Spirit and Medium: The Video Art of Bill Viola

David Morgan

IN Passage [see Plate 1], a 1987 video installation by artist Bill Viola, you walk twenty-one feet through a narrow, unlit corridor to arrive in a small room. Once there, you face a wall composed entirely of a rear-projection screen upon which appears the videotape of a young child's birthday party. The entire wall is filled by gigantic faces and bodies that move in extreme slow motion (one sixteenth normal speed) along the wall, and the sounds of the party are so highly amplified that they reverberate within the body of the viewer. The images are so magnified that the scene blurs into ever-shifting patterns of color and the horizontal scanning lines that comprise the video screen. Since the room in which you stand is only eight feet deep, you cannot gain much distance from the screen. If you back down the passageway to get a better view of Viola's video, most of the image is blocked. In short, there is no optimal point from which to view the video and assemble it into a coherent narrative whole even though the subject matter is intelligible. The obvious questions—Whose birthday party is this? Where is this taking place? What are the children and their parents saying?—never get answered. By disjointing sound and image, reducing the soundtrack to ominous, rolling, tympany-like cataracts of sound, the artist causes the imagery to unfold as if in a dream. The result is unsettling, the estrangement of a very familiar subject; Passage turns four-year-olds into surreal colossi. In an age dominated by television and photojournalism, Viola undermines the documentary character of video.

For those familiar with the art world there is nothing new about video as an artistic medium. Spanning a history of nearly four decades, video installations have become a dominant avant-garde art form in the United States at the end of the old millennium and the beginning of the new. But for the uninitiated, video hasn't lost its strangeness, its challenge. There are several good reasons why video art poses difficulties for viewers. One is that video requires the viewer to occupy real time in order to experience the medium. The minutes pass slowly in a video installation. The average gallery or museum visitor spends only a few seconds before each painting or sculpture. Videos take time. With video, you can't whisk through marble halls and take everything in as a disembodied eye. Video requires you to stand as a body in a public space among other bodies and wonder what to do with yourself, your material self, as you spend anywhere from two minutes to an unbearable ten or twenty watching a stream of images on a monitor or projected onto a wall. There is something about the act of looking in museums that tends to make the viewer unaware of herself. Video installations challenge this by making you visible to yourself—you become a social presence confronting yourself and others, perhaps even becoming part of the art work itself.

The issue of the body—the one seen and the one doing the seeing—is an important part of video art. It's hard to talk about the body and what it knows because the body's language is visceral, its states ephemeral. Whenever we think about our own bodies we know that we feel, but it is hard to find words to represent those stubbornly inexpressible states of being. So we rely on metaphors to convey our feelings and sensations to others. Movie theaters provide soft chairs and a dark room for viewers to forget themselves, including their bodies. But video installations in gallery spaces are altogether different. They are very often about the act of viewing and the time it takes to do so. They prompt a spatial and temporal self-consciousness that makes us uneasy.

The time-based nature of video is closely related to another reason for its difficulty. Video artists like Bill Viola are very good at using this medium to anatomize human perception, dissecting its mechanics and ideologies. Seeing the machinery of vision subverted—whether it is clips of eye surgery, rooms darkened almost beyond the threshold of perception, or the disorientation caused by the sudden jerks of the moving imagery and jarring sounds—produces an awareness of how commonly we rely on fixed conventions and frameworks in "ordinary" perception. Passage, for instance, makes one aware that the solidity and familiarity of the world depends very much on the distance one views it from. Human perception is a bio-mechanical construction of appearances. And memory, the perception of time, is a highly interpretive faculty. If the narrow corridor is the "passage" to the past, which is replayed as the massive image of the party on the wall, the room itself is the inner chamber of memory in which the raw sense data of experience are played and replayed. It's as if Viola has constructed a spatial metaphor of memory in order to show that the "you-are-there" experience we posit as the authoritative basis of memory, the trace of the original moment preserved faithfully in the mind, is itself incapable of resolution.

