an interview with Joyce Dibona
article by Jordan Weeks
photos by Steve Dodds
THE ENTRANCE TO the DiBona art studio is tucked behind an eclectic collection of South Austin homes and churches, bordering Bouldin Creek. Steve and I pulled into a dirt driveway and coasted to a stop as four Hispanic men ambled up alongside the car. They seemed curIous, but in no hurry to engage us.
“Hi, we’re looking for Joyce DiBona?”I asked one of the more corpulent and tattooed of the group. He pulled his phone out and replied, “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, we just got in from Europe. We’ve been here only 12,000 years.” He didn’t seem to be joking, but we laughed anyway, and started toward a set of ranch doors.
“Hey Joyce,” he said into his phone, “You have some visitors.” He smiled at us and nodded, just as a tall, slender woman with long brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes came out to greet us. She was dressed in black cargo pants, black sandals, and an attractive black knit top. A waft of Hindustani perfume followed her close by, and she waved us in, while waving the smoke away. “I just burned some incense, I hope it’s not too strong.”
A bright-green parrot squealed at us in a cage by the door, while behind the back fence two mixed-breeds quietly panted at us. As we entered the high-ceilinged studio, paintings on the wall seemed to jump out of their frames. Vivid, dynamic scenes and portraits flowed floor to ceiling, including several female figures with a Central/South-American feel to them. Looking down, both Steve and I halted in our tracks and stood on our toes. Apparently, she was working on an oil piece on the floor — about nine feet long, half that wide. “This is my editor, Steve Dodds, he’s going to be shooting for this story,” I said, reaching over the painting to shake. She took my hand and stepped on top of the canvas, walking over it toward Steve. I laughed and said,“I thought you were working on that...”“Oh, that’s one of the floor cloths I’ve done,” she said, pointed to two more nearby. “These are conventional rug sizes, 6 x 9, 4 x 6, but I also do whatever I feel like doing — weird sizes. “This is one of the things I do: fine art as part of the living environment that’s different from what’s normally perceived.”
We walked around the upper level, which also displayed several sculptures. A mannequin torso, covered in stark, prison tattoos, stood headless and armless on a pedestal. A statue of a child with one arm extended stood by the nearby door.
The upper half of a female mannequin, head festooned with cyborg-like eyepieces and an open stomach cavity sprang to life as I walked by, triggered by my motion. Parts cranked and thrummed inside her body, a small heart-like bulb on a stem dropped down, and a green LED panel lit up with the words, “A nation is not conquered until the hearts of its women are on the ground. — Cheyenne proverb.” Her skin flowed with organic brown and blue patterns, face both serene and clinical, with her luscious lips and metal parts fused to her head. Arms and hands cradling her belly, pregnant with an open cavity of computer parts. None of the electronics were superfluous: each wire, weld, blinking LED, and chip board was seated inside for a purpose.
“This piece was featured at Wiscon-24, a convention of feminist science-fiction writers and artists. I do a lot of robotics, and found that most of the stuff out there is very mechanistic, machine-like. I did this to bring a more feminist outlook to the show. In fact, this won the award for “Most Feminist” at Wiscon-24.”
She guided us to the lower split-level of the studio, where a floor cloth hung on the wall, frameless, a swirl of feathered colors converging