Abi Ogle
Major Spiritual Art Grant Recipient
Artist Statement & Bio
Abi Ogle uses bodily materials such as human hair and grapefruit membranes to diffuse grief and explore hope, memory, and loss. Often characterized by the familiar-made-strange, her practice is built on the belief that art makes us more human, that materials matter, and that if we take the time to listen to the stories of others, they change us.
Each exploration is the result of numerous hours of research, embedded in an art historical conversation, and brought to life through meticulous mark-making. The meditative nature of these pieces invites the viewer and the maker alike to become visually and physically immersed in an experience. The work acts as a catalyst for people to see these materials in such a way that they are able to relate their own experience to something that feels initially beautiful and increasingly foreign.
At its core, her intent is to thoughtfully engage and explore through unexpected materials as a lifelong process. She is deeply curious and dedicated to bringing attention to the mundane or easily ignored. Through unexpectedly beautiful materials she is able to create conversations rooted in lament that holds hope and loss in tension.
Upon receiving her Bachelor of Arts in 2018 from Covenant College, Abi was invited to several artist residencies including the Houston Center for Contemporary Craft, Vermont Studio Center, and Kimmel Harding Nelson Center for the Arts. During her time there, she created work that was rooted in the hope for redemption, echoes of memory, and the sublime. Her recent solo exhibitions include The Louise Hopkins Underwood Center for the Arts in Lubbock, TX, the Harrison Center in Indianapolis, Indiana, and Lone Star College in Houston, Texas. She has also exhibited at Artfields, in Lake City, South Carolina, Covenant College in Lookout Mountain, GA, and The Farmington Museum in Farmington, New Mexico. In 2023, Abi received her M.F.A. in Craft / Material Studies with a focus in fiber at Virginia Commonwealth University and completed a fellowship at the Virginia Museum of Fine Art. She now lives and works in Houston, Texas.
1,000 Banyan Tree Seeds, 1,000 Banyan Tree Seeds on Paper, 6 3/4" x 8 3/4" Framed
Banyan trees send aerial roots downward, eventually building a sprawling network that envelops the land, an interconnected community.
This drawing captures the negative space between those roots. Turned on its side, it becomes a landscape.
At its core, this piece is about congregation. Each tiny seed gathers, almost magnetically, to define the spaces between. Though seemingly insignificant on their own, together they form something intricate. Each seed holds the potential to grow into a tree that shelters animals, insects, and passersby. But here they do not fully realize that potential, bound together, they do not create a forest, but an unexpected drawing made from the act of being in relation.
Our House, Our Backyard, Embroidery, Soap, and Ink on Honeywell Rondelle Slide Index Card, 6 1/4" x 6 1/4" each
In 2019, I was gifted a family’s entire collection of slides. Tucked alongside the hundreds of images were index cards carefully labeling each one. Each line denoted vacations from Italy to Pensacola, snapshots of first dates, sleepy Christmas mornings, and my personal favorite, “our house, our backyard.”
These drawings of crepe myrtles and a chain link fence are taken directly from our own home. Made with thread, my husband’s Irish Spring soap, and ink, they explore the everyday materials that shape our lives and ground us. Unlike the slides, they do not aim to replicate a scene exactly but instead attempt to capture a similar sentiment desiring to make a moment last.
They hold the feeling of home, not permanence, but presence. Hope, joy, tenderness, and the unexpected challenges we face are what makes this place, our house, our yard, so meaningful to us.
Pine Needles, Pine Needles on Silk Habotai, 15" x 15 3/4"
Through tiny slivers of hand cut pine needles carefully attached to silk, a landscape emerges. While crafting this piece, I reflected on the ways our internal landscapes, much like the natural ground beneath us, are constantly shifting and evolving.
The work itself is responsive and dynamic: it bends, undulates, and adapts to whatever surface it encounters. In many ways, it mirrors how we strive to be flexible, adjusting ourselves to meet the demands of changing circumstances. But true flexibility is complex and often involves being removed from a place of comfort. Similarly to the pine needle, we believe we are safely part of a tree, only to fall to the ground, be collected, cut and reshaped into something new.
Lather, Irish Spring Soap on Heirloom Silver Dish, 11" x 8 1/4" x 1 1/2"
The Double Wedding Ring quilt pattern is a traditional symbol of love and enduring partnership. The interlocking rings represent the joining of two lives, a visual metaphor for commitment and unity. Often gifted for weddings or anniversaries, these quilts are passed down through generations. Traditionally, mothers or grandmothers would sew them as blessings for their children or grandchildren’s marriages, a gesture of hope for a lasting union.
