Erin Morris:
Same Auld Lang Syne
Opening Saturday, December 13, 6 - 8 pm
12.26 is pleased to present its first solo presentation of paintings by Brooklyn-based artist Erin Morris at the gallery’s Dallas location.
Morris’s attention to detail rings not only in her paintings but also in her words. This new year, celebrate the small things, whether that be the success of moving your bins to the curb or finding a loose dollar bill on the street. Look at the night sky and awe at its fiery disposition.
"I picture the months in my head as they were displayed on the wall in my first-grade classroom. The first eight months of the year have their own line, but after August, the remaining months drop off below a new line, as if they had fallen down a hill, continuing on their lower path through the end of the year.
Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug
Sep Oct Nov Dec
Why not a straight line? Probably because there was something immovable on the wall, like a heater or a fuse box, which necessitated the teacher getting crafty with poster placement. Whatever the mundane reason for the separation, this must have been the year I became conscious of the concept of months and the flow of an annual cycle; this structure of visualizing a calendar became irreversibly imprinted on me. To me, September has always seemed to be the natural place for the new year to begin, not only because it's the start of the school year, but because it's when the months fall down the hill.
Similarly, Mondays have always felt like the natural start of the week, despite the United States technically asserting the week begins on Sunday, the Christian God's day of rest. For a 9-to-5er, Sundays are like a little New Year's Eve, albeit one more often characterized by dread for the coming week than hope or excitement for the coming year. Birthdays are a sort of a new year, but rather than looking forward, they often highlight what we have or have not yet done or accomplished...What do I have to show for my age? Am I doing the things I'd hoped I'd be doing by now?
January first, the traditional New Year, then, is uniquely forward-looking. We give a nod of appreciation to the difficulty of what we have lived through, and, ready to put it behind us, imagine and hope for better times ahead. Not only do we feel this desire for progress and newness, but we celebrate it loudly, punctuating the night with exploding, thunderous lights in the sky. We can't see November becoming December; it has no tangible form beyond the flipping of a calendar page, but the transition from December to January has a weight and physicality stemming from the social and collective decision of its importance. Our uttering in unison of the seconds passing between one year and the next, our booming bottle-rockets and firecrackers, our kisses at midnight, these observances are attempts to make the time tactile, to touch and be touched by its transition.
How many little New Year's could exist in a day? Can I make these little transitions material by giving them form in paint? Can we have some fireworks for taking out the trash and putting in a new bag? Can I say to my partner, like Scrooge waking up from his Christmas ghosts, "kiss me! It's 4:15 on a Thursday, and from now on, I'm gonna do everything better!"? Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"
– Erin Morris, 2025
Erin Morris (b. 1994, Latrobe, PA) lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She graduated with her MFA from the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA in 2024 and obtained her BFA from the Cooper Union, New York, NY in 2017. Morris has presented solo and duo exhibitions with Morán, Morán, Los Angeles, CA (2025); EUROPA, New York, NY (2025); Quarters Gallery, Los Angeles, CA (2024), among others. She has also been featured in group exhibitions at Blue Door Gallery, New York, NY (2025); Greene Naftali, New York, NY (2024); Open Forum, Berlin, DE (2024); Helena Anrather, New York, NY (2024); Cierah, New York, NY (2024), among others.
Morris’s attention to detail rings not only in her paintings but also in her words. This new year, celebrate the small things, whether that be the success of moving your bins to the curb or finding a loose dollar bill on the street. Look at the night sky and awe at its fiery disposition.
"I picture the months in my head as they were displayed on the wall in my first-grade classroom. The first eight months of the year have their own line, but after August, the remaining months drop off below a new line, as if they had fallen down a hill, continuing on their lower path through the end of the year.
Jan Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug
Sep Oct Nov Dec
Why not a straight line? Probably because there was something immovable on the wall, like a heater or a fuse box, which necessitated the teacher getting crafty with poster placement. Whatever the mundane reason for the separation, this must have been the year I became conscious of the concept of months and the flow of an annual cycle; this structure of visualizing a calendar became irreversibly imprinted on me. To me, September has always seemed to be the natural place for the new year to begin, not only because it's the start of the school year, but because it's when the months fall down the hill.
Similarly, Mondays have always felt like the natural start of the week, despite the United States technically asserting the week begins on Sunday, the Christian God's day of rest. For a 9-to-5er, Sundays are like a little New Year's Eve, albeit one more often characterized by dread for the coming week than hope or excitement for the coming year. Birthdays are a sort of a new year, but rather than looking forward, they often highlight what we have or have not yet done or accomplished...What do I have to show for my age? Am I doing the things I'd hoped I'd be doing by now?
January first, the traditional New Year, then, is uniquely forward-looking. We give a nod of appreciation to the difficulty of what we have lived through, and, ready to put it behind us, imagine and hope for better times ahead. Not only do we feel this desire for progress and newness, but we celebrate it loudly, punctuating the night with exploding, thunderous lights in the sky. We can't see November becoming December; it has no tangible form beyond the flipping of a calendar page, but the transition from December to January has a weight and physicality stemming from the social and collective decision of its importance. Our uttering in unison of the seconds passing between one year and the next, our booming bottle-rockets and firecrackers, our kisses at midnight, these observances are attempts to make the time tactile, to touch and be touched by its transition.
How many little New Year's could exist in a day? Can I make these little transitions material by giving them form in paint? Can we have some fireworks for taking out the trash and putting in a new bag? Can I say to my partner, like Scrooge waking up from his Christmas ghosts, "kiss me! It's 4:15 on a Thursday, and from now on, I'm gonna do everything better!"? Should auld acquaintance be forgot?"
– Erin Morris, 2025
Erin Morris (b. 1994, Latrobe, PA) lives and works in Brooklyn, NY. She graduated with her MFA from the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA in 2024 and obtained her BFA from the Cooper Union, New York, NY in 2017. Morris has presented solo and duo exhibitions with Morán, Morán, Los Angeles, CA (2025); EUROPA, New York, NY (2025); Quarters Gallery, Los Angeles, CA (2024), among others. She has also been featured in group exhibitions at Blue Door Gallery, New York, NY (2025); Greene Naftali, New York, NY (2024); Open Forum, Berlin, DE (2024); Helena Anrather, New York, NY (2024); Cierah, New York, NY (2024), among others.