How Far Can You See?

 
 

interviews by Summer Bowie

photography by Damien Maloney

Carl Sagan once said, “Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” From the moons of Jupiter to the icy Kuiper Belt where Pluto and other dwarf planets orbit to the event horizons of distant black holes and colliding galaxies light years away, space is the place where our understanding about ourselves and the universe collide in spectacular wonder.

Everything we know about where we are and when we are comes back to the invention of the lens. This single innovation in human technology has broadened our understanding of everything; from what we know about the contents of an atom to the farthest stretches of the universe. The Nimrud lens is largely regarded as the first known example of an optical lens. Used by the Assyrians in the 8th century BCE, it was made from rock crystal and was likely employed for magnifying and burning. The first wearable glasses were crafted by Italian monks in the late 12th century CE, allowing for those with compromised vision to continue reading. Finally, the invention of the telescope is attributed to German-Dutch spectacle-maker Hans Lipperhey who submitted his patent for a refracting telescope using a convex objective lens and a concave eyepiece lens to the States General of the Netherlands in 1608. His application was denied since there were other spectacle-makers who laid claim to the same invention, but news of his idea traveled far and wide, catching the attention of Galileo Galilei who constructed his own version and used it to make his most pioneering astronomical discoveries. Today, technologies like adaptive optics, pioneered at observatories such as Keck in Hawaii, correct for the blur of Earth’s atmosphere in real time, delivering space-like clarity from the ground.

As of October 2024, the California Institute of Technology is the institute with the highest number of Nobelists per capita in America. The private research university also manages and oversees NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), the research and development center responsible for designingand building spacecraft and robotics for the US government’s space agency. Rocket engineer and occultist Jack Parsons, one of the principal founders of the Caltech rocket group that evolved into JPL, helped lay its foundations. In order to gain a better understanding of where and when we are in the space-time continuum, we reached out to three scientists from Caltech who are on the frontlines of both observational and theoretical astronomy. We learn that everything we know about ourselves depends on where we are looking, when we are looking, and how our vision is mediated


MIKE BROWN


When planetary astronomer Mike Brown killed Pluto in 2006, he earned both esteem and vitriol. His discovery of Eris, along with a handful of other dwarf planets, challenged our entire understanding and definition of a ‘planet.’ Now classified as a dwarf planet, Pluto is recognized as one of several trans-Neptunian objects orbiting the farthest reaches of our solar system, in an area known as the Kuiper Belt. Numbering in the thousands, these objects hold clues that point to how the outermost planet in our solar system—Neptune—formed. While his discovery set in motion Pluto’s demotion, Brown believes that a hitherto unknown Planet Nine is out there, and he has spent the last two decades looking for it.

SUMMER BOWIE: Do you remember what inspired you to become an astronomer?

MIKE BROWN: I grew up in northern Alabama in the seventies, which was where the Saturn V rockets were being built at Marshall Space Flight Center and Redstone Army Missile Command. In the 1940s, over a thousand kidnapped Nazi rocket scientists were brought to Huntsville to engineer this rocket program. Growing up as the Apollo rockets were being built and as the astronauts were landing on the moon, I was always surprised that everybody didn’t want to do this. I would see these rockets going up, and I would just want to study the moon and understand what was out there.

BOWIE: You’ve essentially lived through and seen the entire history of humanity getting out into space.

BROWN: I haven’t thought of it that way, but it’s true. You would be playing outside, and suddenly the ground would shake, which is familiar to us in LA, but it was the Saturn V rockets that were strapped down and lit for testing.

BOWIE: Can you talk about the three criteria that are needed to meet planetary status?

BROWN: Yes, I can, but first let me explain why I hate them. The criteria were forced onto astronomy during the Pluto debate. Really, it was just an excuse to reclassify Pluto as not a planet—which was the right call. But the excuse took the form of this lawyerly checklist definition. That’s not how science usually works; we don’t have three-part rules for what counts as a star or a galaxy. The idea they were trying to capture is simple: planets are the gravitationally dominant bodies in a system. When you say “planet,” you’re thinking of a handful of big objects. Pluto clearly didn’t fit—it’s not gravitationally dominant, and plenty of similar objects aren’t either. So instead, we got this clunky three-part definition that I hate even repeating. And notice: I just explained it without actually saying the checklist. (laughs)

BOWIE: There was such an emotional reaction on the part of wider society, which is interesting because Pluto is not the only celestial object that has been considered a planet at one point and then later reclassified. There have been many...

BROWN: The sun is a good example. (laughs)

 
 
 
 

BOWIE: And Pluto wasn’t discovered until 1930, which is so recent. So, it didn’t even spend a full century as a planet, but we have grown very attached to it. Were there such reactions to other celestial bodies and their reclassifications?

BROWN: The first asteroid, Ceres, was discovered in 1801. Asteroids are small rocky bodies that orbit the Sun, mostly between Mars and Jupiter. When Ceres was found, people thought, ‘Oh, it’s a planet!’ At the time, Neptune hadn’t been discovered yet, so Ceres was considered the eighth planet. A few years later, another asteroid was found and called the ninth planet, then a tenth, and then an eleventh. These were the four brightest asteroids, which is why they were spotted first. But unlike the other planets, these “new planets” didn’t move in neat circles—they had tilted, overlapping orbits. By the mid-1800s, discoveries exploded. So many more asteroids were being found that, by around 1860, it was clear it made no sense to call them planets. That’s when they were reclassified as asteroids. Honestly, I doubt the public cared much either way—people weren’t really educated about what counted as a planet or how many there were. When Pluto got demoted, though, I understood why people reacted differently. We’d all learned about Pluto in third grade, memorizing the planets in order like the houses on your street. It was part of your celestial neighborhood. Then suddenly, scientists said, “That house at the edge of your block? It’s not actually part of the neighborhood.” So, of course, people felt emotional about it—that made sense to me.

This is an image of the dwarf planet Eris (center) and its satellite Dysomia (at 9’o'clock position) taken with NASA/ESA’s Hubble Space Telescope on Aug. 30, 2006. Hubble observations were obtained on Dec. 3, 2005 and Aug. 30, 2006 using the Advanced Camera for Surveys. The Hubble images were combined with images from the Keck telescopes taken on Aug. 20, 21, 30, and 31 to measure the satellite’s orbit and calculate a mass for Eris, which is the largest dwarf planet in the solar system. Credit: NASA, ESA, and M. Brown (California Institute of Technology)

BOWIE: You became famous for demoting Pluto to a dwarf planet and for discovering another dwarf planet called Eris. Is there a reason why Pluto was discovered so much earlier, even though it’s only slightly larger?

BROWN: It turns out to be just slightly bigger than Eris, which irritates me to this very day, but it is less massive by about a factor of 20%. The reason Pluto was discovered in 1930, and it took until the 2000s to find the rest of these dwarf planets, is dumb luck. Pluto is the closest of the large objects in this region of space. On average, it’s the closest. But these other large objects are on these very eccentric orbits. So, Eris was discovered while it was on the inner part of its eccentric orbit. When it’s way out on the other end, it’s faint, but when it comes closer, it’s brighter than Pluto. Eris takes about 500 years to go around the sun. If it had been on the part of its orbit that it will reach 250 years from now, it would’ve easily been found by Clyde Tombaugh, who was searching for and found Pluto. He would’ve found Eris, and he could have also found Makemake and the others. If he had found the other four back in 1940, everybody would’ve said, “Oh yeah, it’s just like the asteroids, and there must be many more of them.” But instead, there was just that one for sixty-two years, which led to a lot of confusion about what was going on out there.

 

Clyde Tombaugh, a 24-year-old student and the discoverer of the planet Pluto, looks over a Newtonian reflecting telescope he built in 1928. The mount for this telescope was built from part of the crankshaft from a 1910 Buick and discarded parts from a cream separator. It was with this telescope that Tombaugh made the observations responsible for a job offer from the Lowell Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona. Bettmann and Getty

 

BOWIE: You talked about Eris being more massive than Pluto. How do we measure the mass of a planet?

BROWN: The easiest way to figure out the mass of something in space is if it has a moon. If the object is more massive, its moon will orbit faster. If it’s less massive, it’ll be going slower. So, we can use the distance and the speed of the orbit to figure out the mass. We were very excited when Eris was discovered, and we then found a moon for it, which enabled us to measure its mass.

BOWIE: When you discovered Eris and its moon Dysnomia, you were calling them Xena and Gabrielle, after characters from Xena: Warrior Princess. What was it about the show that made such an impact on you, and why were they renamed in the end?

BROWN: I just really liked that show. And, when we discovered what was to become Eris, we always used code names for the objects so that we could talk about them before they got real names. People had talked about Planet X for a long time. Something mythological seemed good, and I didn’t mind that it was TV mythology instead of Greek. And, I thought that there were not nearly enough planets named after female deities. Then, when we found a moon, there was no question of what the moon was going to be called.

BOWIE: How did they decide on the renaming process?

BROWN: Official names are approved by the International Astronomical Union. And when it was time for the official name, we didn’t propose Xena and Gabrielle. My wife was like, “You want to be known forever as the guy who named this thing after some campy 2000s TV show?” And I’m thinking, Yeah, maybe. But in the end, I thought, it deserves a Greek or Roman name, just like all the other things that were planets at the time. So, we did this search for good mythological names that had not already been used by asteroids, and there was almost nothing left. The only major god or goddess that had not been used was Eris, goddess of discord and strife. And then her daughter, Dysnomia, is the demon spirit of lawlessness. It’s named for my wife, who is not a spirit of lawlessness, but one of Pluto’s moons, Charon, was sort of named after the discoverer’s wife, Charlene, and my wife’s name is Diane. I think she likes that she has a moon named after her, but she doesn’t admit it.

BOWIE: It’s interesting to think about the way that astronomers and other people in the field feel about space movies. Do you watch them, and are there frustrating aspects of the way that space is portrayed?

BROWN: I am completely capable of suspending disbelief and just watching some dumb space opera. I’m not more or less interested in a movie because it takes place in space for the most part. I will read science fiction if it’s a good piece of literature. But I don’t read science fiction because I find it more appealing than real literature. I would much rather read a good modern novel than a bad, modern science fiction piece any day of the week.

BOWIE: What is the Kuiper Beltand what does it tell us about the history of our solar system?

BROWN: The Kuiper Belt is the icy leftover remnants from when the last planet formed. The last planet to form is probably Neptune. A planet might have been able to form farther out there, but as soon as Neptune formed, it kept on shaking everything around out there, which didn’t let any of the clumps get together and form a real planet. So, they’ve just been sitting out there for the past four and a half billion years, and they are, in some sense, the frozen remnants of the original solar system. They’re a dynamic fossil record. It’s as though at some time, in the early solar system, there was a gory murder and the blood was splashed all over the wall, and then somebody removed the body. But we get to see all those bloodstains and try to figure out what happened. So, maybe that’s what the Kuiper Belt is: the bloodstains on the wall of the outer solar system.

BOWIE: What can you tell us about Planet Nine?

BROWN: Well, I wish I could tell you where it was, but I can’t because I can’t find it yet. But I can tell you what we think we know about it. From the evidence that we see from the Kuiper Belt, we can map its gravitational influence by seeing where these objects are and what they look like. Based on that evidence, we think that it’s about seven times more massive than Earth. So, huge. It’s probably about twenty times farther away than Neptune, which is why we haven’t been able to track it down yet. And it probably takes about five or ten thousand years to go around the sun. I’m always convinced that we’re going to find it within two years. But I’ve been saying that every year for the past nine years, so you really shouldn’t believe me when I say that, but I think we really will this time.

BOWIE: Last year, you wrote a paper titled “Enabling Fast Response Mission to Near-Earth Objects, Interstellar Objects, and Long-Period Comets.” Can you briefly explain what this kind of mission would entail and what kinds of key technology gaps would need to be filled to launch a rapid response to a planetary threat?