Much of Bill Viola's work since the mid-1970s reflects on video as a medium and engages in a search for its metaphorical capabilities. If Viola's work is occasionally "difficult" it is because of the ideas he wishes us to consider as we experience his installations. Despite this difficulty, there is a theatricality and a rich metaphorical suggestiveness in the last twenty years of Viola's videos that is both a signature of his work and the reason why most viewers find it engaging. Consider The Crossing (1996) [see back cover], the piece used to begin the twenty-five year retrospective of Viola's art at the Art Institute of Chicago last year. On a double-sided screen over twelve feet high are projected, one on each side, images of a man (who resembles the artist) walking toward the viewer. The screens begin as dark, wavering fields of black and gray, reminiscent of Rothko paintings. But these pictures move. They are animated with light and sound and the small image of the figure at a distance, walking in slow motion. His loose shirt and pants flicker as he approaches, his image assembled from ill-defined, shifting patches of the horizontal linear patterning of video. When he has reached a position a few feet from the picture plane, standing at a height of seven or eight feet, the man stops and stares at the viewer. On one side of the screen a small tongue of flame appears between his feet. On the other side, water begins to drip and splash on top of his head. As if conjured, the flames leap as the man raises his arms from his side; the drops of water become a torrent. The sounds of crashing water and crackling flames rise in volume with what we see. In a moment the flames engulf the figure, consuming him in their roar, his clothing appears to turn dark. A moment later the figure vanishes in the thick flames and the cascade of water. Then each subsides and the scene is left empty of man and elements.

The Crossing displays in dramatic fashion the immolation and inundation of a man, a towering figure who creates and succumbs to his destruction by fire and water, opposite forces of destruction in nature. This short video installation is rife with metaphor. This work of art may amount to the destruction of the artist as a kind of mythic hero who is utterly consumed by the work. The reference to painting as well as theater is strong and the allusion to a kind of divine creation sequence is no less apparent. Or that what you get at the strictly sensuous level of perception is a confusing welter of sense data, sensations that do not conform to the regulations of time and space that govern common sense. The figure strides boldly from out of the darkness toward the viewer. It is difficult not to regard him as the artist himself. Stopping at center stage, looming above the viewer, the figure submits to the prevailing logic of expressionist aesthetics: the agony of self-emptying, the spectacle of complete submission to the self-annihilating demands of art. A kind of alchemist, wizard, shaman, messiah, God, and Wagnerian tragic hero, Viola transmutes the body into art as if the creative act were a cosmic principle engaging the primordial elements of fire and water.

Probably the "easiest" of Viola's videos, The Crossing exhibits the characteristics of theatrical spectacle and metaphorical evocation that help viewers think about what the piece means. These features suggest, moreover, that, in contrast to video informed by conceptualism, minimalism, and Pop, Viola's art is best described as Baroque. The spectacular roar of flames and deluge of water would have impressed Gianlorenzo Bernini, who thrilled his seventeenth-century audiences with dazzling stagecraft as well as hyper-theatrical sculptural installations. The monumental scale, the spectacle, and the dramatic contrast of light and dark are certainly Baroque formal elements. But the penchant for metaphor and the sublime prompt another association: the romantic cult of the artist-hero that culminated in Wagner and is revisited in the oeuvre of Anselm Kiefer. If Viola flirts with the mythic aggrandizement and mystification of the artist in The Crossing, Kiefer has created an entire oeuvre that explores the subject. His canvases are huge, the subject matter consists largely of pyramids and temples drawn in looming perspective, and the compositions are filled with recondite allusions to history, legend, art, literature, and religion. One is intended to exegete these images and to be awed by them. This may make them difficult in that a lexicon is needed to fully interpret them, but easy in terms of the emotional rush and fascination they provide.

Viola avoids the symbolic density and singleminded preoccupation with sublimity of Kiefer's work, yet he displays a significant debt to Romanticism when he plunges the viewer into a kind of Gesamtkunstwerk, a Wagnerian "total work of art" such as The Stopping Mind (1991), in which one is surrounded by four colossal screens and a sound system that alternately fills the space with the whispered, breathless poetry of the artist, then the screeching, metallic noise that accompanies the rapidly shifting images on the four screens. It is a work that synthesizes sound, motion, text, and image into a single, enclosed space. But if Wagner's opera glorified blood, honor, fate, and oedipal confusion, The Stopping Mind is not about artistic self-aggrandizement or sexual longing.

