Federico Bianchi Contemporary Art is pleased to announce “Bright Days Are Here”, an exhibition of new paintings and drawings by Tel Aviv based artist Arik Miranda. Forgoing the politics of art in order to bring the focus back to art itself, Miranda's work depicts moments which we often take for granted—the halcyon of the night, the glow of a campfire or streetlight and nature falling on the ground. The minimalist compositions included in this exhibition trace the connection between Japanese aesthetics and Judaica through clarity and modesty.

Bright Days Are Here

There is a gap between Arik Miranda's titles and his art. This gap is crucial for grasping Miranda's endeavors. This gap is inherent to the beauty of the work and its wisdom. Miranda's titles suggest narrative, while the work itself bares the very minimal intervention - one that barely leaves its marks on the paper, and all together avoids "story telling" conventions. In other words, Miranda's work flirts, first and for most, with the notion of time. It playfully and carefully establishes time code's binaries, only to pull the rug under the very same establishment.  

Joseph  

"Bright Days Are Here" is an optimistic celebration with a certain naiveté assumption  attached to it; one that encapsulates a sense of prophecy - a blessed prophecy. But not quite like Joseph, there's no room for "seven bad years" in Miranda’s title. One might call it Utopia.  

"Bright Days Are Here", not singular but rather plural; "days", many of them, not less -- are here. And as in utopia there's also an imbedded  temporal and logical paradox, a conflict of time and place which prevents it from being: these upcoming "Days" (future tense) "are here" now (present tense). And so Miranda's prophecy seems to be elusive.

Stripes Gown

Joseph, "the special one", loved dearly by his father, was given a stripes gown - a gown which differentiate him from his brothers.  These stripes were Joseph's trademark.  Metaphorically speaking, Miranda deconstructs Joseph's gown. Each stripe becomes a line; each line is broken into smaller fragments. Then they are woven into new forms, into new images. The lines curve into moon's shape, or maybe the sun? They become trees -- blooming ones, but also ones that allude to gallows. Landscapes, with bare minimum articulation, surfaces  -- they're there, but hardly seen. Miranda's pictorial language is made out of syllables which refuse to turn into full comprehensive sentences.  Rather, they take their chances with a distilled experience that manages to tell so much with so few words.