Slowly, I turn a green bar of soap between my hands, the lather dripping through my fingers, the air filling with a familiar scent. Bars of soap have always been unsettling to me. They are made to cleanse, yet they gather stains, wear down, and slip away. They sit in neglected corners of bathtubs, soggy and eroded.
Soap gives itself away. It disappears slowly, breaking down to carry off what the bather sheds. This bar, molded by my touch, has left its trace in the bowl. It stains everything green. It lingers. It grows. It holds the memory of contact and spreads its scent. The drawing in the bowl echoes the body that used the soap.
The once-foamy lather has dried into a textured surface. The dish is now eerily green, and yet, the hardened surface is delicate, ready to dissolve again with the next drop of water. The contents of this dish speak to ephemerality, they hold in tension that which is washed away and that which remains.
Tornado Scar, Human Hair Embroidery on Petticoat, 20 3/4" x 20 3/4" Framed
In 2011, a tornado destroyed my family home. In its aftermath, our clothing was scattered, caught in tree branches, and embedded in the earth. That memory lingers in this piece: the ripped white fabric, marked by age and wear, is mended not with thread, but with hair, a material both fragile and deeply personal. While the fabric bears a visible rip, it has been repaired, not erased.
Ruby I & Ruby II, Red Human Hair on Great-Great Grandmother's Tablecloth, (front and back), 14 3/4" x 14 1/2" each
These sister portraits tell a story of profound sorrow and enduring hope: threads that stretch across generations of women in my family. Over a span of a year and a half, these painstakingly hand-embroidered portraits came to life. Each piece of hair was carefully threaded through the eye of a needle and stitched into each fiber of the damask tablecloth to secure the hair and create different densities through meditative mark making. The foundation of these embroideries is my great-great-grandmother Ruby’s tablecloth, a piece of damask reserved only for the most special occasions.
My grandmother vividly remembers visiting Ruby’s house and knowing that when the tablecloth was out, it was time to be on their best behavior. After the death of her own mother in childhood, she spent much of her time at Ruby’s table. Ruby’s home became a place of refuge and tenderness, where love was stitched into the strangeness of daily rituals after loss.
Years later, my grandmother transformed the tablecloth into napkins, gifting a set to each married woman in our family. It was her way of sharing a legacy, of weaving Ruby and her own strength into our lives.
These portraits are my tribute to all the women who came before me. Though two works cannot possibly contain the full weight of their strength, sacrifice, grief, and love, they carry traces of them. Through hair and fiber, I imagine all of us gather around that same sacred table.
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Octothorpe (#), Octothorpe (#) Key Typewritten onto Canvas, 47 1/2" x 37" Framed
Recently, I found a garment in my closet that had been moth-eaten. It was jarring to realize that something just worn could be so quickly undone by the work of a single tiny creature. Sometimes, the rhythm of something small can tear through our lives in unexpected ways.
Each keystroke of the typewritter leaves a mark, building a pattern, like a screen with gaps, exposing what lies beneath. In the same way, a few small words, casually spoken, can unravel our sense of stability.
From a distance, this work resembles ancient writing. Two halves of one canvas suggest solidity, something etched in stone. Upon taking a closer look, there is no legible text, only a blur of almost discernable ink. The illusion of clarity dissolves, revealing a sense of erosion.
This work was created by rolling a piece of canvas through the typewriter and typing each mark by hand. Each gap or pattern irregularity was from manual manipulation of the fabric and roller. The densities in the pattern vary based on the force applied to each key.
Deeply Moved, Eggshell on Heirloom Silver Platter, 12" x 16 1/4"
The Greek verb embrimaomai (ἐμβριμάομαι) is used in John 11:33, when Jesus witnesses the heartache of his beloved friends over the death of Lazarus. This word carries far more weight than a momentary sadness, it denotes a powerful emotional upheaval. It’s a deep, visceral reaction that can be translated as indignant, deeply moved, or even a gut-wrenching cry of grief and anger.
This detail reframes the moment in a profound way. Jesus isn’t passively observing human suffering, He is agitated, angry, and grieved by it. That response gives me hope. It suggests that death, suffering, and loss were never meant to be. They are not natural. If they were, why would we feel so devastated by them? Wouldn’t we instead greet them with peace?
But no, we mourn. The inclusion of the word embrimaomai tells us that this grief is not a flaw in us, but a reflection of the truth: death is wrong. Our bodies and our spirits were not made for decay and loss.
This insight changes everything. Because later in the story, we don’t just see comfort, we see resurrection. We catch a glimpse of the hope that one day, all will be made new. Our brokenness will not just be patched up, it will be fully restored, beyond anything we could imagine. And in that restoration, we’ll be reunited with those we’ve lost.
This piece was made from sourcing eggshells from my community, crushing them by hand until they were finely ground, and carefully arranging them on this heirloom silver platter.