There’s something hauntingly human about a portrait. It’s not just a face—it’s a portal. When you stare into a painted or photographed visage, you’re not just seeing someone else; you’re confronting your own reflections, your own unspoken questions about who you are and how you relate to the world. The Red Brick Center’s new exhibition, Nearness, doesn’t just showcase art—it invites you to interrogate your own sense of connection. And in a world increasingly defined by screens and superficial interactions, that feels both urgent and deeply necessary.
Let’s be honest: we’ve all scrolled through Instagram profiles, stared at a million filtered faces, and wondered if anyone truly sees us. Nearness dares to ask the opposite question: what if art could make us feel seen? The exhibition’s focus on portraiture isn’t just aesthetic—it’s a rebellion against the noise of modern life. These works aren’t about perfection; they’re about the messy, raw truth of being human. Personally, I think that’s why the show feels so timely. We’re all searching for that elusive ‘nearness’—whether it’s in relationships, memory, or the strange, flickering bonds we form with strangers.
Take Jack Fox’s photographs, for example. His work captures young people in moments of transition, where freedom clashes with life’s demands. What makes this particularly fascinating is how he frames these subjects not as victims of circumstance but as warriors in a silent battle. I can’t help but think of Gen Z, a generation raised on the paradox of infinite choice and existential loneliness. Fox’s images don’t just document their struggles—they ask us to consider what it means to be ‘near’ to someone else when we’re all so fractured by our own internal chaos.
Then there’s Shelly Safir Marolt, whose vibrant portraits are steeped in memory and repetition. Her background in fashion design gives her work a tactile quality, almost like you can feel the fabric of a moment. But what strikes me is how she uses color not just as decoration, but as a language. In her paintings, I see echoes of the way we revisit memories—how they’re never static, always shifting like a kaleidoscope. This raises a deeper question: if memory is a form of art, how do we curate the versions of ourselves we want others to see? And more importantly, how do we reconcile the versions we keep hidden?
Shawna Miller’s exploration of mother-child relationships adds another layer to this conversation. Her work isn’t just about physical proximity; it’s about the emotional gravity of touch, the way a hug can say more than a thousand words. In an age where even the most intimate relationships are mediated by technology, her art feels like a reminder of what we’ve lost—and what we might still salvage. I find it especially interesting that she focuses on the comfort of close physical connection, because it’s a concept many of us have forgotten how to navigate. What does it mean to be ‘near’ someone when our default is to reach for a phone instead of a hand?
What this exhibition really suggests is that art isn’t just about beauty—it’s about survival. These portraits are acts of defiance against a culture that often reduces human connection to a transaction. They’re also a mirror, forcing us to confront how little we truly know about each other. And yet, that’s the power of Nearness: it doesn’t offer answers. It just asks us to look closer, to lean into the discomfort of being seen, and to wonder if maybe, just maybe, we’re not as alone as we think.
