China Shavers Bio, Age, Family, Height, Joey Mcintyre, Instagram

China Shavers Biography

China Shavers was born in East Harlem, New York, United States 41 years ago. She is an American actress well known for her supporting roles as Brooke Harper on the high school drama Boston Public and as Dreama on the supernatural sitcom Sabrina, the Teenage Witch.

China Shavers Age

China Shavers is 41 years old as of 2018. She was born on June 16, 1977, in East Harlem, New York, United States.

China Shavers  Family

Information about China Shavers family, parents and siblings have not been revealed.

China Shavers Spouse

According to rumors, China Shavers is possibly single. China Shavers has been in relationships with Eric Jungmann (2003) and Joey McIntyre (2002).

China Shavers  Height

  • Height 5′ 6″ (1.68 m)

China Shavers  Image

China Shavers
China Shavers

China Shavers  Career

Shaver’s has featured as a recurring role on the TV series ER. Her guest-star appearances include roles in Beverly Hills, 90210, The District, Girlfriends and Sleeper Cell, among others. She featured in films like National Lampoon’s Adam & Eve, The Glass House, Not Another Teen Movie and Dorm Daze 2.

China Shavers Net Worth

China Shavers has an estimated net worth of $1.6 MILLION.

China Shavers Joey Mcintyre

China Shavers once dated Joey Mcintyre in 2002.

China Shavers Sabrina The Teenage Witch

Sabrina the Teenage Witch is an American supernatural sitcom where China Shavers appeared in playing the role of Dreama

China Shavers  Video

China Shavers Instagram

               China Shavers Interview

The works of Nancy Shaver carry a paradoxical experience: How to reconcile their enormous material investment in objects—either ready-made, in her works from the 1980s; or, since, constructed ad hoc—with the emphasis ultimately placed on the act of looking? How do the critical dimensions of this act of looking and the scrupulous de-hierarchization of received values that it infers connect up with an apology for visuality that bets everything on its political and ethical efficacy— and wins?

To explore these paradoxes, let us begin with the works Shaver made at the beginning of her career: photographic representations of ordinary objects.1 (fig. 1, Nancy Shaver, Monamock Speedway, 1973). These images, ruled by frontality and axial composition—the simple rules of “good photography,” in the vernacular sense of the expression2—bring together two interests that will never be refuted. The first concerns “ordinary” objects, especially those which, because of considerations of class, are generally excluded from artistic representation.3  When she photographs children’s T-shirts, Shaver declares the divinity of lives that are struck invisible as much by the dominant artistic culture with its class contempt,4 as by the dominated themselves. For them, the received logic of portraiture aside, such a shot is a waste of the film. But by photographing these things according to the “classical” rules of vernacular photography, Shaver also affirms, for the dominators as well as for the dominated, the democratic conception of art open to everyone and everything. This “art without the artist”5  challenges, in effect, the criteria of professionalization in the field, and the type of materials and content considered to have a right to belong to artistic activity.6

The operations of selection and reframing established in these early works would soon shift and take off in new directions, influenced in part by Shaver’s encounter with Walker Evans, whose course at Yale she audited while her husband at the time, Haim Steinbach, was pursuing his studies there. Rather than overturning a body of photographic work that was already quite accomplished, 7 the time spent with Evans had the effect of reconstituting Shaver’s activity onto two new and distinct planes.

The first is an intensive practice of reading, tending especially toward works of fiction.8 The books read, in addition to the ample food for thought they provided, hatch the phrases and verbal fragments that make their way into later works.

The second is the quest for old objects and scraps of metal, scavenged in shops, flea markets or elsewhere. On top of her outings with Evans, with whom she shared an intense interest in ordinary objects and interiors,9 Shaver would often visit New Haven’s junk shops and antique stores. She furnished the apartment she shared with Steinbach:

I would go every Sunday and look and look and look and buy furniture and other objects. Our apartment became probably the most beautiful interior I’ve lived in, and from what I learned, for the first time, that taste, or visuality, can trump money. From then on, having that kind of heightened visual understanding became a huge part of my identity.10

These domestic, social activities led to Shaver’s abandonment of the camera. The new works employed some of the same moves that characterized the earlier works but extended their use while removing the technological aspect from the gestures. Transposing the activities of home furnishings and the arranging of objects—typically discounted as feminine and relegated to the domestic sphere—into the public domain of the art exhibition, Shaver would for the next decade build her work almost exclusively around the installation of objects.