For Viola, the sublime is more often than not a way of using darkness and monumentality, repulsive imagery, and terrifying bursts of sound and light to jar the viewer into meditation on something the artist finds genuinely enthralling: the human condition. Viola's work suggests that the human condition consists of the fact that we are embodied beings yearning, but ill-prepared, for communion with one another; that we suffer pain and loss; that we struggle to transcend our bodies and our suffering by connecting with a larger or inner aspect of reality; and that we die. Bodies, communion, suffering, transcendence, and death collectively constitute a condition, a worldview that the artist seeks to investigate in his work. Whether one is Buddhist or Christian or atheist (of the Camus variety), coming to terms with suffering and fear and our inability to communicate these states adequately presumes an understanding of the human condition, and Viola finds video a powerful artistic means of exploring these existential facts.

The remarkable retrospective of Viola's work, an exhibition that has traveled through the United States and Europe since 1997, offers the opportunity to consider the artist's treatment of the elements of the human condition. First, he depicts people as being isolated. They rarely appear together in Viola's work, rarely commune with one another. To the contrary, figures appear self-absorbed. For instance, Slowly Turning Narrative (1992) [see front cover] situates the viewer within a darkened room in which a panel revolves in the center, bearing a screen on one side and a mirror on the other. As a voice recites a long list of phrases referring to the self (the one who goes, the one who does, the one who feels, the one who knows...), projections of a man's taciturn face and other imagery are reflected on the rotating panel as well as the viewer's own body, which is also reflected in the mirror on one side of the panel. Viola has written that the "entire space [of the installation] becomes an interior for the revelations of a constantly turning mind absorbed with itself." The room is the ruminating, self-absorbed mind.

Most of Viola's videos and installations are about the relationship between the artistic act and the viewer standing in or before the work. Engaging himself as well as engaging the viewer is what concerns Viola as an artist. If video is for him a kind of mirror he holds up to examine himself, it is not for the purpose of narcissism or self-enjoyment, but self-scrutiny and even self-interrogation. Where is the other in this analytical act of self-reflection? Viewers are invited to insert themselves in Slowly Turning Narrative, where viewers become thoughts reflected in the mind of another. In an earlier work, Reasons for Knocking at an Empty House (1982) [see Plate 2], viewers confront the artist. We enter a room and are able to sit in a single crude wooden chair in front of a video monitor from which the artist stares. The viewer's chair is equipped with a set of headphones, which reveal a murmur and the sounds of the artist swallowing and breathing. One sits and beholds the man, who is periodically struck by someone in the darkness behind him, resulting in a sudden explosion of sound. A friend suggested to me that this recalls the practice in Buddhist meditation of the master striking the pupil who begins to fall asleep. One also thinks of the Puritan monitors who patrolled congregations whose otherwise stalwart members occasionally succumbed to fatigue during long sermons. Yet there is something menacing about Viola's installation. Viewer and artist face one another, as if they were mutual interrogators, or perhaps prisoners of unseen and cruel forces. The viewer shares the artist's quandary if only for a moment, becomes the resonant chamber of his body's noises. We are in his head and his body, and it is terrifying. Who is he? What has he done to deserve this abuse? What is his disturbing claim on the viewer? Are we like him? Are we responsible for him?

Living with others poses ethical problems; it presents us with moments of action. It is precisely this condition that the theatricality of self-absorption in Viola's video art problematizes. The Veiling (1995) [see Plate 3]dramatizes this very well. A delicate, beautiful work that positions two video projectors at either end of a suspended row of nine translucent veils, The Veiling materializes in light two different figures, a man and a woman, whose images penetrate each scrim and meet in the central panel. In actuality, however, their incremental dissipation through the array of veils ends in a diffuse intersection. When the two finally meet they pass through the wan light of one another. It is a compelling metaphor of moral relations in modern life. Crowded cities, mobile lifestyles, and a capitalist ethic of acquisition have contributed to a modern notion of personal independence that is preoccupied with the autonomous self. Autonomy comes at a price. Self-help cures, meditation, psychotherapy—all of these are modern strategies for dealing with crises in personal identity wrought by the isolated self.