BROWN: There are two ways to do it. A notable example came about six months ago when an asteroid was discovered, and at first there was a chance it might hit Earth. Since then, better observations have shown a 2% chance it could hit the moon—which is entertaining to think about, although the dust would cause a worldwide satellite catastrophe. So, if it were going to hit the moon or Earth, we’d want to do something about it. If impact were likely, it would happen around 2032, and we’re not prepared for something that soon. So, you have two options. One is to build a spacecraft, store it in a big warehouse, and wait. Then, when needed, you commandeer the biggest rocket you can find, launch, and deflect the asteroid. Deflection is usually just hitting it—not blowing it up, Bruce Willis–style, but nudging it hard enough to shift its orbit slightly. And that’s why you want to act early. The better option is this cool idea we came up with: a constellation of spacecraft always in orbit around the Sun—say, a dozen of them. Once a month, one would swing by Earth, using Earth’s gravity to redirect itself with very little fuel. That way, once a month you’d have the chance to send a spacecraft to check out or deflect any threatening object. Over time, we’d be building up a permanent capability—ready for anything. If we just wanted to take a picture, we could; if we needed to hit something, we could. It would be a sentinel fleet waiting for whatever comes, good or bad. For example, an object was recently discovered beyond Jupiter, coming from outside our solar system. It looks like a comet, and it will pass by the Sun—but at its closest, Earth will be on the opposite side, so we won’t get a good view. With this kind of fleet, though, we could send a probe to meet it.

BOWIE: Do we suspect this object to be the oldest comet we’ve observed since most come from within our solar system?

BROWN: It’s a comet from another planetary system, and so its age is whenever that planetary system was formed, which we don’t know, but we do have clues based on how fast it’s traveling. It’s coming in at a speed that’s fast in the same way that really old stars move much faster than younger stars. They’ve just had more time to move around through the galaxy. So, it may be older than our solar system. I haven’t thought of it that way, but it’s very possible.

BOWIE: How do you feel about the United States Space Force and SpaceX? Some of our newer centers of space research?

BROWN: I would call neither of them a center of space research. These are engineering projects, defense projects, or industrial projects. They have shown that they have zero interest in scientific research. I have mixed emotions about a lot of it. Of course, it’s hard not to have mixed emotions about SpaceX just for general reasons, but also as an astronomer, they are putting so many things up in the sky that we’re going to have a hard time doing astronomy in the future. And, the head of SpaceX says, “Oh, we’ll just put telescopes in space.” I’m like, Great. We have so many telescopes on the ground because we can do that relatively cheaply. Everything in space costs a billion dollars. How many billions of dollars do you want to give us to put all of our telescopes in space? The answer is zero. That said, I like the fact that my phone now has emergency satellite texting from the middle of nowhere, and I think that’s important. I go on long bike rides every weekend in the mountains, and I can text my wife and say, “I got a flat, but I’m coming home, so don’t worry about me.”

BOWIE: Right. There are some obvious practicalities, and then there are some extremely impractical propositions that they’re putting out there.

BROWN: People talk about going to asteroids and mining them and all this stuff, and I suspect that 99% of what people talk about will not come to fruition. If you make somebody a billionaire and they want something fun to do, space always comes up as a new playground. But it’s a lot harder than most billionaires realize. It’s easy to get billionaires to spend money and talk about building things like giant shields in space. Maybe some of this will happen, but I remain a skeptic until there’s some more progress than we’ve seen so far.

BOWIE: Have you ever had any desire to become an astronaut?

BROWN: As a kid, I mean, how could you not? Growing up, astronauts were living just down the street from me. I wanted to be an astronaut before I wanted to be an astronomer. And even as late as grad school, I thought about doing that application, because every couple of years, you can apply to be an astronaut. The woman I was dating at the time was like, “Great, please let me know if you’re planning on doing this, because I will move on. I’m not going to become an astronaut wife doing my knitting in Houston.” I thought that was valid. So, I never did. Once you’re married and you have kids, you think about things very differently.

BOWIE: It’s such a fascinating existence to be like any other human who’s got their feet firmly planted in the ground with a family and a life. But then, to also have your brain out in the farthest reaches of space, imagining all that exists.

BROWN: I like to think I spend my days exploring. I’m not idly theorizing about what’s out there. I’m actively looking to expand our understanding of the solar system’s neighborhood. I want to see that edge and understand what’s beyond it.

BOWIE: What would you say is your most controversial theory about the universe?

BROWN: The easy answer to that question is also the controversial one: Planet Nine. Some people do not believe it and are adamantly against it just because they don’t want to believe it. And some people are not convinced by the evidence, which I find overwhelmingly convincing. So, until the day it’s found, it will be controversial and hypothetical. It’s a little lonely out here. But I think that if we keep looking, we will eventually find this, and the decade of searching will have been worth it.

BOWIE: As a professor, what do you hope to impart upon the next generation of astronomers?

BROWN: The sense that what we do is exploration. Some people lose that, and they get into the weeds of: I do this and I do this and I do this. I’m exploring the edge of the solar system and trying to tell stories about how it got to be. We tell these stories to our colleagues and we tell them to the public. We are privileged to get to do that. It’s an amazing job.

KATHERINE DE KLEER

 
 

The Goldilocks principle explains why Earth has such a singular ability to host life as we know it. We are close enough to the Sun that all of our water doesn’t freeze solid, yet distant enough that it doesn’t boil away. We’re massive enough to hold onto our atmosphere, but not so massive that we are crushed by an impending gravitational force. Combine that with the fact that we have an ideal balance of nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide, and you have the base ingredients for a planet that allows us to breathe, protects us from solar radiation, and keeps us warm via its greenhouse effect. Knowing the why is one thing, but how our planet (and others) formed and how they evolve remains a mystery. Planetary astronomer and extraterrestrial geologist Katherine de Kleer studies solar system bodies—their surface atmospheres and typographies—to further our understanding of how planets work.

In 2019, de Kleer and Caltech cohorts Mike Brown and Samantha Trumbo discovered sodium chloride on Jupiter’s moon Europa, suggesting that its subsurface ocean may be chemically similar to our oceans here on Earth. Last year, she was awarded the Harold C. Urey Prize for her outstanding achievements in planetary science as an early-career scientist. De Kleer’s work has taken her from educating the incarcerated population of San Quentin to the next generation of Caltech’s finest, from observing the volcanic activity and auroral emissions of Jupiter’s moons to the thermal structure and composition of its Great Red Spot.

SUMMER BOWIE: Do you remember what first inspired you to become an astronomer?

KATHERINE DE KLEER: I always loved the stars as a kid. My dad had a telescope that he taught me how to use, and I ended up using it more than he did. It wasn’t computerized, so you had to know the constellations and ‘star hop’ to find what you were looking for. That puzzle-hunt aspect fascinated me. At the time, I didn’t consider that it could be a career. But over the years, my school interests converged with that passion, and I realized I could actually do this for a living.

BOWIE: What was your first major question about the universe?

DE KLEER: Early on, I was fascinated by how galaxies come to be, and why some galaxies have a spiral structure while others have an elliptical structure. Later, my focus shifted to planetary science, and one object in particular captured me—Io, a moon of Jupiter and the most volcanically active body in the solar system. The Keck telescopes in Hawaii have adaptive optics, which correct for Earth’s atmospheric turbulence in real time, giving sharper images from Earth. I pointed one of the Keck telescopes at Io to look at infrared wavelengths, where you see heat, and you can see these little spots of heat coming from each volcano on Io. Until then, I hadn’t realized you could get such detailed geological information about another world from Earth. That moment sealed it for me.

BOWIE: What is it about Io that challenges our understanding of geology beyond Earth?

DE KLEER: There aren’t many places in the solar system with active volcanism, and volcanic activity requires enough heat to melt rock. The early solar system was hotter, and most planets had volcanoes hundreds of millions or billions of years ago. Most have cooled by now, so Io is an anomaly. It’s tiny, yet has hundreds of active volcanoes and new eruptions every few weeks. We think we understand the tidal forces that power it, but it’s still an outlier.

BOWIE: Because Jupiter casts such a large shadow over its moons, you’ve said that Io’s auroral emissions are the only reason we know we’re pointing the telescope in the right direction. Can you describe what you’re seeing through the telescope and how you imagine it would look from Io’s surface?

DE KLEER: Moons appear bright in the sky because they reflect sunlight. But when they pass into Jupiter’s shadow, they become invisible at the wavelengths our eyes can see, except for their aurora, which emit light at specific wavelengths. Some of these colors match Earth’s aurora exactly, like the green and red from oxygen in the upper atmosphere. We’ve seen them on Europa, Ganymede, and Io.

BOWIE: Would they look similar to the aurora we see on Earth?

DE KLEER: That’s a good question. From here, they’re visible because all the light from the aurora is concentrated into a tiny point in our sky. On Io, it would be spread out over the sky, which might make it too dim for the human eye. Ganymede, one of Io's neighbors, has a magnetic field. This means that, like on Earth, the aurora only appears in particular ‘auroral ovals’ around the poles, although on Ganymede those ovals extend to much lower latitudes than on Earth. Because of this, the aurora are much more concentrated in particular locations on Ganymede than on the other moons, so that is probably your best chance of actually seeing the aurora from the surface of a moon.

 
 

BOWIE: Another one of Jupiter’s moons that you study is Europa. It has recently been discovered that there’s sodium chloride (table salt) in its subsurface oceans, which could mean life, or at least habitability. What sits above those oceans, and is it possible that life already exists there? Europa has an energy source from tidal heating, liquid water, and chemicals. So, it is absolutely possible that there is life in that ocean right now.

DE KLEER: Europa, like other icy ocean worlds, probably has a global ocean beneath a thick ice shell that’s anywhere from a few kilometers to 30 kilometers thick. Some scientists think that the salt we see on the surface came from the ocean beneath because it is concentrated where exchange through the ice is greatest. We haven’t sampled the ocean—that would require drilling through miles of ice—but if there is salt, then there are also other chemicals that have come from the rocks at the base of its ocean, which suggests many things. Anything from bacterial life to some kind of extraterrestrial whales could be there, in theory. Life needs three things: a heat source, water, and nutrients. Europa has an energy source from tidal heating, the same mechanism thatdrives Io’s volcanoes, liquid water, and chemicals. So, it is absolutely possible that there is life in that ocean right now.

BOWIE: You’ve also studied the atmosphere on Saturn’s largest moon, Titan, and believe that due to its dense atmosphere and methane-rich composition, it’s one of the most intriguing places in our solar system for astrobiology, and that life could possibly evolve there. Do we have any idea how that life might differ from life on Earth?

DE KLEER: Europa is a stronger candidate for life than Titan. Titan’s atmosphere has chemical processes we would consider prebiotic, but there’s no evidence of life. Europa’s water ocean is a much more favorable environment. Life as we know it benefits from liquids, especially water, and because it’s a polar molecule, it pulls apart other molecules and facilitates reactions. Titan’s liquids, like methane, are symmetric molecules and therefore less reactive. So, while Titan’s atmosphere contains precursors to amino acids, the environment is more challenging for life.

BOWIE: What made you specifically want to study the atmospheres of other planets and moons?

DE KLEER: I’ve always been interested in comparative planetology: for example, asking why Earth, Venus, and Mars turned out so differently. Why is Earth habitable, Mars nearly airless, and Venus smothered in atmosphere? What in their formation and histories led to such different outcomes? My focus shifted from planets to moons because the moons are also dynamic, unique worlds in their own right, as was shown by spacecraft missions like Voyager, Galileo, and Cassini. There are more moons than planets, and their atmospheres are like fingerprints of their internal processes and histories. Studying their atmospheres helps us understand how each became the way it is.

