Unearthed (2019)
Unearthed (2019)
Adam Halls
Paint, fabric and thread
198 x 145 cm
Private collection of the author
“It’s not a painting.”
I’ve lost track of the number of people that have caused me to utter that disclaimer. To be fair to those who have misunderstood this artwork, it’s impossible to see that it isn’t actually a painting until you see it in person. And most of the people who have seen it, which is a rather large number of people I know, have only ever seen this artwork via video conference. That’s because my acquisition and hanging of this very large piece of work coincided with the need to have an engaging backdrop for what would turn out to be many years of video catch-up chats, Zoom pub quizzes, one Zoom wedding and countless days of working remotely thanks to the lockdowns.
People would often comment that it looked like some kind of blood red sky, possibly late evening crimson rays blasting their way though clouds of grey. I can see why they’d say that, especially when squinting at a small video square on their smartphone. But those who’ve been fortunate to see it in person rarely stand far enough back to assess the overall composition. In person everyone gets quite close. They lean in and squint. They begin to study and appreciate how meticulously detailed all of those shapes are, because now they can finally see that they’ve all been created with strands of thread.
It’s stitched.
The artist is Adam Halls, a textile artist and painter based in Cornwall and his “painting” really isn’t a painting, at least not in the traditional sense. He blends acrylic and thread on fabric into abstract, organic patterns inspired by the colours and intricate details of algae, lichens, rust, and other weathered surfaces he encounters on an ancestral farm. This particular work was made during a time when Halls was renovating a barn, handling decaying timber and extracting rusted metals and machinery from the muck. The process inspired both the colours and title: Unearthed.
I like knowing that story that Adam shared with me. It adds context and emotion without assigning any definitive meaning. Like all good art, the final interpretation is still left to the viewer. Embarrassingly, however, I did have to reach out to the artist to get a definitive answer about another aspect of this artwork: Which way was up?
I didn’t take any pictures when I viewed and made the offer for this work. I was then out of town and had to delay delivery for a month, so by the time it arrived and had been unpacked it was like embracing a relative you haven’t seen in years. Instantly recognisable, but then you start to notice new details. Unearthed happened to have fixings at both the top and bottom, intended to let you hang it so that it sits tight to the wall. What it didn’t have, however, were any arrows or other indications as to which was the top and which was the bottom. I reached out to the artist via Instagram and he validated the correct way for me to hang it, but also confirmed that ultimately it could be oriented any way I wanted. It is, after all, an abstract. That brings me to the main reason why I like it.
While I find the the colours and composition eye catching, they’re not the reason why I acquired this artwork. In fact, I’m not even sure this artwork would have gotten a second glance had it been an oil on canvas. The lure for me is the materiality.
It is filled with simple little shapes connected by meandering branches that weave their way around an expanse of fabric, created by thousands and thousands of machine stitches that Halls patiently spends weeks to make. A few are simple and organised. Most are heavily layered, randomly criss-crossing over themselves to create bulked up bulges. Scattered throughout you’ll spot loose ends that haven’t been clipped. If you zoom in to this artwork you can get lost in little worlds of thread.
That’s why I like it.
It’s art that tugs at my heart strings.
Additional reading:
Artist Website: adamhalls.co.uk
Artist Instagram: @adamhallsart
Previously, on Why I Like It:
Dec — Cow Parade (1998-present)
Nov — The Shadow (2024), Albano Hernández
Oct — ultraviolence (2021), Kate Dunn