Stavanger, Norway
I was always bad at keeping a diary. Which is an odd thing for a writer to admit, but paging through the magnificent painted journals of Torill Brosten, I sense that depending on words was where I went wrong. Brosten fills notebooks with all-over abstract compositions, glorious layers of color and texture and shape, in between which she records dates completed, the names of paint and other materials used, and occasional philosophical notes to self. (These last are in Norwegian, so for me, the experience remains primarily wordless.) Like an entry in a diary, each work is done in a day, recording the relevant thoughts, feelings, impulses or experiences. One can revisit older entries to notice tendencies, patterns, the rhythms of a life lived. A great number would make worthwhile stand-alone paintings—and sometimes Brosten does blow them up to larger scale—but to have so many gathered together page after page in books, for intimate handling, overwhelms and thrills. I could look at her Visual Diaries all day, but better would be to make them.
—Lori Waxman, March 18, 12:36 PM