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I obsess about how fine a line I can do; ultimately, I love seeing all the little black lines that I’ve painted come together to create an image.’ Despite the striking maturity of her work, Susan has been working in ceramic art for less than a decade.

For many years she worked as an art director/designer in advertising.

That sentence he said, reminded me of Jacob Biton’s poetry who wrote about himself and his brother Dogan facing their grandma’s death, the big mother.

In his meticulous photograph there is something primary, physical like a bone cracking out of skin. » Yaara Shehori The photographs & text were originally published in "The Hottest Place In Hell" magazine, May 7th, 2015 Victorian ornithologists and botanists would have heartily commended Susan Hipgrave’s remarkable series of hand-painted plates.

At the tip of every photograph lies the materiality, the labor, the dead bird, the masculine body, the boyish body; And similarly there are the two brothers, the twins, one brother holding the other, a hug or a first grasping in front of the world; And when he spoke, I suddenly thought of a child, who must recreate a scene over and over again; The methods improves but the tongue is repeating the old saying “this is me and my brother”, pointing the truth, does things with words; or in Biton’s words “Dogan won life itself. The meticulous execution (each extra-fine brushstroke adding an important detail), the resulting life-like renditions and the consistent format (monochromatic black on white; identical one-size ceramic plates) adhere to the ethos of scientific study.

As well they tell a story of fearlessness allowing whoever wears these objects of art to be transformed; bringing out inner confidence and strength.Creates some kind of life and death erotica, horrible and beautiful.Erotica of exploitation, defiance and embarrassment, and sadness.He spoke about dead birds, I remembered birds interested him back then as well, in Bezalel. See, those are birds that people don’t usually put inside their freezer, long winged, magnificent, fragile. He told me about the freezer, the cooler where a dead bird is each time carried into the club he photographs in, waiting for the right, crucial moment.I was immediately sorry I hadn’t thought of it myself, that I hadn’t stolen him from life, into my story.