Bijoy Goswami, juror | OVERDRIVE at Lydia Art Salon, November 14 - December 20, 2026
The Blip
Our current moment feels VERY BIG to us. In the larger sweep of history, it is a blip.
I have lived the blip. I was born in India, the world's largest democracy, then moved to Taiwan in 1982, which was a dictatorship run by Chiang Kai-shek's son Chiang Ching-kuo. Only later did I appreciate Taiwan's long history of external rule - the Netherlands, Spain, China and Japan. Taiwan began its bumpy transition to democracy in the late 80s; today, it's a thriving one. We moved to Hong Kong in 1986, also a British colony, and one that had known Japanese occupation during WWII. While technically not a dictatorship, it was a kind of hybrid: the governor was unelected, and the first, indirect elections had only just begun. Hong Kong and Macau have since returned under Chinese rule. My last stop was the US, which also had a turbulent transition from British colony to democracy - and its own near-brush with monarchy. In 1782, under the faltering Articles of Confederation, a colonel named Lewis Nicola wrote to George Washington suggesting he become king. Washington's greatness was in the refusal. After 2 terms as the first US president, he stepped down of his own volition, not because he was constitutionally bound. And it wasn't until the 20th century that term limits were added with the 22nd Amendment.
Democracy is a very recent development - only the last couple of hundred years, since the United States formulated its operation between 1776 and 1803 (I call it ver 2.1.10). The House of Rights lens reads the 12,000 years since the first settlements as a long stretch of authoritarian forms of government, with self-government as the rare exception.
But the blip is ours, and it matters. When Elizabeth Willing Powel asked Benjamin Franklin what the Constitutional Convention had given them, Franklin answered: "A republic, if you can keep it." The keeping is never finished. We are invited to participate and improve how the House of Rights evolves. E pluribus, unum - from many, one.
Valerie Chaussonnet's Tools for the First Amendment - a ceramic loudspeaker, a fountain pen, an ink bottle, a carved #1 - lays the instruments of the keeping out on the table. She made it for America's 250th anniversary, carrying her firsthand memory of totalitarianism in the Soviet Union. Kristy Battani weaves vintage Cuban magazines of the "Red Menace" into tapestry, her warning about a party she sees threatening democratic pillars. Lee Barber's Hands Off; No Kings hangs Franklin's old question - monarchy or republic - on the gallery wall in 2026. These works make the show's opening argument: the form of government we take for granted is two and a half centuries young, and it is ours to keep or to lose.
Art Leads the Way
We have art to lead the way. Art helps us process things before we can build models and frameworks around them. The artists in this show give us an entre-pointe into the processing.
Michelle Ramin renders the overlapping rectangles of a flooded brain: news alerts, messages, open windows. Linda Greene hand-paints the headlines of her doom-scrolling, slowing the feed into still images that ask us to stop, read, feel, think. CP Harrison turns away from what he calls the overdriven visual noise into deliberate monochrome stillness. John Weik reminds us that even our machine panic is a rerun - he quotes Samuel Butler in 1872 and Alan Turing in 1951 worrying about what we now call AI. Lee Barber goes further: in a distracted world, "responding to art's invitation to stop and listen can be a form of dissidence."
The show's direct witnesses insist that we look. Hollyana Melear's The Wall, Wall of Shame, and The Bridge follow the border through her Great Divide series. Melanie Hickerson paints ICE Hunting Migrants at Big Bend. Ramin titles one drawing Everyone Is Welcome Here Except ICE. Lisa Nigro builds her serpents and hearts from discarded materials, in what she calls a throwaway society where even people seem replaceable. This is art doing its oldest job - showing us what we are living through before we have language for it.
Seize yourself
The deepest responsibility we have is to ourselves: to ENJOY our lives, regardless of what is happening in the macro-context and to make our own meaning within our personal House of MEaning. I’ve amended “carpe diem” (seize the day) to “carpe sui” (seize yourself) as the motto for this House. Karen Woodward's The Sun is New Every Day lays an exhausted man down in the grass under floating bright suns. Chad Rea calls his practice "heartivism": joy chosen on purpose, as rebellion. Gary Flemmons puts angel wings on an ordinary woman in a baseball cap in Sara, and gives us Persistence - a small bronze figure patiently watering one tiny flower. Darden Smith looks for beauty in the everyday and grace in the overlooked.
And we turn to each other, build our community, steward our journeys. Abby Cucco's In Sickness and In Health is the village showing up - rides, meals, phone calls, "I've got you."
Notice what hope looks like here. It is not optimism; it is maintenance - stitching, watering, tending. L. Katherine Roberts mends her assemblages with needles and thread, "the small, tangible and symbolic acts of many" as the path to healing a nation. This is community as a practice and a method, not a sentiment.
OVERDRIVE cuts both ways: the world coming at us too fast, and the engine that answers it. None of these artists escape. They confront, they mend, they tend - and they invite us into the work. The artists lead the way. A republic, if you can keep it. A life, if you can seize it.