How can I begin to tell you? An interview with Sharyn Wortman at RuptureXIBIT

How can I begin to tell you? A question that may as well have been lit in neon signage, etched only in chalk on a small slate for those passing by to reflect on. Sharyn Wortman came to RuptureXIBIT to reflect and unpack a remarkable body of work which she had created during two weeks spent travelling around the Arctic Circle with 29 other artists and scientists.  Armed with minimal materials including paper, canvas, and a few drawing tools, Sharyn set out to respond directly to this extraordinary environment. “I put my body in the landscape and worked with what was there,” she explained. “I tried to capture sensations: the boat’s movement, the melting ice. When I came back, I had a gallery full of different drawing techniques and responses.

Sharyn is known for her captivating work exploring the relationship between the body and landscape. In her words, her practice “explores liminal spaces that quiver on the edge of their own disappearance.” Constantly pushing beyond the boundaries of medium, she invites her audience into shifting realms of otherness and transformation. What she expected to create and what actually emerged were two different things. “It’s almost impossible to capture how you feel in those spaces,” she said. “Photographs don’t do it justice. But drawings, where you sit and take time to record, hold the memory. When I look back at them, I remember exactly where I was and how I felt.”

One of Sharyn’s most intriguing methods involved suspending a pencil on a cord overnight to create eight-hour durational drawings that traced the rhythm of the ship as it drifted through icy waters. Another involved tracing melting ice and allowing the glacial water itself to bleed into the page, creating a direct collaboration with the landscape.

When asked whether it was freezing, Sharyn laughed. “Everyone asks that, and yes, we saw polar bears! But I don’t remember being cold. I was well-layered and mostly just damp from drizzle. I only needed gloves for two days.”

The group was guided by four remarkable facilitators who helped the artists work within the environment. Sharyn described them as “four action superheroes” with diverse backgrounds: “There was a pirate-like man who’d sailed both the Antarctic and Arctic and was often up in the crow’s nest taking photos; a Svalbard librarian with extensive knowledge of the region and its explorers; a strong, capable Norwegian woman; and Sara, our leader who’d wake us each morning saying, ‘Good morning. You’re further north than you’ve ever been before.’”

The ship was home to a fascinating mix of creatives and researchers: composers, poets, and novelists exploring historical material; a lichenologist studying air quality; and even an AI business ethicist.

Back at RuptureXIBIT, Sharyn used her month-long residency to gently unpack the experience. “At first, I didn’t want to talk about it,” she said. “It was too profound.  Here at Rupture, I’ve been able to take it apart slowly, emptying out my sandwich bags of drawings, pinning everything up, even the rejected ones. It’s been a luxury to lay it all out and notice the tiny details, like a glacial tear on a blank page.”

At Sharyn’s open studio, Rupture founder Kate Howe noted that Sharyn had “laid her process bare,” choosing to expose her work without curating or selecting, allowing visitors to witness the creative process in full. During the residency, Sharyn also invited curators, a gallerist, RCA colleagues, and a writing mentor to view the work. These conversations sparked ideas for future development  including the possibility of animating her sequential drawings and extending the Arctic project into new forms.

That process also prompted reflection on what she had witnessed. “There’s a quiet grief in seeing how the landscape is changing. The planet has been evolving for billions of years. Humans are just a tiny, inconsequential moment in time. But if we want to protect our own existence, we need to act now.”

Sharyn’s materials echoed the Arctic’s stark contrasts: black moraines and white snow, rendered in charcoal and graphite. “Graphite bleeds when wet, so it worked beautifully with meltwater. I also used natural indigo ink, which an organic dyer told me would ‘respond to the environment like you do.’ It did, changing with the salt, the paper, even the air.”

When asked what comes next, Sharyn described plans to revisit her diaries and refine her writing about the experience. It was fascinating to hear her speak about her process.  Sharyn explained that she hasn’t been drawing since returning, reflecting that there are “seasons for making” and “seasons for understanding.” She senses something new beginning to emerge from the drawings: “Something sculptural might come next. The drawings will just sit and witness for a while.” She’s exploring the idea of working with recycled ship sails, a poetic link back to her Arctic journey.

The work that transformed the walls of the front gallery is now gone. In its place, a white box, walls ready for yet another untold story. Silhouettes of polar bears and widespread glaciers are but a memory for the time being. Through the witnessing of this beauty and the reverence taken toward it, there’s an anticipation for further observation of this work.

How can she begin to tell us? We believe she already has.