BOWIE: Looking at the scope of your work, what prompts you to set one question aside and begin exploring another?

DE KLEER: I get excited about new ideas. I might read something in a paper or hear it at a conference, and that plants a seed. Over time, I follow that topic more closely, and my focus naturally shifts. Another factor is that I’m an observational astronomer. Some people focus purely on computational work, but observational scientists get new opportunities roughly once a decade, whenever a major telescope is built. As soon as that happens, there’s all kinds of new things you can do: you can see fainter objects, in higher resolution, or different wavelengths, and that opens up entirely new projects.

BOWIE: Do you come back to earlier questions later, or are you juggling them all at once? Do you have teams working on different projects with you?

DE KLEER: Yes, now that I’m a professor. I’ve only been in that role for six years, but before that, I could manage one or two projects at a time. Now, I have about ten people in my research group. Some are working on asteroids, others on moons, others on planets. Mentoring students and postdocs allows me to be involved in multiple scientific areas at once.

BOWIE: You’ve also taught at San Quentin Rehabilitation Center [formerly San Quentin State Prison]. What drew you to that work?

DE KLEER: I think it’s important for scientists to communicate with the public, not just with students in universities. Much of our research is funded through the federal government, and everyone should have opportunities to learn science throughout their lives. I wanted to give a very different population access to science education from a practicing scientist, and the program at San Quentin was excellent.

BOWIE: Did their questions ever surprise you?

DE KLEER: Absolutely. It was a more engaged classroom than any college class I’ve taught. They wanted to be there and to interact—not just take notes for a grade. Their questions were rooted in their personal experiences. So, I’d introduce a concept, and they’d have examples from their daily lives, asking, “Is that why this happens when I do this?” It made me connect the physics I was teaching to contexts I hadn’t considered before.

BOWIE: There’s something interesting about how people approach work and learning when it feels novel and not at all compulsory. If the material is entirely new, the questions can flow freely. However, when your ego is tied to grades and the opinions of your peers, enthusiasm is easily diminished.

DE KLEER: Exactly. The class I taught there was supposed to be a lab class, but bringing equipment into a prison was almost impossible. Sometimes students had to bring equipment from their cells—one even brought a water heater, since I wasn’t allowed to bring in a boiler.

BOWIE: What do you hope to pass on to the next generation of astronomers?

DE KLEER: It’s something I think a lot about, not so much about the science I hope the next generation does, but how I want them to operate as scientists. One of my goals is to train the next generation of solar system observers using big radio telescopes like the Very Large Array—the one from the movie Contact (1997). That’s an uncommon specialty, and it’s important to preserve that expertise. However, there are a couple of attributes that I value as a scientist and hope to instill in the next generation. I value finding new ways to look at things and being ethical citizens of the scientific community. I try to lead by example in those areas.

BOWIE: Speaking of space films, do you enjoy watching them?

DE KLEER: I actually don’t watch many films. I read a lot, including science fiction, but I’ve never been much of a movie watcher.

BOWIE: I find it fascinating that you’re not particularly interested in seeing how others visualize the worlds that your work asks you to imagine. Do you prefer to create the whole image from text and calculations, rather than taking in someone else’s imagined world?

DE KLEER: That might be true. Both from the reading of my own data and from reading text, I prefer my own visualizations over a filmmaker’s.

BOWIE: Do you have a favorite science fiction author?

DE KLEER: There are many science fiction authors I love. A hard science fiction example would be Kim Stanley Robinson’s Mars trilogy: Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars. It’s a realistic attempt to portray human settlement and the terraforming of Mars, with rigorous science, plus explorations of human psychology and politics. It considers how Earth’s national politics might play out on another planet.

BOWIE: I watched your interview with Lex Fridman, and I agree with your take on colonizing Mars: that tourism might eventually be possible, but long-term settlement poses challenges that far surpass some of our most intractable issues here on Earth. If we could solve the problems involved in settling Mars, surely we could solve our problems here on Earth and make it habitable for more people.

DE KLEER: Yes. If we could solve the problems involved in settling Mars, surely we could solve our problems here on Earth and make it habitable for more people.

BOWIE: How do you feel about SpaceX and the rise of the private space industry?

DE KLEER: SpaceX and the private space industry have a lot of potential for collaboration with scientists and NASA. There’s already collaboration—for example, NASA instruments hitching rides on private launches. The private sector can move faster and more cheaply, though with higher risk tolerance. NASA missions are expensive and slow, but extremely high caliber, with rare failures. Ideally, we’d have a broad portfolio: both high-quality, long-term NASA missions and faster, riskier private missions. My hope is that national priorities don’t shift entirely toward human settlement-related science, but continue to support exploration for its own sake.

BOWIE: Have you ever wanted to leave Earth yourself?

DE KLEER: It hasn’t been a major ambition. If the opportunity arose to be an astronaut, I’d probably take it, but it hasn’t driven my career.

BOWIE: What do we ultimately learn about ourselves in the process of learning about the solar system and the universe we inhabit?

DE KLEER: At the heart of it, we gain context for ourselves; a better understanding of our place in the solar system and the universe. We’re one species on one particular planet, in one solar system, in one galaxy. We want to understand why we’re here; what’s special about Earth. We still haven’t answered how unique intelligent life is. Maybe it’s everywhere; maybe it’s rare. Understanding how Earth became the right place for us, and how it fits into the larger universe, affects people differently. Some feel small and insignificant in the vastness. Others feel special. It can be humbling or uplifting, depending on your perspective.

CAMERON HUMMELS

 
 

Similar to the way Mike Brown compares the Kuiper Belt to the blood spatters of a crime scene, computational astrophysicist Cameron Hummels describes galaxies as cannibals that pull smaller galaxies in with their gravitational force and then consume them. When this happens, massive amounts of matter are fed into the greater galaxy’s supermassive black hole at its center, which can lead to jets and outflows of excess gas back into space in what’s playfully referred to as a ‘galactic burp.’ Despite the macabre nature of all of these space metaphors, Hummels explicates the immortal nature of galaxies and the way that they move along the cosmic web. This web is made up of all the traditional matter that we know of in the universe. However, it consists primarily of dark matter, a mysterious ghostlike force in the universe that has perplexed scientists since it was first hypothesized by Swiss astronomer Fritz Zwicky in 1933. When Hummels is not observing and modeling the behavior of galaxies, he and his wife, Katherine de Kleer, are pushing the limits of what their bodies can endure in the wilds of planet Earth. In 2022, he set a world record with the fastest known time completing the Death Valley Traverse, but whether he will ever explore beyond Earth’s atmosphere is yet to be determined.

BOWIE: Do you remember what first inspired you to become an astronomer?

HUMMELS: Many astronomers have a similar entrée into the field, but when I was in first or second grade, my father took me to a local astronomy event in the parking lot of our elementary school, and I had the opportunity to see the rings of Saturn and Jupiter through a telescope. It was pretty sublime.

BOWIE: You work in the fields of galaxy evolution, cosmology, and computational astrophysics. Do many of your colleagues work at the boundary of theory and observation, or do most usually belong to one camp or the other?

HUMMELS: Most astronomers will be either observers or theorists. However, a lot of my work is in using computer simulations to model the behavior of different physical systems, like galaxies, so that we can predict how radiation would transfer through and get an idea of what it would look like through a telescope. That way, you can make a kind of apples-to-apples comparison between what the simulations produce and what we see in reality. The thing about observation alone is that it’s just the light signals that are traveling from that distant object to your telescope at any given moment, and what we’d like to know is how the object is moving, how it’s living its life, how it’s transforming. Computer simulations allow us to try to model the behavior and see how it might be changing according to the laws of physics.

BOWIE: So, it’s a back-and-forth conversation where you make the simulations, then you observe the object. And from there, do you modify aspects of the simulation?

HUMMELS: That is usually how it goes. Sometimes over weeks, sometimes over decades. You’re iterating on the process to improve the ultimate interpretation of what’s going on. It’s a tit-for-tat kind of thing. For instance, with a galaxy, we might make the insightful deduction that it isn’t a single galaxy but a merger of two galaxies that we are just witnessing at this moment. Maybe that extra clump on the side that we thought was a star cluster is actually a totally different galaxy that’s merged with this system. Once we know that, we can go back and hone the observations around that region to better understand it, and then go back to the model.

BOWIE: About a hundred years ago, Edwin Hubble discovered that there are galaxies outside of our own, and Mike Brown is still looking for Planet Nine. Can you explain how discoveries at that distance were made with comparatively primitive technology?

HUMMELS: The primary thing is the brightness of the objects, as opposed to the distance to them. If Planet Nine exists—and I think Mike, Konstantin [Batygin] and others have shown pretty strong evidence that something out there does exist at the magnitude and at the size that they’re suggesting—its distance to us is minuscule compared to the distance of galaxies and other structures that we’ve certainly been observing for hundreds of years. The stars, of course, are light-years away, but they’re powered by a nuclear fusion process in their core, and that causes them to illuminate, and thus we can see them from great distances.

BOWIE: Do galaxies have an average lifespan?

HUMMELS: That’s a difficult question to answer because galaxies are born at different periods of time, but they don’t really die.

BOWIE: Okay, so they have a birth, but they don’t have a death. But then, what happens to all the matter getting sucked into black holes? Is it all just replaced by more matter within the galaxy?

HUMMELS: Well, not that much stuff from a galaxy is going into that supermassive black hole at its center. The Milky Way, for example, is about a million times more massive than the black hole at its center. Stuff does get pulled in, but there’s no risk of it swallowing something that is that much larger than itself. You have to get quite close and travel at a reasonably slow speed to fall in. Astronomers sometimes describe galaxies themselves as ‘cannibals,’ because as they grow more massive, their gravitational reach expands, and a large galaxy will gradually pull in and merge with smaller neighbors. We refer to this as hierarchical formation. Our Milky Way formed this way, and in about eight billion years, it is predicted to merge with our nearest galactic neighbor, the Andromeda Galaxy. This will probably only happen a couple more times for our galaxy, because the universe is expanding. As it expands, galaxies are getting farther away from each other, and mergers occur less frequently. But to answer your question about a galaxy’s lifespan: Do those smaller galaxies die when they merge? Not really, you just can’t tell them apart from the Milky Way anymore. Similarly, when we humans die, we will become part of the Earth, and then we’ll grow into other things in the future. There isn’t really a death, per se; it’s just a ... reincarnation.

 
 

BOWIE: So, as the universe expands, our galaxy and others start moving out along the cosmic web. Can you explain what that is exactly? The cosmic web describes the distribution of matter within the universe ... galaxies appear to be arranged like pearls on a necklace in long filaments. These filaments connect to form a larger three-dimensional web, much like a spiderweb on acid.

HUMMELS: The cosmic web describes the distribution of matter within the universe. What we see is that galaxies are not randomly placed, but they appear to be arranged like pearls on a necklace in long filaments. These filaments connect to form a larger web, much like a spider web, but one in three dimensions. So, it’s like a spiderweb on acid. Scientists believe that these galaxies are the visible counterparts to the much larger amount of mass that we cannot see, the dark matter that composes most of this cosmic web.

BOWIE: And what exactly is dark matter?