The resulting works are compositions, on the wall and/or on the floor, of human fabrications(nothing natural here) that have been salvaged, recuperated, or bought in junk shops. Words and phrases, snippets of conversations overheard or read, may be added as well, typed anonymously onto white paper,11 sometimes accompanied by drawings made by the artist. The majority of the found objects are boxed or reframed,12 often in glazed frames built specially for each piece, then painted or repainted. Framings and reframings punctuate—like quotation marks or parentheses—the “conversations between things”13 that these installations create. They visually signal the work of fabricating a circumstantial space in which they participate.

The Argument, a piece from 1987, comprises six elements arranged on a wall (fig 4). In the center, the largest and thickest of three black, mass-produced frames encircles a paper bag bearing the logo of Grand Union, a major U.S. grocery chain.14 On it is a geometric composition of advertisements noting the convenient low prices. Arranged diagonally in several directions from this central element are plastic bas-reliefs of Chianti bottles and kitchen décor items available in discount shops. Directly above the bottle on the right, the smallest one, a chromolithograph portrays two small birds perched on a branch, pecking at berries. The openwork frame that surrounds the image is in copper-tinted wood. The black frames positioned on both sides of the Chianti bottles complete the piece. Each one protects a sheet of letter-writing paper with a typed inscription: on the left, a fragment of conversation,the bravery of which makes its contextualization impossible—“You said that you”—and on the right, a list of domestic spaces: “front porch, back porch/kitchen/dining room/living room/bedroom.” With the concision of a real-estate listing, the list inventories the minimal array of rooms expected of a rural or suburban North American home. Taken as a whole, the piece offers a directory of circumstantial objects, while at the same time providing a starting point for fiction.15

The Argument foregrounds the role of framing in the construction of Shaver’s assemblages. Other pieces demonstrate further an economy of gesture. A work from 1991 (fig. 5) displays at eye level an enameled metal coffeepot the color of red lead, and a porcelain planter in the form of a reclining Persian cat—light blue except for the ribbon, the nails, the eyes, and the inside of the ears, all gold. The objects lined up horizontally, float a few centimeters away from the wall, to which they are attached by an invisible peg. This conjoined floating and the complementarity of the colors establish a “conversation between things” that is both corroborated and complicated by the orientation of the coffee pot’s spout toward the head of the cat, whose sideways glance transfixes the viewer’s gaze.

The call to the Roman household gods in the piece’s title—Lares and Penates—underscores the animism, the anthropomorphism (as much Dickens as Disney) governing the juxtaposition of the coffee pot and the planter, both of which are promoted to the status of domestic divinities. The coffee pot, an object that cannot move on its own, is a Lare, a spirit confined to a place it can’t abandon. The cat is a Penate, a divine presence that travels with its family to reconstitute the domestic space wherever they go.16 For all that, the coffee pot never stops being itself, nor the planter.

Other object works upset the protocols— selection, then installation of found objects, sometimes in frames—that govern their production by more directly stimulating the perception of visuality. Here, the operation of reframing tweaks to the point of annihilating the distinction between found object and “artistic” work.  The Birth of Venus (1989) (fig. 6) offers an example of this hybridization. The porcelain statue depicts a white horse reared on its hind legs above high grass or reeds—possibly a mare, as indicated by the eye and delicate eyebrow painted on its head, and the red-rimmed lips carved into its muzzle. The statuette—new, made in China— is nested inside a white lacquered frame. The whole

thing has been irregularly repainted, in a matte ultramarine, by Shaver, from the bottom to about two-thirds of the way up. Evocative of the intense, deep (IKB) blue adopted by Yves Klein, and in sharp contrast to the gleaming white it invades, this monochrome, matte mass echoes the rising motion of the statuette.

Here again, the title serves to orient the effect of the repainting: it declares the color blue as (ultra)marine, the animal as feminine and mythologic, her movement as the emergence of the tide, and, finally, the white as celestial. Elsewhere, evidence of the artist’s hand serves as an invitation to leave the logic of a purely installation-based work and the late orthodoxies of the readymade. Shaver employs a logic of intensification of visuality that rests on a whole Matissian swath of Modernity. Turned blue, rendered matte and monochrome up to its neck, the statuette loses its exclusive status as a found object, for the sake of the new visual glory provided not only by the simple “graphic details of presentation” but also the “physique picture” inscribed on and around its surface.17

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