Seeking 'a sliver of sun'

Mar. 14—Maja Ruznic's diaphanous paintings ring with echoes of time and memory flowing within nebulous pools of paint.

The Harwood Museum of Art is giving the Bosnian-born artist her first solo museum show with "In the Sliver of the Sun" from March 12 through Sept. 26.

At first glance exercises in hazy abstraction, but a closer look at Ruznic's work reveals a watercolor bloom of ancient figures, some without faces, emerging from her foggy washes. Viewers glimpse outlines of a head or a hand in groupings that sometimes melt into one.

"She puts stain or paint over canvas, starts out painting until she sees someone familiar, a hand, a face; she looks for these shadows," Harwood curator Nicole Dial-Kay said. "She uses her brush like alchemy to find these humans."

The artist spent years working in watercolor because she couldn't afford a San Francisco studio and was concerned about the impact of paint fumes on her lungs. Watercolor's ephemeral nature is still visible in her current work in oil and acrylic.

As an 8-year-old girl, Ruznic and her family fled during the Bosnian War to escape the ethnic cleansing ravaging their country. They lived in refugee camps in Croatia, Austria and Germany for a few years until Ruznic and her mother emigrated to the U.S. They settled in San Francisco in 1995.

Ruznic went on to study at the University of California, Berkeley, later earning an MFA from the California College of Arts.

The title of her latest exhibition occurred to Ruznic as she watched her cat seek out sun-drenched shafts of light for her naps.

She realized the sun offered a sense of comfort, warmth and relaxation in a time of turmoil.

Today, that anxiety stems from the pandemic, political divisiveness and the police murder of George Floyd.

"I think all of the figures I've been painting the last few months are looking for a sliver of sun," the Roswell resident said. "I think I was afraid to bring a child into the world. Everything seemed diseased and sick, and the work seemed like a prayer."

The studio became her place of worship.

"I needed to believe we can be better," she said. "The work seemed transformative."

Ruznic dilutes her paint in linseed oil and cold wax, creating a pigment three-quarters thinner than its original composition.

She paints in thin layers with dry brushes, often leaving the canvas weave exposed in a technique known as scumbling.

Ruznic began creating a trio of paintings titled "The Painters and Their Daughters" when she was pregnant with her first child.

"The Return" is the show's centerpiece.

"I feel like the pandemic has put everyone on hold, " Ruznic said. "It's about all of us returning to a world that feels safe to hug each other, to touch each other."

It's not hard to see the title as a reflection of Ruznic's reunification with her mother after they were separated during the war. Ruznic fled the destruction with her grandparents while her mother was still at work.

She remembers the adults glued to the TV when the fighting broke out. One morning, she was told not to go to school.

"I just remember the sirens started wailing," she said."They grabbed me and they grabbed a bag already packed, and we rushed to the (Sava) River."

The boats took them into Croatia, where they stayed with family members.

They didn't know where her mother was.

"You could hear the fighting across the river," she said. "It sounded like fireworks to me.

"Not having her there to sleep next to me was super traumatic," she continued. Then, "I was playing outside with the kids and she emerged from the fog. It was a feeling I will never forget. When I play it in my head, it's almost like a movie."

As Ruznic's figures emerge, they seem to ask the viewer to be held, to be helped.

Her "Weeping Woman" series came as a reaction to Picasso's work on the same subject.

"For a long time, I hated Picasso because you're supposed to," she said, referring to the artist's notorious treatment of women. "How can you hate a painter when you love the painting? You can't. I wanted to insert myself into the weeping women. It's both an ode and a middle finger. I wanted to make our suffering seen."