HUMMELS: Dark matter is a hypothetical type of matter, which cannot be seen or touched, but it interacts with other matter through its gravitational effects. So, we can only detect it through its indirect effects on matter we cansee, like stars or gas. Incidentally, it appears to make up the bulk of the mass of the universe, much more than the “normal” matter we are familiar with, like electrons, protons, atoms. We scientists hate having to invoke some unseen ghostly matter that we cannot directly observe. Scientists have gone through every which way to avoid invoking dark matter, but there’s been growing evidence over the last seventy yearsthat points toward its existence, based on the shape and dynamics of the structures we can see. For example, spiral galaxies, as their shape suggests, are rotating. If they spin too fast, they’ll fling themselves apart. The force that holds them together is gravity, and it’s directly related to the total mass of the galaxy. Therefore, we can measure how much mass is in a rotating galaxy, based purely on its rotation speed to estimate the gravity holding it together. When we do this, these mass estimates appear to be much, much larger than the amount of “normal” matter we can see to be present in a galaxy in the form of shining stars and glowing gas. The inferred mass for these galaxies is ten, one hundred, or one thousand times larger than the “normal” visible mass. So, we say these galaxies have a lot of dark matter, since we don’t see the mass directly, but we know it’s there, holding the galaxies together. But it is concerning that we don’t have a way of seeing dark matter directly, and a big part of modern physics is trying to do just that.

BOWIE: What does it mean for a galaxy to be dark-matter-deficient?

HUMMELS: Basically, every galaxy that we observe in the universe has substantially more mass than the stuff that we can see, but there are a handful of systems that have been observed in the last five years, which look like they don’t have any dark matter in them. This is prompting scientists to question what makes these systems so distinct from the billions of other systems we’ve observed. And it may hold the key to understanding what the heck dark matter is and how it is formed.

BOWIE: You worked on a project that led to a paper called “Galaxies Lacking Dark Matter Produced by Close Encounters in a Cosmological Situation.” Can you talk about the seven dark-matter-free galaxies that were found and how they were named?

HUMMELS: A colleague of mine, Jorge [Moreno], wrote this paper. It was an important paper because about two years prior, there had been the first observations of what looked like these dark-matter-free or dark-matter-deficient galaxies. But we didn’t yet have any theoretical models or computational models that could back it up. And so, we took a state-of-the-art astrophysical simulation, which follows thousands of galaxies co-evolving from just after the Big Bang to the present day, and in that environment, we searchedfor systems that might not have a lot of dark matter. Out of the thousands of galaxies in the simulation, we found seven systems that appeared to have little to no dark matter. In each example, it was a small galaxy orbiting around a more massive galaxy, like our Milky Way. These systems came in and made a really close orbital passage to that massive system, which essentially stripped away a lot of their dark matter and absorbed it into the primary system. Seven different systems were identified in this particular simulation, and Jorge chose to name them after the seven Cherokee clans: Bird, Blue, Deer, Long Hair, Paint, Wild Potato, and Wolf. It was important for him to give them Native American representation because people tend to name things solely after concepts from Western civilization.

BOWIE: Can you talk about some of the outreach work you do?

HUMMELS: I’m super passionate about getting people to incorporate science into their lives. At its base, science is a mindset of skepticism and experimentation, and I think that the world would be a much better place if people were intrinsically skeptical of the claims that other people make. I love to lecture in universities, but I also try to reach a broader demographic of people by organizing events in non-traditional places. So, we have something called Astronomy On Tap that takes place at a bar here in Pasadena, where we have public-level science presentations, astronomy-themed pub trivia, we set up telescopes, and there’s live music. We’re doing one in Sequoia next month. We do one in Death Valley in February every year, and also visit the Grand Canyon, Bryce Canyon, and others. Scientists don’t get paid a lot of money to do this. We do this because it benefits all of us to push back the veil of uncertainty about nature in all of its different forms. I also work with a number of national parks and set up Dark Sky festivals. It’s crucial that we, as scientists, engage with the public and rebuild trust in science. Biology, sociology, physics, and chemistry. I think it's incredibly promising that so many people have gone down this path to try and help humanity better understand the world in which we live.

BOWIE: Speaking of Death Valley. What is the Death Valley Traverse, and what motivated you to do it?

HUMMELS: There is a loosely-defined route that goes from the very northern tip of Death Valley to the southern tip; right down the middle of the valley. It doesn’t have a proper trail or anything, and it’s about 170 miles. There’s a contest associated with it, where you’re supposed to cover its distance totally unsupported—no assistance from other people, no food caches, no nothing. You just pretend like you’re the only person on the planet and get from one end to the other under your own power. It’s called the Death Valley Traverse, and I backpacked it a few years ago. I love Death Valley because of all the extremes associated with it—it being one of the hottest, driest, and lowest elevation places in the world. So, I’ve been going out there for a while, and a few years ago, someone set a record for the fastest known time on the Death Valley Traverse. It took him a week, and when I read about his accomplishment, I felt like it could be done much more quickly. As I investigated, I realized he had carried all his water for the entire journey on his back, which is reasonable, but also crazy. You don’t want to carry eighty pounds of water on a long backpacking trip! I figured I could go much faster if I kept a light pack and only drank from wild water sources along the route. So, I did a bunch of research using satellite maps, and speaking with the park hydrologist to find all the potential water sources on the way, I identified four small water seeps where I could resupply my water along the route, each roughly forty miles apart, and I relied upon those. The hike itself was a crazy experience that included unrelenting heat, a sand storm, cramps, exhaustion, hallucinations, and despair, but in the end I finished in a little under four days and set the world record. There was more misery than fun in the moment, but it’s fun to talk about afterwards.

BOWIE: I mean, you were drinking arsenic-laden water after that first day.

HUMMELS: Whenever you drink from wild water sources, you want to avoid getting sick. Before I began, I sent small samples from each Death Valley spring to a water testing service to ensure the water was safe. They identified a substantial amount of arsenic, uranium, and sulfur dioxide in them. With the arsenic, the water that I was going to be drinking was about three times higher than the FDA’s maximum level for potable water sources. So, I called someone at the poison control line, who unsurprisingly advised me not to drink it. But then, I spoke to a doctor who said it would probably be okay to drink for my short time in Death Valley, and I ended up doing just that.

BOWIE: How did Katherine feel about all this?

HUMMELS: She probably thought it was an unnecessary risk, but she’s also taken some unnecessary risks with hiking and backpacking herself. I don’t think all partners would be quite so patient with such a frivolous, risky adventure, but she was supportive.

BOWIE: In this situation, you’re made to feel like you’re the only person on Earth, and in the past, you’ve applied a couple of times to be an astronaut. Do you still have aspirations to be an astronaut?

HUMMELS: Absolutely. Kat and I both applied this last period to become NASA astronauts. But sadly, I think I have aged out. I’ve applied four times since 2012, and got through the first round of cuts before, but there are several rounds from there. I suspect I came at a bad time in history in terms of crewed spaceflight. The shuttle program ended the first year I applied, reducing the need for astronauts, but now with the rise of commercial spaceflight, the number of astronauts is likely going to go back up. I certainly don’t have the kind of money that you need in order to do space tourism, but if there were an opportunity, I would absolutely go. Who doesn’t want to go to space?

 
 

The Driven Artists Racing Team

In motorsports, where just 4% of drivers are women, Zoe Barry and Lyn St. James break down the stakes, strategy, and survival on the racetrack.

interview by Zoe Barry
photography by Amanda Demme

In one of the most dangerous and competitive sports in the world, Zoe Barry drives Car #44—a number that highlights the stark reality that only 4% of licensed professional racecar drivers are women, and only 4% of artworks sold at auction are by women. Behind the wheel of a McLaren Artura GT4, wrapped in a custom livery by contemporary artist Mickalene Thomas—who also designed the race suits and helmet—Barry focuses on one thing: winning. Yet in a world still dominated by male decision-making, from rivals on the track to corporate sponsors off it, she must confront stereotypes and misconceptions at every turn.

In 2025, she co-founded Driven Artists Racing Team (DART Car) with art advisor Spring McManus to champion women in motorsports and the arts—a first-of-its-kind initiative that fuses competition with creativity, proving that performance and cultural impact can drive change together. In January 2026, the team will compete in the 24H Series Middle East Trophy in Dubai and Abu Dhabi as the first all-female-led team in the series.

Lyn St. James, now a mentor in the field, is a living legend: the only woman to win an IMSA GT endurance race solo (1985 at Watkins Glen), the first woman to earn Indianapolis 500 Rookie of the Year (1992—a record unbroken for three decades), the holder of dozens of speed records, and the first woman to surpass 200 mph on a closed oval, reaching 204.233 mph at Talladega. Together with St. James, Barry explores the psychological and strategic challenges of racing—the constant risk of death on the track, the split-second decision-making, and the stamina and endurance required to outpace the competition.

In a special photo feature supported by Caddis Eye Appliances—a champion of second acts in life, reflecting Barry’s leap into racing after a career in the corporate world—we followed Car #44 onto a practice track in West Virginia, capturing the raw grit and glamour of a day in the life of a champion racecar driver.

ZOE BARRY: Lyn, of course, people can Google you, but hearing you speak on a panel brought out the heart, the challenges, the soul behind the story. It reminded me of Einstein’s quote about standing on the shoulders of giants. Women like me can get behind the wheel today thanks to women like you who took those early risks and broke the stereotypes. Even now, only about 4% of racecar drivers are women. Unlike Olympians, who often follow a clear path, female drivers are competing alongside men in a world that doesn’t want to fund them, doubts their ability, and fears they’ll get hurt.

LYN ST. JAMES: Every woman in racing right now is an iconic, isolated story unto herself. There are so many different forms of motorsport, and unlike Olympic athletes—where there’s a fairly cookie-cutter pathway to the top—there’s no single route to get there in racing. I’ve had the luxury, through the Women’s Sports Foundation, to meet icons like Billie Jean King, and I’ve crossed paths with incredible athletes like Diana Nyad, Nancy Hogshead-Makar, and so many others I grew up watching on TV. Their accomplishments are extraordinary, and I’m not at all taking away from their abilities, their talents, or what they’ve achieved. But there is a fairly clear pattern for how to get there in those sports. Whether it’s through coaches, training centers, or established pipelines, there’s an infrastructure that helps guide the way.

In motorsports, there is no such infrastructure. There’s drag racing, oval track racing, stock car racing, road courses—so many different forms of the sport. And on top of that, there’s an enormous amount of politics and money involved. It’s constantly shifting, and every driver has to figure out their own path through it. But every female driver has to constantly carve out a niche and prove they belong there. Even to this day, what I’ve accomplished doesn’t necessarily make it easier for the women coming up now. At best, it might inspire them, give them confidence, or encourage them to try. But beyond that, you still have to prove yourself.

BARRY: (laughs) I'm working on it, Lyn.

ST. JAMES: I’m still here to mentor, to be an ally, and to help however I can—but I can’t get in the car, make the calls, or close the deals. In racing, you have to wear so many hats: raise money, manage your team, and convince sponsors to believe in you. And that’s the part people rarely talk about. I once heard a brilliant woman in the UK describe how, in many ways, we’re still in the caveman era—men are inherently wired to protect women. It’s just a deeply ingrained instinct we’re still navigating.

ZOE BARRY: And you can see it in the data. Years ago, if you had a three-year-old daughter, you’d put her in ballet. Today, parents don’t hesitate to put their kids—boys or girls—on skis, on a tricycle, or on a bike. But with racing, it’s different. Very few parents think, I’ll put my three-year-old daughter in a kart and let her go. That’s still where racecar drivers come from, and we haven’t broken through that mindset in the way we have in so many other sports.

ST. JAMES: Exactly. And that’s where racecar drivers come from—starting young. Fortunately, history has helped. Title IX in the ’70s changed things. Now we have parents who went to college, saw women compete in sports, and understand that women can push themselves physically just as hard as men. That’s progress. But there are still limitations. My daughter is in her forties, and I have a seven-year-old granddaughter. Would she put her daughter in a kart? No. Would she put her son in one? Yes. So it’s still very much about individual decisions, shaped by these cultural assumptions. We can’t ignore those realities. I’ve literally sat across from male sponsors who couldn’t bring themselves to say, “We won’t give you money because you could get killed.” But I knew they were thinking it. So, I said it for them, “I know I could die doing this. I’ve seen death on the track. I made a conscious choice to accept that risk. It’s that important to me.” Every racecar driver—male or female—has to reconcile that risk. But for women, it’s another layer of resistance to push against.

