The Strange Power of Looking Into Someone’s Eyes—Even Through Art
We live in an age where we’re bombarded with faces. Selfies, Zoom calls, TikTok close-ups—our digital lives are saturated with images of humanity. Yet, paradoxically, we’ve never felt more disconnected. That’s what makes the Red Brick Center for the Arts’ exhibition “Nearness” so intriguing. It’s not just another collection of portraits; it’s a deliberate, almost defiant, invitation to slow down and confront the uncomfortable, beautiful act of really seeing another human being. And honestly, I think we’re all starving for that kind of connection.
Why Portraits Still Matter in 2026
Let’s address the elephant in the gallery: Why portraits? In an era where AI can generate hyper-realistic faces in seconds, why should we care about hand-painted or photographed ones? Because the artists in “Nearness” aren’t just capturing appearances—they’re dissecting what it means to exist in relation to others. Take Jack Fox’s work, for instance. He photographs young people during life transitions, those awkward in-between moments where freedom and responsibility collide. To me, this isn’t just about youth culture; it’s a mirror held up to our collective anxiety about growing up in a world that demands we stay “productive” and “optimized” 24/7. What happens to identity when every phase of life feels like a performance?
The Secret Rebellion of Shelly Safir Marolt’s Paintings
Then there’s Shelly Safir Marolt, whose vibrant portraits layer memory and repetition like a visual mantra. Her fashion design background isn’t just a biographical footnote—it’s the key to understanding her work. Fashion is about surface, persona, the masks we wear. But Marolt peels that back, using the same bold colors and patterns to reveal the messiness beneath. One thing that fascinates me is how her pieces force viewers to reconcile aesthetic pleasure with emotional discomfort. You’re drawn in by the dazzling colors, only to realize you’re staring at a face fractured by the weight of love and loss. Isn’t that the most human paradox? We dress up our inner chaos in bright, marketable hues.
Shawna Miller’s Radical Act of Touch
Perhaps the most provocative work comes from Shawna Miller, who focuses on mother-child bonds and physical closeness. In a post-pandemic world still grappling with the trauma of isolation, this feels almost radical. Miller’s art isn’t sentimental—it’s confrontational. She dares to ask: When did touch become dangerous? and Why do we associate intimacy with risk? What many overlook here is that her portraits aren’t just about comfort; they’re political statements. They challenge the hyper-individualism that dominates modern life, suggesting that our bodies themselves are sites of resistance against alienation.
The Bigger Picture: Art as a Cure for Digital Numbness
Here’s the thing most people don’t say out loud: We’re exhausted by screens. Our devices promise connection but deliver distraction. That’s why exhibitions like “Nearness” matter—they’re a form of visual therapy. By forcing us to engage with faces that can’t be scrolled past, they train our brains to recapture the art of attention. From my perspective, this isn’t just about art; it’s about reclaiming our humanity from the algorithms that reduce us to data points. Imagine if we approached every interaction with the same curiosity we bring to a gallery wall—asking not just “What does this person look like?” but “What stories are written in their eyes?”
Final Thoughts: The Danger of Looking Too Closely
I’ll admit something: Writing this has made me uneasy. Analyzing “Nearness” has forced me to confront my own habits—how often I skim through social media profiles without truly seeing the humans behind them. The exhibition’s greatest trick is its simplicity. It uses the oldest trick in the book—the human face—to remind us that connection isn’t complicated, but it is hard. It requires vulnerability. It demands time. And in a world obsessed with speed, maybe that’s the most subversive act of all. If you go, don’t rush through. Stay until the portraits start to feel a little too familiar. That discomfort? That’s where the real conversation begins.
