Isabella Whitfield: Best Regards,

Traditionally used to end letters and emails, “Best regards,” is a semi-formal farewell that owes its politeness to its ambiguity. The sign-off serves as a backdrop for Isabella’s Whitfield’s debut solo exhibition at Hamiltonian Artists.

The ensemble of artworks appear dormant—that is, until given life through sight. The objects Whitfield chooses to reference and render by way of casting and papermaking invite closer inspection, seducing the mind into a series of projected phantasms. Comprised of materials like bronze, medical cotton, steel, abaca¹, flax, laundry sheets, and coffee, the naturalistic yet curious presence of Whitfield’s work lends itself a spectral quality I can only liken to the cracked surface and shrouded interiors of fallen tree husks—sturdy but granular; ambiguous yet deeply familiar. I wouldn’t be surprised if nymphs lived here, gently guiding viewers from object to object while remaining out of sight. For this very reason, it’s hard to imagine that this pasture of consideration has a direct intention.

Excluding three works on paper, the exhibition primarily consists of sculptures. Upon entering the space, you are greeted with How to hold your breath for over a minute in under a minute (2024), a lung-shaped structure that looks to be cast from a child’s life jacket, with smaller bronze adornments dangling from its underside. On the opposite side of that wall lives How to Make a Calendar (2020), a large tapestry made of semi-opaque fabric, paired with How to Call a Spade a heart (pt I) (2024), a medium-sized paperwork minimally protruding off the wall, and draped over a towel rod. These three works live in the foyer of the exhibition. They introduce what I believe to be a key conceptual concern within Whitfield’s work: object-making as an exercise of association. Pushing viewers to ponder, “Am I sure I’m looking at what I’m looking at?” Her work plays on both expectation and curiosity, as if each object’s surface is embedded with two truths and a lie.

Whitfield’s technical approach and design language conjure a kind of ironic agency within the viewer. Meaning-making is contingent on us actively projecting intent on the body of work, creating a call-and-response relationship between maker and viewer. This quizzical approach to viewership is refreshing—obviously, there’s an intention here, but it is not visible to me, nor do I find it necessary for the viewing experience. Her technical approach is broad and spontaneous, using multimedia applications to create unfamiliar structures with the same form as everyday objects.

As you roam through the gallery, the next artwork you encounter is How to stop a cycle (2023). The transitional gesture, a bronze casting of a train track no larger than the size of my palm, lives between the foyer and the main body of the exhibition How to recall a message (2024). This sweeping installation consists of fifty “wet-floor” signs cast from medical-grade cotton, positioned in a repetitive grid with enough space for viewers to maneuver through the gallery’s center. 

Instead of a bright, cautionary yellow, the signs take on a range of drab pastel hues that correspond with the broader exhibition’s color palette. This assertive object whose messaging we rely upon for public safety is made quiet, stripped of its utility. What was once these objects’ original context and function, now pose an imminent threat: a wet floor causing them to disintegrate. Dehydrated and removed from their intended purpose, these husks convey a detachment from their function.

Occupying a large part of the floor space, these objects bring attention to the other works mounted on the wall: How to call a spade a heart (pt II) (2024) and How to call a spade a heart (pt III) (2024), two medium-sized paperworks draped, with the only visible iconography being an opaque, white housekey. These two pieces are viewed from a distance, creating separations due to the lack of walking space. I wonder, what doors might these keys open? 

And finally, a small, figurine-like steel sculpture titled How to know it’s real (2023) peers down at me from the top-left corner of the gallery. I presumed these nymphs—one horse; one Pegasus—would not be directly conversing with the body of work on the ground. Initially, I assumed they were a humorous gesture, our comrades of discovery. Their silhouettes, the only figures in the exhibition, are suspended so high in the gallery, that they overlook the herbage of this pasture. Existing outside of the broader exhibition’s ecosystem, where one would typically expect to see a surveillance camera, this discreet yet playful gesture destabilizes recognition and brings an air of whimsy—as if these sprites are gleefully anticipating how viewers might respond to their uncanny appearance.

Whitfield’s exhibition is a meditation on material—how implicit memory informs viewership and the affect of objects that surround us. Best Regards, offers a playful space of uncanny interpretations, designed to entertain and amuse. Like stories, Whitfield’s work finds its authenticity through its porous nature, its ability to reflect the intersections that exist between the lived experiences each of us hold. As such, the exhibition’s viewers both build and sustain Best Regards,’s folklore. Together, we cement the collective memory of the structures presented.

R. Treshawn Williamson is an essayist and multidisciplinary artist based in Chicago, IL.

1. Native to the Philippines, abaca is a strong, natural fiber that comes from the leaf stalks of the banana plant. ↩︎