BARRY: Lyn, one thing I’ve noticed in my journey raising money is how similar it is to your experience securing sponsorship for racing. In tech, as a female founder, only 2% of the billions deployed in venture capital each year go to women. It’s similar in sports: women drive huge sales—Nike sneakers, for example—but female athletes are paid far less, sometimes 90% less than men. In racing, it’s the same: women get a fraction of the sponsorship, so they have to do so much more.

When I was in tech, there’s something called Keyman Insurance. If the key person—often the CEO or founder—dies, the business faces risk because they’re a major shareholder and driver of innovation. When I started racing, my chairman raised concerns with our lead investor about Keyman Insurance, implying my racing was a liability. I shot back: statistically, racing is safer than skiing. Are male CEOs stopped from skiing? No. Sometimes you counter with data, sometimes you confront it directly. You have to be upfront: yes, I could die doing this, but I’m doing it anyway. All the way up to F1, I don’t hear drivers having to defend their choice to be in a racecar, going over 200 miles an hour with the real risk of death. In all the conversations I’ve had with top athletes in this space, men simply don’t have to answer that question.

ST. JAMES: They don’t have to answer that question. In fact, it actually makes them more heroic, because people admire them all the more. When Eric Anden died, our sport stopped—literally. Not just Formula One, but the entire motorsports world. The same happened when Dale Earnhardt was killed. These were icons we never expected to lose in a racecar, and their deaths reminded everyone of the risks involved.

Women drivers are just as courageous. When Catherine Leg crashed at Road America years ago in an IndyCar, she walked out of the medical center after a horrific crash. I had a similar experience at Riverside in 1986. I was upside down and on fire, yet I crawled out and walked away. But now, we’re not always admired for it. I remember someone at Ford, who was sponsoring me at the time, saying, “Oh my God, she really drives just like the guys. And she didn’t cry.” I thought, You’ve got to be kidding me.

BARRY: Let’s go back to the beginning. How did you get started, Lyn?

ST. JAMES: It started when I discovered endurance racing—a form of motorsport I didn’t even know existed. I went to the 24 Hours of Daytona with my husband as a spectator, and I was blown away. These cars raced for a full twenty-four hours, and as a fan you could actually see the people—the crews, the human effort—behind it all. I called it seeing “real people” instead of superheroes, the way IndyCar or Formula One often felt. I was fascinated by how drivers with Corvettes, Camaros, Mustangs, and other so-called “back-of-the-pack” cars still managed to compete. That’s when I learned you needed a competition license. To get one, you had to join a club—so I became a member of the Sports Car Club of America. Then I found out you also had to attend a driver’s school before you could earn that license.

BARRY: How old were you at the time?

ST. JAMES: Well, I went to driver’s school and became a member of the Sports Car Club of America (SCCA) at twenty-seven and got my license a few years later. To participate, you needed a racecar, and there was a new class called Showroom Stock. You could take a production-based car, install a roll bar, a five-point seatbelt, and a five-pound fire extinguisher, and you could race. I bought a four-cylinder Pinto, which became my first racecar.

I drove it back and forth to work during the week and raced it for a couple of seasons. Eventually, I won the regional championship with it. That was the beginning, and it lit a fire in me. Going over a hundred miles an hour—on the front straightaway at Palm Beach International Raceway with a tailwind—it was exhilarating. I’ve always been a sucker for challenges, and every moment in a racecar tests you—your technique, your reactions, the car, your competition. It throws challenges at you constantly, and I just soaked it all up. I loved it, and I’ve never stopped loving it. I’ve never looked back.

BARRY: How many years to get your professional license?

ST. JAMES: To race professionally, I needed an IMSA (International Motor Sports Association) license. That was necessary to race in the Kelly American Challenge Series. I actually raced my husband’s Corvette at Daytona—not in the 24 Hours, but in one of the other events they held there. To get the IMSA license, you needed enough races under your belt, and you had to go through the licensing process, which is good—you really have to learn it. (laughs) Within a couple of years, I earned my professional license and I started racing in the Kelly American Challenge Series, which was a support race at IMSA events. They even offered a bonus prize for the top-finishing female driver in each race.

BARRY: That’s pretty progressive. They barely do top female finisher now.

ST. JAMES: Yeah, Kelly really needed to do something to support women in racing because of their history of primarily employing women as temporary secretaries, even as they expanded into light industrial work. I raced in all ten races in 1979—and I won in every race. That started to put me on the map because the race results were published in Speed Sport News, which didn’t have as wide a reach as today, but it mattered. They always noted the top female driver in the results, which helped get my name out.

Through that exposure, I was invited to race in the 24 Hours of Nürburgring as part of the BF Goodrich factory program, and we won our class. Around that time, I also started a company called Creative Images and used it to write sponsorship letters. I couldn’t sign my own name because it was promoting “Lyn St. James,” so I made up names of people in my company to make it seem bigger than it was. (laughs) One of the companies I targeted was Ford Motor Company. I’d seen a 1978 Car and Driver article titled “Ford and Feminism,” highlighting the company’s efforts to provide equal employment opportunities for women in non-traditional roles. I bombarded them with letters every time I raced and sent my results, relentlessly following up. In 1981, it paid off—I signed with Ford and became a factory driver. That was the tipping point in my career, the moment everything started to change.

BARRY: I’ve always been a daredevil—growing up in NYC, I was constantly taking risks, from gymnastics on rooftops to catching animals with my bare hands. I competed nationally in gymnastics, swimming, and sailing, but injuries and physical limits held me back. Then I discovered racecar driving—a sport where you can compete at a high level for decades. My first car was a racecar; I traded equity in my tech startup for a Mazda to start racing seriously. I went through racing school, club races, and learned the grind of back and mid-pack racing—the chaos, the carnage, and the challenge of getting to the front.

At forty, I earned my professional license. I applied a venture model to my racing team: raised funds, bought a GT4, and collaborated with artist Mickalene Thomas, who designed hand-painted helmets and suits. In our first pro race, we finished fourth. Now, my goal is historic: to run the 24H Series Middle East Trophy with an all-female team—a first for that race. For me, as an athlete, everything I did in gymnastics and swimming was sprint-focused. A gymnastics routine is only four minutes long. Swimming, of course, was pure sprint. In racing, our sprint events started with Mazdas in club racing—about twenty minutes long, but extremely fast. What were your early sprint races like?

LYN ST. JAMES: My early amateur races were about thirty minutes. In pro racing, sprints usually run forty-five minutes to an hour—single driver, no pit stops. You have to manage fuel and tires carefully, because a car can only go so far before running out or wearing down. Safety and refueling rigs are factors too. For example, in the TransAm series, races were an hour with no pit stops, so the car had to be built to last the full distance.

Endurance racing is a different beast. The crew becomes the most important part—not the drivers. We’re just the machines in the car, responsible for staying out of trouble, driving fast, and bringing the car home intact. The crew keeps the car running, handling refueling, tire changes, brake maintenance—sometimes nonstop for 24 hours. You learn exactly what every person on your crew—and your competition—is made of, because anything can happen. Plans go out the window, and it’s all about how people respond under pressure.

BARRY: People don’t usually think of the car as an athlete, but you should. In endurance racing, that becomes clear. You have to prep the car differently for a sprint, a driver change, or a 24-hour, long-haul race. The approach for a true long-haul endurance event is completely different.

ST. JAMES: Absolutely. Without a crew who understands the nuances, you’re in trouble. Every component—brakes, suspension, setup—has to be prepared differently for an endurance race versus a sprint.

BARRY: I haven’t done a full 24-hour race yet, but there’s so much that goes into it from a planning and logistics standpoint. In many ways, it reminds me of tech—using a Gantt chart or burn-down chart to map everything out. If your goal is to launch on a specific date, you need to identify all the pieces that must be in place beforehand. Then you have a fixed budget, and you have to decide where to allocate resources and which areas deserve the most focus.

ST. JAMES: This is an organic response, but I really like that you have a singular, unique goal. Not only is it an endurance race, it’s in Dubai—a location where not much racing happens outside of Formula One. And doing it with an all-female driver lineup adds another layer of significance. Ideally, you’d integrate some women into the crew as well, though having an entirely female team can be extremely challenging given the skill and experience required.

I highly recommend, before attempting this, that you get some endurance racing experience under your belt. One series that comes to mind is the WRL (World Racing League), which features six and eight-hour races. It didn’t exist when I was racing, but from what I understand, seats aren’t prohibitively expensive or hard to get. Participating in one of these races as part of a driver lineup would give you a chance to observe, understand, and truly experience what endurance racing demands.

BARRY: Oh, they have one coming up at Watkins Glen! The “blue bush.” (laughs) Just so people reading this know, Watkins Glen has almost no runoff space—just a narrow strip of grass, maybe two car widths, before you hit the guardrail. To make it feel less scary, they’ve painted the guardrails blue—but any mistake, and you hit the grass, then the “blue bush.” The cars are all banged up.

ST. JAMES: I love that track. I made history there. I was racing for Ford in a Mustang in the Serengeti 500, a 500-kilometer endurance race in the GTO division of what was then called the Camel GT series. That season, I ended up with a different co-driver almost every race. For this one, I had a replacement co-driver I knew was competent—but honestly I was in the groove completely, so I wasn’t thinking things through. When I came in for the scheduled pit stop—where we were supposed to change drivers, refuel, and swap tires—I didn’t get out of the car. I didn’t put the window net down; I just shook my head “no.” In a pit stop, you only have 30 seconds, so there’s no time for discussion. The team, my co-driver, and the managers exchanged glances as I stayed in the car. They changed the tires, fueled the car, and I took off, running the entire race myself—and won the GTO division.

No other single driver, male or female, had ever won an endurance race solo. Since then, the rules have been changed so no driver can do it alone. That victory came with a few funny and frustrating moments. At the podium, I was alone—no car, no co-driver, no crew. The trophy was handed to me by a Serengeti representative, a guy from their retail team, which was both hilarious and surreal. Later, when I returned to the garage, the car and crew were gone. They took me out of the next race, so I missed the points. I ended up paying a penalty from my team for making that split-second decision. It’s a moment in my career that brings me a lot of excitement and pride, but it’s also a reminder that when you don’t play by the rules, there are consequences.

BARRY: What do you think are the different qualifications that go into being a good racecar driver? For me, you need basic skills—hands-on feel for the car, quick reflexes, eyes up to anticipate what’s coming. Over time, you learn to anticipate crashes or mistakes, even guide someone off the track without touching them. For example, at Sebring, my home track, I know a turn where the correct line is left. If someone dives inside, they might hit a greasy spot and go off—totally legal, not my fault.

It also requires an appetite for risk. When you sign up for this sport, you know you might die. Most sports don’t ask that—basketball, swimming, gymnastics—you aren’t thinking, I could die today. High-performance sailboat racing is closer, but in racing, it’s constant. From there, it’s awareness—reading competitors, understanding how they’ll react. Then it’s emotional intelligence, knowing how to push someone without endangering yourself. And finally, it’s about the fear factor—can you manage it, or do you let it manage you?

ST. JAMES: I think you just have to have really good perception and vision. Not only good reaction time, but anticipatory reaction time. You have to be able to anticipate and definitely have a feel for the car. Whether it’s through your body completely—I mean, your feet, your butt, your hands—I mean, all of that. You really wear the car. You become one with the car. I call it desire. You have to have a hunger for outracing and outmaneuvering.

