Roni Packer
Peeling, flipping, and gashing are in the spectrum of actions
I practice in an endless effort to digest my doubts about artmaking.
In order to swallow the pleasure, I flip, tear, and dig. The
deception of everyday objects having a particular function in the
world calms my anxieties while I am out in the open, though it
stirs them again when I am in the studio. I gouge, cut, and reorder;
it grounds me, reminds me that objects are not sacred. Labor is.
When it comes to color, my doubts seem to disappear. Above all
else, I see myself as a colorist: I use color to trace the relations
between painting and space, in a search for a material presence
that can generate a vague memory. Color is both my servant and
my master.
![](https://nap-master.s3.amazonaws.com/s3fs-public/styles/entry_thumb/public/Packer_pleasing%28brightpink%29A.jpg?YbsR4zlyxHUhpQ1awukJGubOH0bzZ2u4&itok=ya1mdegB)
![](https://nap-master.s3.amazonaws.com/s3fs-public/styles/entry_thumb/public/Packer_pleasing%28yellow%29B.jpg?YU7ByWGxIx3WphnNYLzaFbk2Qy.yLet0&itok=BqS_TuAx)
![](https://nap-master.s3.amazonaws.com/s3fs-public/styles/bio_cover_img/public/Packer%20Headshot.jpg?sUHEb2q4NE8sIImfDqX1Vo0Qf.o2XrBB&itok=NHwrEQTL)