Communitarian critics of modern individualism charge that both the cause and its attempted remedies have tended to withdraw allegiance from traditional institutional structures such as family, church, local community, and voluntary associations as the dominant frameworks for personal development. Viola himself disavows "formal adherence to any particular [religious] tradition," as he stated in an interview with Lewis Hyde, but practices Zen Buddhist meditation and is deeply interested in the practices and texts of Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, and Islamic mysticism. In some of its modern appropriations mysticism is something that focuses on the self, or the dismantling of the self through an inward-turning that relies on separation from others. Yet Viola's art is not a private retreat. It is public. In a statement written in 1989, Viola proclaimed that "the most important place where my work exists is not in the museum gallery, or in the screening room, or on the television, and not even on the video screen itself, but in the mind of the viewer who has seen it." The work does not belong to the artist, but lives instead in the consciousness of whoever views it. Art begins in the artist's withdrawal and struggle, which Viola likens to "the cloud of unknowing" or to "dark night of the soul" described by St. John of the Cross. But the work belongs in time, where it is a gift ventured in faith, "faith in that other thing, that something else dimly felt behind the veil of daily life."

The third feature of the worldview evident in Viola's work is embodiment. His art is about the insides of things, about being within; it is about mediation. We are rooted in media, we are always in or passing through somewhere—inside one's own body, inside another's head, in bed, beneath the surface of water, in wind-tossed fields of grain, in fire, in dreams, in buildings and corridors and cathode ray tubes and a mother's womb. Viola's videos frequently include a body submerged in water. From the late 1970s through the 1990s, Viola has been fascinated by the imagery and sound of bodies plunging into water. The Reflecting Pool (1977-79), I Do Not Know What It Is I Am Like (1986), The Passing (1991), Nantes Triptych (1992), The Arc of Ascent (1992), and Stations (1994), among other works, depict bodies descending into water and floating inertly beneath the surface calling to mind such events as birth, baptism, ritual cleansing, death, recreation, rebirth. The body is where awakening happens. The body, activated by its immersion in water, is the medium of transformation. Its sensations are the very language of myth, the place where spiritual domains intersect with the ordinary world of time and space. Myth and ritual are grounded in the body. Therefore, the body is the register of transcendence. Descent into water is the operation of mythic transformation, the manner by which the body is turned into a medium for spiritual experience.

Viewing these aspects of Viola's work, one recalls the experience as a young child of submerging in a swimming pool to listen to the modified sounds underwater and to feel the weightless abandon of one's body. The body suddenly seems useless and the senses one relies on are suddenly unreliable. Reality takes on a strangeness, the environment no longer comports with the body. This experience of estrangement is deathlike because it severs the mind from the body and loosens one's grip on the concrete world. The seamless connection of the body and the world suddenly rent, the spirit is disoriented and left to float on its own. The lesson of this alienation is that our knowledge of the world is rooted in the rudimentary vocabulary of the body. Being deprived of that vocabulary means losing control over the world. This is perhaps why new media cause anxiety: the seamless connection familiar media fashion between one's body and the environment seems ruptured by a new medium. But Viola is not content merely to disorient viewers. He is intrigued by the power of estrangement to illuminate. Suffering can yield a breakthrough, a new vision of self and world.

And this brings us to the next element of Viola's worldview: the place of suffering. If humans appear encased in bodies and alone in much of Viola's work, they are not abandoned there. Suffering can be redemptive. Bodies experience pain which, when transformed into suffering, becomes the point of contact in a world of bodies set apart from one another. We saw in Reasons for Knocking at an Empty House (1982) that the artist's agony became the occasion for the viewer's self-transcendence, the viewer's concern for the other, or compassion, suffering with another. A major work of the following year explored the experience of embodiment and suffering.

The installation called Room for St. John of the Cross (1983) [see Plate 4] consists of a small black cubicle placed within a large, darkened room. Inside the cubicle are a chair and a table with a pitcher, glass of water, and a video monitor, and an audio loop of John's passionate Spanish poetry, composed in 1577 while he was imprisoned in a space this size. Abducted and beaten regularly, the Carmelite friar was subjected to what he called the "dark night of the soul," which resulted not only from a deep sense of abandonment by humans and the church (it was a rival religious order that seized and tormented him), but also by God. John experienced a profound sense of loss and solitude, as if God had denied him, turned away from him, left him to dissolve painfully into the dark void of his prison cell. But strangely it was from these depths of abandonment that God finally spoke and John poured forth his most passionate poetry. Outside of the small cell, Viola has projected the quaking image of a mountain range on a wall, which assaults the viewer's sense of equilibrium. Shaking wildly, the scene is accompanied by the roar of wind on an exposed mountain top. Inside the cell, a colored image of a single mountain glows quietly, motionless. At the heart of John's anguish and joy is the serene image of rest, balance, and permanence. Outside, viewers free of imprisonment are dizzied and nauseated by the unstable landscape and subjected to the noise of the unrelenting wind. Ironically, viewers find that they feel incarcerated in the larger room, and so they have the model of John's cell before them as a refuge in which they may discover the meaning of suffering—and true liberation.