BARRY: When you level up—in a new car, a new series, or a higher league—you get picked on. You just have to accept it as part of the process. I feel like all I’ve been doing is crashing—not in racecar driving necessarily, but in every sport. In gymnastics, everything is about falling. In tech, there’s the saying, “fail fast.” In sailing, on your first day in a boat, all you do is find the edge. It’s a full day of learning how to capsize the boat, pulling yourself out of the water, getting wet, draining the boat, and sailing forward. Then the coach blows the whistle, and you capsize again.

For me, I’ve totaled several racecars—on average, probably every other year. You don’t want to, but it’s part of leveling up. Going from Mazda to Porsche is a huge jump in speed and cornering. Competition also gets more aggressive as you move from club to national to pro racing, so there’s a steep learning curve. You’re the greenest person on the track, and people take advantage of that. In sailing, we used to call it “finding the marshmallow.”

ST. JAMES: First of all, it’s an expensive sport. I’ve had some older competitors say that women can drive racecars, but the reason they’re not more successful is because they don’t want to hurt the car. Try having that conversation. (laughs) The idea being that women are mothers and are “meant to protect everything in the world.” But there’s always a risk–reward in every move you make. Over time, you learn that you can’t build a career if you’re known as a crasher. Fortunately, I didn’t crash a lot, but I was still worried about it. Whether it’s crashing or being too hard on the car, you can’t afford that reputation.

One piece of advice I always try to share—whether with other female drivers or anyone I mentor—is that the best drivers never ask more from the car than it’s willing to give. If you overdrive, eventually you’re going to crash or break the car. And if you do that often enough, people won’t want you in their car. To build a career, you need to be both available and desirable as a driver. If you’re known for wrecking cars, there’s always going to be someone else waiting with a helmet who doesn’t carry that reputation.

BARRY: At the second race in Sonoma, we didn’t run because it was a rain race. And I love the rain. That’s my time to shine. It’s my absolute favorite condition to drive in. My coach always says I’m a beast in the wet. (laughs) But they canceled. In the GT3 race, I want to say they lost about a third of the field—badly. Then, they had the McLaren Trophy, which also got cancelled because so many cars were destroyed or driven off track. It was nuts—torrential rain. So, by the time our race came around, a lot of us decided not to go out.

We had to make a decision—because we were running a Mickalene Thomas car, which is a multimillion-dollar car. Everyone else out there is in a $250,000 to $300,000 car. I’m in something worth $2 to $3 million. I’m not going to take that risk. I can be really aggressive with my driving at the right time. When I drove the Mickalene Thomas car, I went from the back of the pack to fourth place. I have that data. But there are also times when you have to say, “I can’t take a 25% chance of putting this car into a wall.” Or, even if I don’t make the mistake, if someone else hits me, or the track is statistically likely to send you off—then you weigh the risk differently.

ST. JAMES: Every opportunity is an opportunity to make a decision. You assess the situation and try to make the best call. Now, if you’re always going to raise your own money, run your own team, and drive your own cars—fine, do whatever you want. But if you want a career as a professional driver, you can’t be known as a crasher.

BARRY: One thing we haven’t talked about too deeply is the Mickalene Thomas art aspect of DART Car. I’m really proud of this part. I raised investor dollars and made sure part of that funding went directly to Mickalene for this work. We gave her full creative license and she delivered a bold, Cubist-inspired design with lips on the front and a winking eye motif.

That visual language carried through everything—the car, the helmets, the race suits, all with those lips. Mickalene jokes they’re “for all the kisses in all the special places.” It’s playful, but it resonates. People love it. And not just women—men too. You’d expect women to gravitate toward hot pink and crystals, but when the car was being wrapped in a private garage, collectors kept coming through asking for photos. And it wasn’t just collectors. When we went to the tech inspection, the crew—not museum-goers or gallery regulars—were holding the helmet like it was a treasure. At that time, none of us knew how the market would respond, but then my first helmet sold at auction at Silverstone, during the F1 event in July, for $150,000. Since then, collectors have been snapping up DART pieces, and that’s the mission: every sale funds more driving, gets more women behind the wheel, and raises visibility for female artists.

ST. JAMES: Sometimes that’s one of the unique roles women can play in this competitive world—where certain lines of demarcation get blurred. Women can bring a different lens, elevate the story, and shift the narrative. This is one of those examples.

ALFONSO GONZALEZ JR.

An image of Alfonso Gonzalez jr. on a horse

interview by Jeffrey Deitch
photography by Johanna Hvidtved

Having cut his teeth as a traveling sign painter, Alfonso Gonzalez Jr.’s paintings are deeply infused with the tradition of the Chicano Art Movement of Southern California and the distinct vernacular of Los Angeles’s palimpsestic urbanity. His paintings are near-spiritual windows to the vibrancy and richness of immigrant communities across the Southland. Through graffiti-covered overpasses and cement ravines, birthday party supply stores, nail salons, and helicopters circling stucco-clad multi-unit dwellings, Gonzalez Jr. reimagines art history through a diasporan lens. Photographed at a friend’s equestrian ranch in the unincorporated Avocado Heights neighborhood of the San Gabriel Valley, Gonzalez Jr. speaks to Jeffrey Deitch about his unique letterforms; inspired by pachuco and cholo traditions, his narrative approach, and observational humor.

An image of Alfonso Gonzalez Jr's painting

JEFFREY DEITCH: I was impressed by how your introduction to art comes from real life. You learned by immersing yourself in graffiti and sign painting. Your knowledgecomes from perfecting the craft. Tell us more about your artistic origin story.

ALFONSO GONZALEZ JR: My father’s a sign painter. He grew up in Tijuana and moved to LA when he was about twelve years old, so he witnessed the beginning of the Chicano Art Movement. Around that time, there were hundreds of murals painted all over Los Angeles County. He moved both of my parents to the Boyle Heights area when they came to the United States, and that’s where a lot of that movement was born. Some of the first art I remember seeing was in books that he had of Mexican muralists, like [David Alfaro] Siqueiros, [José Clemente] Orozco, and a few of [Diego] Rivera. He painted a few murals when he was younger, but later became a sign painter for a lot of tow truck companies, storefronts, and things like that. I would always go with him to work, so that exposed me to different parts of the city.

Going from San Gabriel Valley to the San Fernando Valley, looking at everything in between, and watching the landscape change wasalways really fascinating to me. That was also around the time I started seeing graffiti. It was the ’90s Southern California style, but it wasn’t just an artistic style; it was also the spot selection—climbing bridges and billboards. So I began meeting people. I had a cousin who did graffiti, and he introduced me to a lot of magazines and music. He had all these sketchbooks. All of that really informs what I’m doing now. Now that I’ve found my own voice, I’m continuing that legacy.

DEITCH: There is a very distinctive Los Angeles mural and graffiti style.

GONZALEZ JR: The beautiful thing about the United States is that the immigrants create a rich culture and history that is unique to this country. For instance, Boyle Heights was a Japanese and Jewish neighborhood that later became home to Mexican immigrants. A lot of the Chicano art movement was inspired by the Mexican muralists and the printmaking that was happening in places like Oaxaca, but with a new perspective, because it’s for people born in the United States.

What we know as modern-day graffiti originated in the 1970s in New York City on the subways. But the Los Angeles landscape is different. A lot of the early graffiti movement started on the buses, and once law enforcement started cracking down on that, it moved to the highways. Artists were creating really bold styles to catch your attention at fast speeds, but when those got buffed and erased, people started climbing. Then, the thing was to paint really difficult spots in very intricate styles.

The palettes and the lettering style are also influenced by pachuco, cholo, and Chicano gang styles. There was a whole movement that used pre-aerosol paint. They used paint brushes and tar in the LA River. There are still some really old landmarks fromthe 1920s in many of these neighborhoods. Gangs like the Avenues and White Fence from the ’20s started what would later become the pachuco style. That style was a lot sharper, bolder, created to mark territory, and to be intimidating. A lot of it is inspired by Old English. It has a darker feeling to it.

DEITCH: I’ve heard that part of the inspiration comes from the Los Angeles Timesmasthead?

GONZALEZ JR: Yeah, that’s the Old English. To this day, when I see the Los Angeles Times, it just feels very serious, very gothic, almost.

An image of Alfonso Gonzalez Jr. and a horse
Image of a horse

DEITCH: Could you give us a better understanding of the differences in the pachuco and cholo approaches?

GONZALEZ JR: The pachuco style started around World War II, when everyone was rationing, which meant you couldn’t use a lot of material. But the pachucos were dressed in baggy clothes, and they would always clash with the sailors. There were a few fights, and the LAPD always sided with the sailors, so that’s what led to the Zoot Suit Riots. A lot of the modern Chicano gangs, which we call cholos, were basically groups of teenagers that started clubs in the ’60s and later became what we know as gangs. Sometimes it was a football team, and other times it was for protection, but a lot of the fashion came from workwear, and a lot ofthat clothing is similar to how people dress in prison. It also influenced the way people dressed in the ’80s, when streetwear started to become popular.

DEITCH: I love the story you told me about working as a traveling sign painter, going across the country. It reminded me of James Rosenquist’s background, how he turned that into his pop art. How does your experience as a sign painter inform the paintings that you show now in galleries?

GONZALEZ JR: I grew up painting signs, graffiti, and cartoons, but as far as referencing and rendering a photo, I learned that at work. The first company I worked for was based in Los Angeles, and they painted all kinds of ads—a lot of movie posters—on 12 to 20-story buildings. After working with that company, one of my mentors asked me if I would go with him to work for a company that was based out of Brooklyn.

This company was founded by ex-graffiti writers who saw the opportunity to expand what we were doing in LA—working with different creative agencies, and painting ground-level advertisements—in Manhattan and all over the country. I started off painting on suspended scaffolds, so you would view the work from hundreds offeet away. Then, eventually, once I got better, I went to the ground—stuff that is still really large-scale, but you could walk up and look at it.

It was my first time going to New York, so I met a lot of these painters who came from different backgrounds, but we had a lot of similarities. I experienced that training from the last of the old billboard painters. It was the old school apprenticeship that most people don’t have anymore. They would start at 7:00, and if you showed up at 7:01, they would go upwithout you. They’d just close the door and say, “You gotta go.” For me, that was my livelihood. I couldn’t get fired because I didn’t have any other options. You had to have thick skin because they were mean. They were trying to get you to quit. But, after a few years of that—it wasn’t days or months, it was years—they were like, “Okay, you can hang now, let me teach you.” I was like, “I don’t know anything, so you just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it, and I’ll clean your brushes.”

DEITCH: Is that when you started to go to museums?

GONZALEZ JR: After a while, I got tired of just drinking with my co-workers during my off hours, so I started going to all the museums in whatever town we were in. I would see some pop art and think, Wow, this is an advertisement. I would see works by Rosenquist, Rauschenberg, and Andy Warhol’s soup cans, and it was such a breakthrough moment. And then, I started thinking about my place in it. I’m like, Hey, why don’t I do it?

Growing up, I always called myself an artist, but I didn’t really have the chops. It took making it my livelihood to get the discipline to finish things. Leaving LA was also a crucial part of my story, because you have to look at it from the outside to know what’s really going on. People always tell me things like, “Wow, you really captured this and that.” And it’s because I traveled all over the United States, then to Europe and Asia, and when I came back, all these little mundane nuances from home—the kind that are easy to ignore—started to inform my work.

DEITCH: You are one of the great artists portraying Los Angeles today. You have a lot of Los Angeles cityscapes, landscapes, and people working. So I’d like to hear about your vision of the city.

GONZALEZ JR: I have a deep appreciation and love for the city. I know it’s not perfect, and there’s a lot of stereotypes. Some of them are accurate, and some of them aren’t, but some of these stories aren’t being told, so I enjoy the opportunity to give my perspective. The thing that makes it really special here is that you can really be in the mix, or you can also hide away if you need to. There are parts that feel very urban and there are places that feel almost secluded and rural. Maybe that doesn’t make sense until you experience it.

As I was introduced to a lot of art and started thinking about these different movements, one of the things I kept thinking was, if this is what’s going in the history books, there’s still a lot of important stuff missing. So, I feel like my perspective is really just giving you a peek into what’s going on in certain pockets of LA.

DEITCH: Looking at your work, we can see that you’re very influenced by the billboards, the advertisements on the back of buses, the contrast between nature and commerce in Los Angeles neighborhoods, buildings that are well taken care of, and then junk cars.

GONZALEZ JR: Back when I was painting advertisements, I would feel conflicted with thoughts about overconsumption and the tactics they use. Whether it’s fear-mongering, hypersexualizing, or targeting particular demographics by using stereotypes. My paintings are my way of making fun of it, critiquing it, but also acknowledging that I participate in it. I look at these things every day and a lot of the time, I find it very humorous. So, I try to lean into the humor.

I feel like it’s all landscape, but my millennial brain thinks about it like the way you would navigate on Google Maps. You click on something, you zoom into it, then you back out and go around the corner, and then you’re like, Okay, I’m on La Brea right now, but what’s over here? Then you make a right, and you’re like, damn, I moved the mouse too far, and now I’m zoomed in on this dumpster. Then you back out, and there’s a lawyer billboard or something. I don’t really use Photoshop or Illustrator. Many of the things I’m referencing are documented on my iPhone, but then I crop or zoom into them.

Cowboy materials
Painting by Alfonso Gonzalez Jr.

DEITCH: Can you walk us through your whole process—from before you even get to the canvas? Does it start with taking an iPhone photo of a cityscape that you experience?

GONZALEZ JR: There’s a few different examples of how I approach a painting. The pretty straightforward way is starting with the photo. I’m always taking photos of things that I find interesting, so I look at the archive to find things I want to paint. Sometimes I see something and document it, knowing right away that I’m going to create a work out of it. But even when I do that, I take the liberty of changing the colors, simplifying things, collaging onto it in some cases. Other times, I have a specific idea about something. So, I drive around, looking to find one thing, only to end up finding something else. Other times, the work is not referencing anything; it could be built off of memory or something that I think could exist. It’s a combination of all these things. A lot of what I’m doing is built off of memory, and it’s informed by when I was painting signs, or when I was doing graffiti—I know how things would build up naturally, because the work is about other people’s decisions and how they influence and change the surface. So I’m getting into the mentality of a 13-year-old graffiti tagger who’s really angry at this other kid, like crossing them out—it’s these very aggressive gestures—or like someone who’s afraid, or it’s the conversation between a client and a sign painter about why they chose specific colors. They all begin with these little meta-narratives.

DEITCH: And my last question is: would you prefer to buy your insurance from Adriana or Veronica?

GONZALEZ JR: Well, based off the advertisements, I feel like Veronica. Adriana has been around for longer, but Veronica’s cool because of the dog. It’s a great selling point. They’re both really good at marketing, but Veronica took it to the next level. Her ads are a lot more memorable because she doesn’t recycle the ads. She’s very timely. When the Barbie movie came out, she did some Barbie-themed ads. She did some Scarface ads. It’s always seasonal and smart.

Alfonso Gonzalez Jr. on a horse

An Interview of: Maya Hawke

interview by Lily Rabe
photography by Boe Marion
styling by Cece Liu
all clothing by Prada FW25

Maya Hawke’s breakout role on Stranger Things, as the frenetically precocious Robin Buckley, whose character arc would go on to challenge the entire dynamic of the Netflix tentpole, was instant proof of a rare, believable, and soulful complexity. That same year, a minor appearance as a Manson girl in Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood (2019), firmly placed Hawke in a class of next gen actors demanding visibility on the silver screen in an industry that is not only rapidly evolving, but also in crisis. Aside from her well-known screenwork, she is also a musician and stage actor who has released three studio albums and recently starred in an Off-Broadway play. Her titular role in the revival of Sarah Ruhl’s Eurydice, a play about the inexorable riptide of grief, earned her widespread critical acclaim. On the occasion of her recent casting in The Hunger Games: Sunrise on the Reaping (2026) and the final season of Stranger Things, Hawke and fellow actor Lily Rabe discuss the fraught, vulnerable psychic landscape of the dramatic arts and the undeniable power and seduction of process. There’s no business like show business.

LILY RABE: Hi, Maya.

MAYA HAWKE: Hi, beautiful woman.

LILY RABE: Speaking of works in progress—for me, I don’t know what it is to be in any other state of being other than work in progress. I always get so freaked out when a director says that we’ve picture locked. It sends me into an existential panic.

MAYA HAWKE: I feel the same. I feel like I’m always in a state of process and progress and creation. Where I get the most nervous is when things freeze. That’s the nice thing about the theater, because even though you lock the show, it’s never not in process, it’s never not continuing to be worked on.

RABE Yes, you always have another show, and you get to do it all over again. And then it’s over, and no one gets to see it anymore. But with theater, you don’t experience that feeling of saying goodbye like you do with film, where this one take is going to be...

HAWKE ...Used forever! They don’t get to see the four other takes that I did that were cool and different.

RABE: With the theater, you can fail better (laughs).

HAWKE: Yes, you can fail more continuously. So, it feels like failing is, in and of itself, an honorable act because it’s an impermanent state where you’re always aspiring to not fail the next time. But when you’re in a permanent state of failure, by closing the door on something, that’s when I get really sick to my stomach.

RABE: Even in the play, Ghosts, that I just did with your brother [Levon Hawke]—when the director, Jack O’Brien told us we were officially frozen—both “frozen” and “locked” feel so traumatizing.

HAWKE: Yes! I don’t want to be frozen, and I don’t want to be locked.

RABE: Once it was frozen, Jack would go back to his house in the country. When he would occasionally come in on a Sunday matinée, all of us would just be so desperate for a note from him

HAWKE: It’s true because when you freeze a show, you’re still shaping it. And it moves in different directions all on its own, just from the nature of the chemicals of the people together. Something I remember being so nervous about was when Les [Waters], who directed Eurydice, came back to see it, and I couldn’t even remember if I was still doing what I was supposed to be doing. We froze, but I don't know if I froze or not.

RABE: We both grew up in artistic families. Do you feel like that’s the way every interview you do starts?

HAWKE: It’s interesting. I wonder if that’s been your experience or not. I feel like it’s a double-edged blade, right? Because it’s both true and interesting. When I talk to most people, eventually, I start to wonder about them: How did you end up like you, or what happened to make you—you? I always wonder about a person’s childhood and experiences, so, for me, it’s such a fair question. Do you get asked that question a lot?

RABE: Yes, all the time. But what you’re saying is true. When I read someone’s profile, it always starts with their childhood and where they grew up. It just feels sort of loaded for us, but it is our history. It sounds like you don’t have a chip on your shoulder about that question.

HAWKE: I think it depends on who asked the question; I can smell whether someone is asking for the wrong reasons or for the normal reasons. One big mistake people from similar backgrounds make is getting defensive about it, because it gets a little like “the lady doth protest too much.” It’s a completely appropriate question if it comes out of curiosity and education about another person. I was doing an interview recently where someone asked me this question, and I just started talking about my high school teachers and my acting teachers. Because, yes, I have an artistic family, and that’s the reason I was exposed to acting, but it’s the same for most people: your parents loom so large. Then, you go out and you find your guides, especially as a teenager. Eventually, you wind your way back to your parents, where you’re like, “Oh, you guys are okay.” These guides that pop into your life, in these formative years, point you towards who you are, and sometimes who you are is right back to where you started. I wouldn't be me if it weren’t for Laura Barnett and Nancy Reardon and Nancy Fells Garrett, but I obviously wouldn't be who I am without my mom and dad.

RABE: I’m interested in this because I took a slightly indirect path towards the thing I always knew I wanted to be doing, and part of that was because of exactly what we’re talking about. I had tremendously supportive, brilliant, incredible, and wonderful parents. But I was still like: I’m going to be a dancer. Then the second thing was writing, when really what I wanted to be doing was acting.

HAWKE: Well, in some ways, writing plus dance is acting. (laughs) I wanted to go deep into poetry, to go into academia, and study it. My different take on poetry was that it should be spoken out loud.

RABE: But it’s certainly not acting, don't you dare. (laughs)

HAWKE: Definitely not. (laughs) But I relate to trying to carve out your version of the same pie. It takes a little while to be like: All right, I’ll eat the pie. Being sure that you do love it, and this is the thing I’m the best at—the place I feel the safest and most whole in the universe—so I probably shouldn’t turn my back on that feeling just to prove I can. But I do feel like my experience watching people move through lives in the arts—both my parents and their friends—has been my secret weapon in life. It shapes everything—my emotional life, my work life, even therapy. Having the arts as your backbone is one of the most fortunate ways to move through life, because you have these tools on how to process emotions, how to look at conflict, how to look at the truth, through scene work and storytelling. I think it takes people a long time to go back and build that tool kit, versus if you’ve just been fortunate to walk out of your development with it. I couldn't be more grateful for that.

RABE: I think there’s a lot of truth in what you said. We’ve never really talked about this, but you’re the kind of person I’d call if I were afraid to share something with others for fear of judgment. But I’d call you, or your brother, because I’d know you wouldn’t be afraid of it. And I feel like you’d say the same about me. I wonder if that’s connected to what you just articulated so beautifully. It’s like we feel safer around the edges than maybe the average person does.

HAWKE: I think we understand the plasticity of emotion. Let’s say I’m having a horrible feeling, and I’m feeling somehow betrayed and angry, and as soon as I say those things out loud, something hard and carcinogenic loosens, then you have this opportunity to reshape it and be healed. That gives you so much emotional freedom and a sense of safety. To really understand that you are not defined by your feelings, you have to see how movable they actually are.

RABE: I know that your parents moved around a lot, but you were in New York primarily. Did your parents take you to the theater?

HAWKE: Well, not only did my parents take me to the theater, but my parents took me to see you in the theater. My favorite thing in the world as a kid was Shakespeare in the Park, and I saw you there twice; it shook me to my absolute core. I get asked all the time what movies made me become an actress. But really, the three things that made me want to be an actress were my dad doing The Winter’s Tale with Rebecca Hall, you in The Merchant of Venice, and you in As You Like It. Those three shows made me realize: that's the kind of woman I want to become, with that kind of strength and grace. I knew I wanted to go to Juilliard because I saw a version of being a grown woman that was right to me. I wanted to have mastery over language, over the space, and over the story that just made me want to do this. It was really because of seeing you.

RABE: I’m speechless. I love you. I can’t talk about this without talking about Eurydice. You and I never worked together—I was pulled into your orbit through your family. Right when Ghosts ended, which I had done with your brother Levon, you were cast in Eurydice. I haven’t really told this story, but I actually went to see you in it with your brother. I had seen the original production at that same theater, with the same director, even many of the same props, and music. I went with my mother, and we usually shared the same taste in theater—but this time, I was stumped. I thought it was beautiful, but I didn’t understand it. My mother said, “Maybe someday you will.” Years later, I returned. Sitting next to Levon, I watched you—someone I love—play this role, and I was overwhelmed. I cried so hard on your brother’s shoulder I couldn’t breathe or see; tears were shooting sideways out of my eyes. You were breathtaking—your command of the stage, your connection to your body, your language. You had this agelessness that was astonishing. I realized then that Eurydice might be the greatest play about grief ever written. And my mother was right: I finally understood it, because I had lost her. Experiencing that through you—this woman and artist I love—was profound beyond words. When we got backstage, I held onto you as if being passed from Levon’s arms into yours. You and Sarah Ruhl had given me the greatest gift anyone grieving could receive. It’s an experience I will carry forever.

