Performing as a terrifying monarch, Emily Slaughter holds a long lock of hair in her teeth. (Is it the remainder of an errant subject?) She emits howling, grunting sounds. Her truly frightening performance, titled The Queen, plays on a continuous loop inside POMP, a fascinating exhibition from eight Baltimore women at the Fifth Dimension, most often a performance venue. The show examines how we express our beliefs through the accoutrements of pageants and parades.

Sarah Matson, Disease Chair. Photo by Alex Ebstein, Posted on http://thereweretentigers.blogspot.com
From a distance, Sarah Matson’s chair in POMP, covered in celadon silk, beckons me, offering a place to relax. But as I draw closer, I see that its surface is covered with wandering patterns created with lace, ruffles, and tufted fabric. The glistening surface of the slipcover is occasionally punctuated with small, horn-like projections, each topped by antenna (stamens from artificial flowers) that would tickle you if you dared to sit down.
Sarah revealed to me in a conversation that these are fiber lesions and the chair, despite its elegant beauty, is sick, perhaps with something serious, like cancer. At this, I can’t help myself. I imagine an entire house filled with slip-covered furniture, each piece the victim of a different ailment. This might be even more disquieting than bed bugs!
Stefani Levin shows Collection, dozens of miniature felt flags arranged carefully in lines across the wall. Each flag bears a small found object—most are the tiny items girls treasure in their dollhouse days.

Artworks by Alex Worthington. Photo by Alex Ebstein, Posted on http://thereweretentigers.blogspot.com
Alex Worthington’s series of medals, made of wood, tin, and coated pewter, are meant to hang from heavy chains—on the wall or maybe even from a neck. My favorite, inscribed “Years of tremble. Don’t leave me there,” reminds me of two of my dear friends’ happy love story. In a New York City disco 20 years ago, at closing time, one said to the other, “You’re not leaving me here, are you?”—and no one has left yet!
Smaller but equally appealing, Alex’s Heirlooms of Forest Legends contain gesturing hands scratched into circular, oval, or heart shapes. The fingers seem to form messages, their meaning just beyond my comprehension.
Two pieces by Amy Boone-McCreesh provoke extremely different moods. All Hail is cheerful in excess—pink and white fabric, netting, and shredded tissue paper spill from a cone stuffed with small red and pink balls—maybe candy. Across the room, in Solitary Circle of Nothing, a forlorn wreath hangs above a form that must be a head. You can’t see the head’s features, but you feel its pain as five skewers punctuate it.
The show also includes work by Clarissa Gregory, Sarah Jablecki, and Antoinette Suitor. You can see POMP by appointment until September 4. Email POMPappt@gmail.com.













Memories were also honored in Katti Sta. Ana’s clay “memory vessels,” which she made with senior students at Jubilee Arts, Baltimore Clayworks’ satellite location in Sandtown. Her installation featured three of these large memory vessels made to contain written reflections and symbolic mementos of her students’ memorable life experiences (joyful or painful) and plans for their future. Each vessel conveyed a different mood. In one, fresh green leaves bent outward in welcome. The two other vessels were covered by clay leaves or shells, their contents concealed. 



Behind the Curtain of Hair







Plants were everywhere—growing out of sofa arms, backs, and pillows, scattered across a coffee table in old take-out containers. But wait, these were not house plants from a florist, but weeds. They could have come from the alley behind my house or (sorry) my overgrown yard.




Shaun Flynn’s


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Doreen Bolger is always on the move because she can’t stop seeing, supporting, and writing about the arts in and around Baltimore City. Her lengthy love affair for the arts began in Long Island when her father, an executive in the textile industry, brought home breathtaking fabrics every night from the heart of the garment district.