If the shaky camerawork suggests a shifting, transient world of appearances, heightened by the sound effects of wind and motion, the unchanging image within the cubicle, tiny and iconic, envisions an archetype. This juxtaposition asks us consider which image is more real. The room we are in, filled with an uncontrollable sound? Or the room we are outside of, into which we peer through the tiny window in John's mind? We hear John's thoughts, we enter the enclosure that contained his body, projecting ourselves in an act that is at first voyeuristic, but becomes empathetic as we ponder his spiritual struggle and begin to imagine his suffering.

Viola's meditation on John of the Cross is not a masochistic glorification of pain. Pain is one thing and suffering another. Pain happens to the body, but suffering unfolds as a transfiguration of pain, a way of living with it. Suffering is the spiritual practice of transforming pain into meaning. We suffer not only when we endure pain, but also when we transmute it into the struggle to live.

Suffering changes us. Those who have suffered see themselves and the world with new eyes. But the work of art need not inflict pain or suffering on viewers in order to prompt spiritual reflection. Viola's installations are eminent examples of an art that seeks to simulate religious ritual in order to achieve a sense of spiritual transformation. In a note first published in 1982, Viola observed that "initiation rites and age-old spiritual training ordeals (fire walking, days of continuous dancing, circumcision rituals, holy torture, etc.) are all controlled, staged accidents, ancient technologies designed to bring the organism to a life-threatening crisis." They are deliberate accidents because they are created to break into the normal routine of life with disorienting violence. Accidents such as car crashes, Viola notes, seem to happen in slow motion—a retarded time sequence characterized by uncommon clarity. By thrusting the initiate into liminal space and time, the ritual allows passage to a new form of life constituted by a novel consciousness of the self.

Viola's appreciation of ritual clearly stresses the rite of passage, which often employs pain, isolation, sensory deprivation, and suspended time to effect a transformation in the initiate. The rite of passage is only one of many kinds of ritual in human societies. It is the one that appeals most to Viola perhaps because it grounds the transformation of the world in the transformation of individual consciousness, and does so by manipulating time, Viola's principal medium as a video artist. He believes that the essential apparatus of ritual metamorphosis is still available to modern humanity in the work of art. Viola's global travel and extensive study of religious texts and rituals from many traditions serve his desire to fashion modern instances of ritual experience. By engulfing viewers in darkness and subjecting them to jarring sounds and random bursts of light, Viola creates moments in which viewers are pulled away from everyday life and urged to reflect on the profound bonds of suffering and love and fear that are entombed and enshrined in the body, the human medium of the spirit.

Of course, this may be more than many viewers care to undertake. It is prudent to take a sober view of the power imputed to art. Art is very good at creating imagined situations into which viewers may project themselves. But art is not particularly good at preaching sermons that morally improve the viewer. Sermons themselves, for that matter, may not be very good at moral improvement either, but they are, like art, powerful means of evoking new visions of the world. What is it that Viola aims to do in his video installations? Does he seek to enrapture viewers? Would he like to impart the unio mystica, that ultimate sense of union with God, described by the great mystics? Is the purpose of his art to provoke spiritual awakening and ritual rebirth? Since St. John of the Cross and Meister Eckhardt, two of Viola's favorite writers, required years of rigorous spiritual calisthenics and precocious introspection to attain enlightenment, it is doubtful that an hour one Saturday afternoon in an art gallery will procure the same results.

The intention of Viola's installations seems more modest: it is simply to remove museum visitors from the ordinary world for a few moments of meditation. The long corridor of Passage suggests as much. By passing through it we leave the present and return to the archetypal past. In the catalogue accompanying the retrospective exhibition, Viola writes that the passageway "ultimately refers to the original passage through the birth canal" and that the corridor's destination—the birthday party—is "a contemporary vestige of an ancient perennial ritual." The party "regains some of its ritualistic and mythic stature through the manipulation of space and the extreme extension of time." Art, Viola believes, is able to repristinate a secular culture, or at least certain moments of it, reclaiming an aspect of the sacred that has been marginalized in modern life.

