Nuns fret not

ABRI MARS is honored to announce _Nuns fret not_, [Stephanie Lucchese](https://abrimars.com/artists/stephanie-lucchese)'s debut New York solo exhibition. Lucchese paints quiet yet disorienting liminal scenes with no hierarchy among the elements depicted, combining background and foreground, subject and object, light and form; where alluded, headless beings are satiated by the ephemerality of all things, silently delighting in the comforts of dwelling in the dark twilight of illusive woodlands. The end of the afternoon brings with it the coldness in the death of all things that were before, and the mystery of what is yet to come. It's an in-between space within time where the light of day dissolves into pale blue hues, and everything is swallowed by shadows, clouding the vision and causing a strange sense of longing for everything that is not there. Liminality in space is shaped by human absence, yet it can also evoke a cognitive state of transition between an old reality and a new one—an ambiguous experience marked by distress and unease, but also overflowing with fertile openness. Dusk creates a similar shifting cycle, blurring the boundaries between an unlit world and spectral dream-images, as the human eye searches the obscurity for forms trying to summon them into known figuration. Except Lucchese is not concerned with things seen, for her works reveal a sense of stillness that refuses to surrender to norms–whether from human or nature's creation–challenging the implied discomfort brought by thresholds of subconsciousness. She materializes beauty in states of suspension and creates slumbering reflections of pleasure in metaphorical twilights. _Nuns Fret Not (At their Convent's Narrow Room)_ articulates the possibility of rest amid strangeness and transience, a form of reassurance in finding serenity in perpetual crepuscular liminality. William Wordsworth wrote the poem which shares the title with this solo exhibition. It is an invitation to quietude in untroubled, delightful existences, "In truth the prison, into which we doom / Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me / In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound."