Pfaff
Jenny Morgan
Falling Angels, Jiri Kylian (1989, choreographed dance)
Francesca Woodman


TV , Film & Internet
Jane Eyre, Cary Fukunaga (2011, film)
Art:21 Art in the Twenty-first Century Systems: Julie Mehretu (2009)
Romance: Judy Pfaff (2007)
Stories: Kiki Smith (2003)
The Gentlewoman (blog)
Woolgathersome (blog)

Context for practice
My practice has many influences. I am interested in the voice and perspective female authors such as Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Music plays a large part in my creativity and I like the feeling I have when a song swells and soars, I like to be swept away by a song or a line of prose. I am interested in creating work that come together to distill these layered interest into one cohesive form. Currently my work is focused on combining printmaking and photography. Within both of these practices there is a tactile process of working that I truly enjoy. I like both the organic nature of making a print; rolling out ink, soaking paper and the physicality of pulling a print through the press. Photography offers a slightly more removed technical nature but it the immediacy of the imagery and the clarity of the idea that I find most attractive about this medium. My work is almost like a stream of consciousness constantly influenced by whatever music, films, or text I am engrossed in. In my titles there is a narrative quality that I feel adds another layer of context for viewers to consider when looking at my prints. I am interested in the poetry and psychology of the female figure and ideas if anonymity. In my work there is a creation of a sensuous portrait in the hopes of creating a feeling of the work before an intellectual understanding.

I never thought living alone would feel like this. This place is unfamiliar, ominous even. I stand at the precipice feeling forever stuck just on the cusp. I make every attempt to avoid it even though at the end of the day I long for its stability and warmth. This new space is not truly a home and in moments I long for the real thing, but that has been cut off, displaced. This sensation wells up in me and I feel for a moment I am back and I will turn the corner and walk in the door and at any moment I will hear the familiar sounds of life. Here the silence blares only interrupted by the occasional creak or mechanic hum. So on each passing night I linger and wander until the inevitable hour arrives. I slowly move forward step after step thinking about what awaits, chiding myself. In moments of guilt I say a prayer of thanks for this place, because this is the place I call home and without it this sentiment would be replaced with a different kind of longing.

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