As long as I can remember I have been a collector of things. Wherever I am—walking in a field, on a street, by a river or by the ocean, traveling here or abroad, visiting dumps or working as a gatekeeper at my local landfill—I have found objects that were discarded by others but have an intrinsic beauty or value to me.

Although these materials are very diverse, they share in common a beautiful patina, soft edges, and worn surfaces. Some of the wood and metal which I incorporate into my artwork reveals layers of paint worn through by generations of use.

Over the years, I have accumulated so many objects that I have a vast library of material to draw from for my sculptural pieces.

My current work incorporates many years of influence from my past work and from other artists. Joseph Cornell, the master, and my dear friend and mentor Varujan Boghosian were my introduction to assemblages.

In my teens I attended The Putney School where I spent much of my time training in metalwork, sculpture, and two-dimensional design, such as silk-screening repeated patterns on fabric. After high school I designed, fabricated and sold jewelry.

I later enrolled in an intensive course at Penland School of Crafts in metalwork and jewelry design. There I was introduced to knifemaking, which intrigued me because it involved sculptural form in three different media--hard steel, soft brass, and wood.

I attended Rhode Island School of Design from 1978 to 1982 where I continued my metalwork education, transferring after two years into the Textile Design program and specializing in surface design.

Through the years, I have worked with hard and soft, metal and textiles, sculptural forms and surface details. My current work is an attempt to fuse these diverse materials and approaches together harmoniously.

Show information

Solo Exhibit
"Alumni Show," The Michael Currier Gallery, Putney School, Elm Lea Farm, Putney, VT. 05346, June, 2010
"Sculptural assemblages," gallery one, "A Candle in The Night," September, 2008

Group Exhibits
"Six Studios," Stephen Score Gallery, 73 Chestnut Street, Boston, MA. 02108, June, 2010
The Bing Gallery, The Bing Arts Center, 716 Sumner Avenue, Springfield, MA. 01138, April - September 2010
"Recycled Art Show," The Garbage Museum, 1410 Honeyspot Road ext., Stratford, CT. 06614, April - May 2010
"Holiday show," BigTown Gallery, 99 North Main Street, Rochester, VT. 05767, 11/ 2009 - 2/ 2010
"Trio," The Cell Theater, 338 W. 23rd St. NY, May 2009
"Re-paired," Pinch, 179 Main St. Northampton, MA. June 2009
"The Silo Gallery," Hunt Hill Farm Trust, 44 Upland Road, New Milford, CT. 06776 August 2009

NYC ART
Review by Christopher Rywalt May 28 2009

One last show. Remember earlier in the essay I said I firmly believe in serendipity? This is why. Following my feet I wound up walking along West 23rd thinking only to head back to the subway. I don't usually take 23rd because it's crowded and noisy and not, usually, especially interesting. But this time as I walked something on a building across the way caught my eye.

It was a sculpture of a man leaping out of a window. It's one of those reverse sculpts -- where the shape is concave instead of convex, curving inward and away from the viewer instead of outward and toward. You might have learned at a science museum that this creates a neat optical illusion such that the object appears to track your eyes as you move around it. It's very groovy. I was fascinated enough to take a couple of pictures. There I go, pretending to be a photojournalist again.

It turns out this is Falling Man by Craig Kraft Studio. But I didn't know that. All I knew is I wanted to know what the heck it was and why it was there. So I crossed the street and found the Cell Theatre which, it just so happened, was hosting an art opening in the lobby. It was Trio showing work by Alison Ives, Abby Rieser, and Shelley Rotner (until June 2, 2009).

At first glance Abby's sculptures may look like a thousand other found art assemblages you've seen. But they're not. In person, they immediately reach out to your heart. They are soaked in wistful nostalgia, the sense of life's passing, the brief moments of love and happiness with which we're all blessed from time to time. They have an ache and an inner smile, a wisdom and a beauty. Completely devoid of irony or detachment they touch something deep inside you.

Abby Rieser's works are absolutely lovely.

I really wanted to tell her so while I was there. I paced around looking for anyone who looked authoritative enough to tell me who she was, but I couldn't find anyone. There were enough people around -- even in the theater's lovely little urban back yard -- but no one who seemed like an owner or person in charge or otherwise botherable with dopey questions like the one I had. I left without finding Abby.

What I wanted to say to her was this: You're doing something very special here. It looks easy but it's not. Hundreds of artists attempt this kind of thing, taking old bits and pieces, flotsam and jetsam of people's lives, and putting them together in supposedly evocative ways. Almost all of them fail. Almost all of them somehow manage to make objects less than the sum of their parts; what I'm saying is, if you found, say, a piece of wood or a spigot knob on the curb or in the gutter all by itself, it would likely be a more interesting and entertaining object just like that than after being incorporated into one of those found art sculptures. But you, Abby: You have a gift. You've done something magical and, like all great artists, you've made it look easy. But it's not easy, not at all.
Abby, please keep making these.

And that, friends in art, is why I wander. I suffer through the fools and knaves, agonize through the Mark Floods and the Kim Dorlands, fall unconscious at the Jamie Clydes, froth at the mouth over the Violet Hopkins; I go through all of that because out there, sometimes, when I'm very lucky, I find Abby Rieser.

And then it's all okay.