In other installations Viola orchestrates gripping experiences that leave one musing on the human condition. In Hall of Whispers (1995), for instance, ten faces of gagged people appear on the walls of a long, narrow room. Their eyes are shut and their faces float alone in the darkness. They struggle to speak, but nothing they say is comprehensible. One watches helplessly as each lost soul strains to overcome its isolation. The discomfort, even quiet terror they cause, compels the viewer to wonder what these faces may utter about the human condition—our isolation from one another, our suffering, cruelty, and fears. Only by plunging viewers into dark and disturbing spaces can Viola disrupt their daily routines and encourage introspection. The gamble is that viewers will return to the ordinary regime of time and space sufficiently disturbed to ruminate about what seems real and important. Art is not redemptive in itself and it is only rarely rapturous. Viola has something closer to earth in mind: he intends his art to contribute to the recognition of the spiritual vocation of being human.

Viola's tour of the human soul ends most appropriately, most elegaically, with Tiny Deaths (1993). Although he dismisses his Christian upbringing as mere accident ("I was raised Episcopalian because my mother was raised Episcopalian growing up in England"), the Zen celebration of sheer existence that Viola espouses in discussing his work does not in fact eliminate a pervading sense of loss that may owe something to his Christian formation. If Zen teaches one to overcome anxiety about death, Christianity finds in it the just wages of sin and a severe test of faith. Tiny Deaths captures the randomness and the particularity of death, its smallness and the wave of forgetting that follows so quickly upon it. Four walls of an utterly dark room show dim fields of a tone just less than black against which dark silhouettes of human figures appear as if faint shadows. The viewer wonders at first if they aren't shadows of other viewers thrown onto the walls. A din of incomprehensible voices fills the room, something like the sound of a gallery opening or a busy lunch room. At random intervals a figure will appear in gray tones, blurry but clear enough to make out as no one special, someone ordinary, a young person, an older person, a man, a woman, standing and talking, casually dressed. Then suddenly the figure flares and vanishes in a burst of white light and a low buzz, followed by the darkness and din. Death comes as a luminous erasure, a small explosion of light that dissolves quickly into a field of shadows and murmurs. All that a person was is gone, swallowed up by the encompassing gloom.

Tiny Deaths feels like a lament. Life is a bleak place on the edge of oblivion and each of us is a tiny flash of light. Memory is short, the length of an afterimage. This is among Viola's most difficult works. Visitors don't stay long. In the darkness they feel no more real than those whose being flares for an instant on the murky walls. But the truth of this work is undeniable if by truth one means the courage to depict the world as it is, without sentimental happy endings. Some Christians will miss any reference to resurrection and the life of the world to come. But others will recognize in Tiny Deaths a forthright evocation of the terrifying reality of death that everyone must face, believer or not. The overwhelming injustice of death, the finality and the incomprehensibility of each person's extinction all resonate in Viola's installation.

But there may be hope. Perhaps this work is akin to Plato's allegorical cave whose walls are likewise peopled by dim shadows while outside resides the world of truth that only lovers of wisdom can summon the courage to seek out. Viola embraces a notion of transcendence that refuses to see in death the material end of the soul. In notes to Vegetable Memory, a videotape of 1978-80, the artist referred to the "brutal afterlife" as the consequence of the view that there is "no afterlife for the soul, only cold, ugly physical death." But he went on to describe what he called "the other choice."

The spiritual liberation of the soul through death—death is
birth. If we do not believe in spiritual afterlife then our bodies
will rot away into material nothingness. We will cease to exist.
This is hell...the brutal afterlife.

Hell, Viola notes, "is our non-belief" in the world to come. The world outside Tiny Deaths faces viewers as they leave the installation. They emerge to a second chance. The world awaits and the work of art exists to help them see it in all its mystery.

Citations for this essay are from Bill Viola, Reasons for Knocking at an Empty House: Writings 1973-1994, ed. Robert Violette. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press and London: Anthony d'Offay Gallery, 1995; and Bill Viola, exhibition catalogue. New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, 1997.

Visit Bill Viola as Image Artist of the Month for January '02

Issue #26 • Spring 2000