Christina Day’s NagaiEi
Christina’s work is alive. Not alive as it is sold in tv ad breaks and glossy magazines. Not an “I feel alive” alive. It is an “I am alive” alive.
Her sinewy, chewy pen creations are at once grotesque and graceful. The feverish dancer, the writhing epileptic model. Their distorted shapes mock the familiar human elements within them. Are those muscles? Ribbons? Leaves? In the uncanny spaces around which they wind themselves there appear faces, flora, fauna - whatever the mind can conjure.
Similarly striking is the technique - a single Biro, a single sheet, everything perfect in one take. In the swells and folds and shining fronds, you don’t see a flat image on a sheet of paper - you see a zephyr dancing in space, as it pulls your eye along its length.
This is the life in Christina’s work: the clinical, surgical cut of the forms, the huffing, vigorous, organic clench of the pulses and the delicate trills and flicks which fling off our gaze. It makes your eyes move, it makes you see more than it is. It creates, and by doing this, it lives.