In a world that seems to overvalue simplicity, Alison Hall prefers the complex: complex methods, complex patterns, complex results. In many ways, this approach, her persistent belief in the inherent value of the historical, should be celebrated. Hall, a painter, uses traditional techniques – many layers of hand-made gesso, heating marble dust and rabbit skin glue, then sanded to perfection – to produce sublime results.

This historicity, this authenticity, underpins every aspect of her practice. Having fixed her ground, she explores her field. Hall’s preference? Pattern and repetition, intricate graphite systems inspired by Byzantium then mapped on indigo and black grounds, although her compositions might feel equally as Moorish. Even more nuanced, complex geometries are not often the subject matter for most abstraction, where simpler rectangles, squares, circles, and ovals tend to reveal themselves far more readily.

Yet Hall’s geometries are more subtle. Her shapes aren’t perfect. Instead, it is as if she is challenging the very nature of formalism, allowing irregularities to humanize both the image and the artist. Hall’s circles become hexagons; each single dot, every miniscule circle, proves that repetition is revelatory. One of the great delights of Byzantine mosaics is how variation equals depth. There’s no requirement for every space to be filled, nor every ceramic or glass tile to be perfectly uniform. That’s the beauty of the handmade, of course, that it invites imperfection.

Hall’s emphasis on the poetic is simply another layer of exploration. Her titles, each a variation of hymn, ode, or ballad, may provide some further insight into her works. It isn’t as if the title provides a map, but instead suggests the concepts of systems and regularity. Ballads are often set to music; hymns have formal patterns within their stanzas; and odes, a type of poem traditionally written to celebrate an event. Study the variations in Hall’s works, and these variations become apparent.

The hymns are the most structured, repeating patterns of two, and four. In A Hymn (for the illuminations), the pattern oscillates visually between horizontal and vertical. The horizontal reads like meter, the vertical like punctuation. In A Hymn (for the Queen), Hall’s patterns seem longer, more pictorial, her horizontals pushing left to right, while her verticals emerge from top toward bottom.

The odes are more enigmatic. If an ode honors a person, or event, Hall makes this manifest in Ode (for the good times), where cubes emerge in the lower center, the shapes sharing as much with contemporary conceptualists and geometric abstractionists as they do with any historical inspiration. In some sense, that’s the result of the totality of geometry, of a language that, when other points of agreement failed, seemed to serve as an equalizing force. Focus where you will, on Pythagoras, or Euclid, or elsewhere, but the persistence and regularity of geometry is universal. Yes, Pythagoras also thought it was spiritual, and in
many ways, it may be.

Add in the power of a restrained palette – Hall’s primary colors are black, and blue – and we’re compelled to focus more closely on how each instance differs. If the Odes and the Hymns seem consistent, the Ballads, all indigo, are something else entirely. Sure, they may share some formal similarities, and Hall’s dots may emerge to construct shapes, but here it is as if structure has failed, as the very idea of imperfection is the key. Gestures seem dynamic, like the shape at the left center of A Ballad (for the revelation.) Or, consider A Ballad (for the double wide), where the colloquialism of the title doesn’t seem to mirror the fastidiousness of the work. Of course, Hall tempers the complexity of her technique through titling, making references to every type of everyday encounter. Sure, some are more archaic than others, but in general, they’re light. Cowlicks. Coupons. The made bed. It is as if Hall understands that even if you can’t comprehend her process immediately, you can connect with the idea. And that ballad about the girls? Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson made it a hit.

Across a dozen works, Alison Hall invites us into her world of the intimately familiar. Working in a method so meticulous it seems almost beyond comprehension, she takes a technique and creates a connection. How she works is only part of the story; what she says, and how she says it, reveal the rest. Yes, you’ll see the pattern. The recognition may take a little more reflection.