Discover MFA Programs in Art and Writing

Rose Nestler, Spun Out, 2021, fabric, tulle, foam, thread, wood, paint, staples, cork, 60 × 60 × 13 inches. Courtesy of Mrs.

Rose Nestler and I have been studio neighbors for about four years, sharing a wall, snacks, tools, occasional angst, and encouragement. Dropping in at frequent intervals, I have often been amazed to see a brilliantly witty, outstandingly freakish, impeccably constructed object be created and carted off to a show. And then a new, completely different sculpture full of wit and freakishness follows, and another. Each time, I wonder how could something be funnier, how could something be weirder, or more gorgeous, than the thing I have just seen? But something else always emerges: the language becomes more complex, the workmanship finer. This spring, an entire studio full of such objects went off to her current solo exhibition at Mrs., a gallery in Queens, New York. Unlike most of our conversations, this one did not take place over a wall, but across two keyboards, and it gave me the opportunity to ask questions beyond those that can be covered in a snack break. 

Sheryl Oppenheim  I’m curious about the title of this new show, too bad for heaven, too good for hell, with its defiant and sexy implications. I think defiant and sexy are also words I would use to describe your work. I’m wondering what led you to this title, which also feels like a departure from your previous exhibition titles. 

Rose Nestler Well, it’s definitely more dramatic and wordy than some of my previous show titles! I chose it because it speaks to the space where monotheistic religion, specifically Christianity, historically placed otherworldly, supernatural, or mythological figures. Take, for example, fairies; within their name is the Latin root meaning fate. I’m interested in the power or control these mythical figures—most often portrayed as women—have wielded throughout time and how that is blatantly at odds with the reality of patriarchy. I also liked this show title because it refers to all that’s caught up with being a “good girl” and a “bad girl.”

SO Your sculptures have previously amplified the strangeness of many gendered aspects of contemporary Western culture: sports bras, power suits, templates for facelifts, high heels. There is also a dialogue with much older costumes, like the gigantic pink ruff. I’m curious about the way your work has changed in the last couple of years to merge the body with objects that we don’t think of as clothing. There’s the vinyl tool bag with legs or the velvet stage set with tongues. What do you think spurred this shift? For lack of a more precise way of putting it, I’ll say it’s a shift toward work that is less literal. 

RN Great question, and thank you for the observation! I think over time I wanted to get at what was most interesting about these culturally specific clothes and wearables. I saw these things that I was reinterpreting in my work as containers and shells, and that became what I wanted to talk about, which spurred the bags, house, furniture, and stage pieces—places and objects that hold things—that relate to a human body as a container as well. 

Rose Nestler, Flying Ointment #1, 2022, wood, rope, broomcorn, 44 × 45 inches. Courtesy of Mrs.

SO There are two sculptures of double-ended brooms in the exhibition at Mrs. that face each other on opposite walls. In one sculpture the broom heads face away from each other from either side of an undulating wooden handle; in the other, they face down and away from the sharp angle where both sides meet. They caught my attention because I hadn’t previously seen them in your studio, but also because unlike the other wall works the human and female body is not obviously present here. They are not carved stone nor are they sewn. I’d love to hear you talk about how these came to be. 

RN Yes, the brooms are a new material and form for me! They really were born from a point of research into flying ointment, which is a psychotropic balm made of animal fat and psychoactive flowers. This balm is the root of the folklore about witches flying broomsticks. It was thought that witches would use a dildo-like object, possibly a broom, to insert the balm and would cackle and feel lifted with great ecstasy. Of course this was used against women in witch trials, but I loved all that was wrapped up in this myth, domestic object, psychedelic experience, etc. 

I envisioned the brooms fairly early in the process of planning the show. I wanted to bring a surreal, otherworldly, and bodily connection to the broomstick as an object. By making  them double-ended, I wanted to take them out of their function for cleaning and bring up a purely aesthetic duality while also hinting at two feet or two hands. The mounts that hang the brooms are medium-density fiberboard that’s been covered in a silicone skin. I wanted that to feel like the ointment—a sexual, sticky core capable of some kind of wood-bending magic. 

Rose Nestler, Three Tongues, 2022 velvet, carved soapstone, fabric, thread, batting, wood, staples, epoxy, 29 × 24 × 5 inches. Courtesy of Mrs.

SO When did stone carving become part of your practice? And how does that process relate to or diverge from your sewing practice? 

RN The stone carving for me actually began in grad school when I made a sculptural and video-based piece titled Stone Age Tool Kit. I carved a twenty-four-piece Paleolithic “tool” kit out of small pieces of soapstone and alabaster and sewed a plush velvet case for them! The video was a Home Shopping Network spoof in which I attempted to sell the tool kit. After making that piece I put stone carving on hold for three years, but it inched its way back into the work in 2020 when I made a leather and stone chastity belt. I love the material clash and interaction between stone and fabric; it also connects traditional sculpture materials with less traditional, more craft-based materials. Carving stone feels like a respite from the sewing part of my practice, albeit a really hard and sweaty respite; but it’s more intuitive and subtractive, whereas the sewing is planned, patterned, meticulous, and additive. I think possibly the stone came back into my work because I needed that change between modes of making in the studio. 

Installation view of Rose Nestler: too bad for heaven, too good for hell. Mrs., New York City. Courtesy of Mrs.

SO Ah. That’s interesting to think about the intuitiveness of the stone carving versus the meticulousness of the sewn work. Have there been any surprises in the making of the stone pieces? Did they ever change from what you imagined they would be as you worked? Does that also happen with the sewing? 

RN There are always surprises when carving stone. Sometimes you’re chiseling away and hit a crack and a larger than planned chunk flies off the stone. There’s a lot of flexibility that’s needed with stone carving. You have to work with the natural shape of the stone. So with the stone tongues that I carved for the show, that’s why they all have slightly different curves and arches; I was responding to the shapes of the stone. The biggest and most wonderful surprise is when you get to the sanding stage of the process, and the color and veins of the stone reveal themselves. Before that, you only have a vague idea of what the finished surface will look like. 

With sewing it’s similar in a way. Sometimes I’m drawn to a type of fabric in the fabric store; but when it comes to the sewing, I realize that it’s not meant to be sewn or pulled the way I need it to be for the sculpture I’m making. There’s a lot of trial and error. Similar to stone, fabric will surprise me; leather does too. With textiles, though, I often am pushing materials to do something they’re not meant to. This part of my process is equally rewarding and punishing! 

Rose Nestler: too bad for heaven, too good for hell is on view at Mrs. in New York City until May 7.

Sheryl Oppenheim is a painter and paper marbler, and BOMB’s development associate.

A durational performance that knits a room-sized skirt.

Photographs and textiles that materialize community.

But the idea of transformation has always been something that I romanticize in a work. I’m cautious of it but I also need it to connect my thoughts with the process of making. That’s really important.

BOMB Magazine has been publishing conversations between artists of all disciplines since 1981. BOMB’s founders—New York City artists and writers—decided to publish dialogues that reflected the way practitioners spoke about their work among themselves. Today, BOMB is a nonprofit, multi-platform publishing house that creates, disseminates, and preserves artist-generated content from interviews to artists’ essays to new literature. BOMB includes a quarterly print magazine, a daily online publication, and a digital archive of its previously published content from 1981 onward.

Annually, BOMB serves 1.5 million online readers––44% of whom are under 30 years of age––through its free and searchable archive and BOMB Daily, a virtual hub where a diverse cohort of artists and writers explore the creative process within a community of their peers and mentors. BOMB's Oral History Project is dedicated to collecting, documenting, and preserving the stories of distinguished visual artists of the African Diaspora.

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