Jenn Brown

What do chairs say?  They’re all around us, constantly asking us if we’d like to join them, if we’d like to sit down and chat or just relax.  After we stand again, they remain with the imprint of emotions we carried while sitting there.  No matter where they are, or in what condition, chairs provide a record of human presence.  A chair is a sort of invitation.  Its purpose is to look at us as we pass by and offer us a place to rest.  When I was a kid, I could never refuse the invitation.  Never.  Anytime my family was out in public and I saw a chair (or worse, a row of chairs) I had to sit in every one of them.  I felt this compulsion to utilize them, even if just for a second.  So when we’d go out, (the mall, the grocery store, wherever) my parents and sister would be walking to our destination, and I’d be twenty feet behind, plopping my butt onto each chair I passed and then running to catch up.

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Chairs also offer a place to gather and connect with others.  Sitting in close proximity to someone, whether you know them or not, automatically creates a bond between you.  You are now in a shared activity.  Without realizing it, you might be having the same feelings of tiredness, boredom, or impatience.  The connection might be simple or complex, but it’s there.

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That same connection is the key to why we might offer someone a chair.  Offering someone a seat can open a conversation.  It’s especially effective you’re trying to interact with someone you might otherwise be uncomfortable approaching.  I deal with chronic pain and fatigue and find that because I often use a walking cane, people are always trying to offer me a chair.  Mostly this comes from a place of love, from people who genuinely care about me and want to let the chair do its job.

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With strangers, though, it can be quite different.   Like any mobility aid-user, I have stories of preposterous questions and way-too-long stares I sometimes get from people in elevators or store aisles.  (Think, “is that just a fashion accessory or do you really need that?” or, “So did you like have surgery or something?)  Generally, I try to just write those people off.  Others, while certainly less rude, will offer me a chair several times even after I politely refuse.  Early on in my cane use I started to wonder about what they’re thinking in these moments.  Why the desperate need to seat me?  Is it genuine concern?  Do they want to ask nosy questions too but think if they get me a chair first it’ll make it more ok?  The interaction is something, frankly, that I still struggle with.  The offer of a chair is complex for me.  People who know me really well know that when things are rough for me physically, sitting down actually makes the pain worse.  I find myself trapped in a loop of tire legs, but sitting hurts, but standing hurts too.  It’s frowned upon in public, though, to just lay down in the middle of the floor.  So while someone is attempting to have a basic interaction with me, there I am with my chair dilemma.

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The more I contemplated the ritual of chair-offering, I started to see the chair as a symbol.  I think about it like a graphic on a service sign.  A chair means the same thing to virtually anyone who sees it, no matter where they come from.  A chair says, “take a load off here,” in any language.

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For a long time, my artwork has revolved around trying to describe and understand the physical and mental roller coaster that is chronic pain (to myself as well as others.)  I started using the chair in my artwork as a way to open that door to a connection with strangers when I wanted to.  If everyone understands the purpose and meaning behind a chair, that could be the platform that allows me to present different physical sensations and emotions in my artwork.

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The first chair I made is a steel sculpture called Self Portrait: Chair 1.  It’s made from scraps of steel that I patchworked together using a technique I refer to as “franken-welding.”  It reflects the way I often feel about my body, that it’s just all these poorly functioning parts that are stitched together in a skin that doesn’t look remotely unwell.  After that, the chairs quickly became a motif in my work to describe emotions as well as physical feelings.  They turned into these caricatures of whatever I’m feeling at the time.  And, since chairs have arms and legs like people, I quickly jumped to anthropomorphizing them.  This allows me to inject a sense of humor into a darker subject matter.

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The chairs are still self portraits; I think they always will be to some extent.  But more than ever now, they’re about leaving a record of an emotion with which, hopefully, someone else can connect.  We cannot understand what one another are feeling entirely.  But we can try.  If I can capture an emotion I have felt and present it through a funny-looking chair, perhaps it can help me connect with someone in a way I never have before.