HAWKE: It felt strange because, during rehearsals, Sarah often told me I reminded her of your mom. That made your reaction when you saw it even more meaningful to me. I almost felt like I felt as if Sarah wasn’t saying I reminded her of your mom, but that you would come to the play and feel her presence. I was so moved by the play. I haven’t had much experience with grief, but every night in that play, I felt it deeply—as if I were learning grief through the play itself. I feel like I grew a lot from doing that. We were in the deep end of sorrow that winter and into spring.

RABE: I feel like I’m back in the experience now.

HAWKE: You were so crazy good in Ghosts. It was a very intimidating thing to have seen you three times right before I started my play. How did it feel ending Ghosts, because ending a play is very strange and lonely, and you feel a little insane for a couple of weeks. And then you balance out.

RABE: It’s stressful, sad, and strange. Ending a job, a film, or a TV show can be incredibly emotional, but it’s not the same as a play. The schedule seeps into your cells—you become a creature of habit: when to wake up, when to have caffeine, when to eat. Being in the theater for eight shows a week, you almost go underground, and then suddenly, it’s over. Even though Ghosts was painful, I didn’t feel even close to ready to be done.

HAWKE: When you’re at a midpoint, you think you’re ready to be done with it, then towards the end, you think you can go on forever. One of my favorite Leonard Cohen quotes is, “You look good when you’re tired, you look like you could go on forever.” Weirdly, it’s from a poem called “How to Speak Poetry.” And it’s a true reflection of acting because you can get into that space where you feel like you could go on forever. You’re also in this community of people who are with you in that experience. You feel unified in this group that is going through it together, and it’s the least lonely a person can ever feel. But then, it ends, and you’re not ready for it to end, and suddenly it’s extremely lonely and anxiety-inducing, trying to carve back out who you were before it, and how you’ve changed from it.

RABE: You can never be who you were before. Do you find that with certain roles, when it comes to the end, you’re desperate to hold on to them, or sometimes you’re ready to let them go? And are there things that you do to encourage one thing or the other?

HAWKE: I feel like I’m always encouraging letting go. To me, great acting is the ability to be fully committed and involved while maintaining a relationship with yourself. I think sometimes people give themselves a lot of credit for losing themselves; that it means that you’re more serious and real. But to me, the real goal is to be fully committed and find a way to keep being you during it—to keep being a good partner, a good sister, a good friend, a good tenant. One of the hardest things, weirdly, was to keep up therapy while I was doing the play. But I think it was so valuable, because it was like checking back in with me every week for an hour. That’s what helped me release it when it was over. I also just had a big ending with Stranger Things, a character I played for seven years. It was funny because my dad called me—he was doing a TV show that was coming to an end—and he was like, “I feel so weird, I don't know if we’re going to do another season of this show. How will I let go of this character while also not letting go of him?” And my advice was to let go completely. Imagine you’ll never do it again. Because by the time you’ll do another season, you will be different. The characters can change too. You can build a new one. On Stranger Things, every season, I let go of whatever Robin from that season was and built a totally new one. For me, it’s about getting back to hearing your voice, your instincts, and your feelings, because you is where you filled up the cauldron before, and took that character out of the cauldron of you, so you always have to be churning.

RABE: Aren’t you doing a comedy right now?

HAWKE: Yes. Speaking of works in progress, I’m working on a romantic comedy—sort of. It’s a bit of a genre cruncher. It’s about a couple who convince themselves their relationship has sociopolitical consequences: when they’re getting along, they get promotions and their stocks go up; when they fight, their favorite celebrities get into car accidents, their stocks tank, and they get demoted. So they try to hack their life by hacking their relationship, forcing harmony to get whatever they want. As you can imagine, that has some negative repercussions. It’s about the danger of thinking you can control everything, and the need to just be honest. But it’s really fun. Lewis Pullman is such a great actor, and it’s the debut of an extraordinary first-time director, Graham Parkes. I’m also getting to play a role I’ve never really played before: a shrewd, smart, hot adult woman.

RABE: I feel like I’ve never done a run at comedy. But I’m very romantic about what the experience would be like; I’ve certainly romanticized it.

HAWKE It’s really fun because you get to play with all the silliness and the ridiculousness. But then, there’s this core of love and relationship, and I have probably spent the majority of my conscious years thinking about those two things. For better or for worse. You have this tremendous resource of the thing that you spend most of your time thinking about, so there's this depth there, and this messiness, and all of the experiences to draw from and to build off of. There’s also this kind of joy and silliness and mania to it.

RABE I was just thinking about how sad Ghosts was, but it was also so funny, as was Eurydice.

HAWKE: I cracked up laughing. But the thing about the truth: it can be funny and sad at the same time.

RABE: Exactly. We can become all things.

HAWKE: Absolutely. When you’re most available to laugh is also when we’re almost crying. When you’re just living in the most poignant emotional space, the wind could blow through you; you can laugh or cry, and you’re not sure which one. That’s the kind of art I want to be making, art that walks on that edge.

RABE: Tell me, what’s it like being on a tour as a musician? What’s it like being a rock star? (laughs) Is it you up there?

HAWKE: This is what’s confusing to me, because I kind of don’t want it to be me up there. If I’m going to stand in front of people, I want to be a character as a form of armor. Because no matter what, you’re playing a character. You can’t be you all the time on stage; you have to pick a version. But every time I tried to put a character on top of my writing, it felt false. The songs feel personal, so I don’t know how to be a character while singing them. That delineation confuses me. I haven’t figured it out yet. I want to look great on stage and put on a good show, but when I start trying to put on a show and pick a costume, it feels disconnected from the music. I almost just want to be naked on stage singing, because that would make me feel most connected—that’s how I feel in my songs. I’m committed to figuring out how to put on a show musically that incorporates all those things.

RABE: Do you get nervous in the same way as before the plays?

HAWKE: I get much more nervous. I have nerves that are almost at the level of a deterrent. Sometimes I think, maybe we just don’t do it tonight. With plays, the nerves are bad, but they’re not at the same level. It’s almost like it’s a ship that’s gonna leave the dock whether you’re on it or not, so you better jump on, versus being the captain of the ship with my music, saying, “I don't know if we should even leave the dock.” Also, there’s something about having your name on the poster. When someone’s coming to see you in a play, they’re coming to see the play, but with a concert, it’s just your name. If I could go back in time, I would have picked a band name, so it’s less pressure. When I was touring, I had stage deafness, where all of a sudden I just couldn't hear anything. It felt like time travel. I felt like everything moves in the slowest pace anything has ever moved, and the show’s over before you know it. I couldn’t hear my own voice, even whenit’s mixed perfectly; all I can hear is the audience.

RABE And what about public speaking or doing press? Do you get nervous about that?

HAWKE No. I sometimes get nervous if I think there’s a trick up someone’s sleeve, because I’ve been tricked before. Maybe now I have my guard up a little bit when doing press, but I don’t get nervous in that way.

RABE I get nervous even when giving a speech at dinner with really close friends where I know I’m safe. But with acting, I find tremendous comfort in the fact that it’s Lily Rabe playing this part.

HAWKE: Me too. I like implicating other people in my own disaster (laughs). I feel very nervous when no one else has been implicated. But the press isn’t nerve-wracking to me because I love conversation; it feels like where my comfort zone is. I’m happiest in a good talk.

RABE: You know when you’re on a press line, and then suddenly there’s this incredibly curious person who asks you a question that’s better than any question you could have ever imagined being asked. And it just makes the whole thing wonderful?

HAWKE: Yes. In those press walks, I can get nervous because I always want to be quippy and quick, and usually—as I’m sure you've noticed in this conversation—I’m just not that quick. It takes a little while for me to get to my point. So, sometimes I get nervous from, you know, Oh, I wish I had a spicy one-liner for this moment.

RABE: Like a sound bite. I’m not good with that either. I’m also not good with the log line. When people are like, “What’s this about?” I'm like, “Well, pull up a chair.” (laughs)

HAWKE: I’m bad at those, too, but I am good at talking.

RABE: Hamish [Linklater] always says, “Career is a dirty word.” Do you often think about your next steps, hoping for anything specific, or are you thinking about each project on its own in the moment you’re in your life?

HAWKE: When I was starting, I was trying to explain to my agents how I wanted them to think about my career. I would say things like, “I want to be sixty years old doing Shakespeare in the Park, so let’s keep that goal in mind to guide our choices.” In many ways, that’s still true, but I do think career is a dirty word. When Stranger Things first ended, I was in a sick brain about my career, and my sick brain was saying, “Your career is over.” I felt like I got lucky as a teenager and got to join something that worked, and everything else is the side effects from that luck, and now that luck ran out, you’re finished. I was really anxious, to the point of driving myself a little bit insane while I was doing the play. On every off day, I would take a bunch of meetings, because I was anxious from the loss of that anchor of Stranger Things. So, that was the strategy: I wanted to do whatever I could while I still could. Then, all of a sudden, I had this empty terrain of the foreseeable future, and I had no idea what was structuring it; it was really scary. I started thinking a lot about my career, what I wanted, what my goals were, and what was possible. As a young person, I had dreams, but with how the industry has changed, now those dreams are unclear. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a movie star anymore. The path is all changing, and because of the nature of how quickly things are changing these days, Hamish is right, career is a dirty word. It just has to be about experience and about what’s pulling you in one direction or another. It’s okay if that’s sometimes money, and it’s okay if sometimes it’s going to cost you money to do this job. You just need to do it. You just have to make sure that you’re keeping that balance and don’t get addicted to either thing. It’s easy for me to get preoccupied with strategy and career, but I try to put it to bed.

RABE: I don’t think about my career when I’m working on something I love. I go to work every day and come home feeling like I’ve given every ounce of my sweat and soul because this is what I love. I love that feeling.

HAWKE: It’s addictive.

RABE: I want to be there all the time. So, when I'm getting to do that, I’m not thinking about my career in any sort of way. There is something just innately unhealthy about it, but also delusional. I’ve learned over the years that I’m almost always wrong when I think something is going to be a certain way, and I’m rarely right. So, I try to keep those voices as quiet as I can.

HAWKE: It’s not a game that you can play with a strategy. It’s like saying you have a good strategy for playing bingo. You just need to follow your heart and try everything because no matter how good a career you end up having, if you don’t follow it from your gut, it’s going to feel hollow. No matter how bad your career turns out, if every choice you made was your own, and you made it with love, and with the people you love, and the stories that you love, then I think you’re going to feel like you had a great career.

RABE: I have a feeling that we will want to just keep working until the end. Hopefully, we’ll never have that moment where we have to stop and look back and assess anything. (laughs)

HAWKE: Let’s leave that for our obituary writers.

Soft Gallery: Marta Minujín

 

Marta Minujín with her first mattress in her studio on Rue Delambre, Paris, 1963

 

interview by Hans Ulrich Obrist

photography by Ada Navarro Aguilera


In 1963, Marta Minujín invited Christo, Niki de Saint Phalle, and Jean Tinguely to an empty lot in Paris to set her artwork ablaze. This incendiary happening—a term coined by Allan Kaprow in 1959—marked a radical turning point in the Argentinian artist’s career. Today, with her first solo exhibition in Mexico City at Kurimanzutto, Minujín stands out as an artist able to see, hear, feel, and even taste the future: a future both soft and hard, sweet and self-possessed. Her most recognizable works include fluorescent mattress sculptures twisted into amorphous, seemingly impossible forms—love letters to intimacy, sex, and mortality. The first were made from discarded mattresses found outside hospitals. Even more political are her toppled monuments of phallocentric power, some covered in loaves of sweet bread, turning collapse into satire and protest. These horizontalized spires became pillars of anti-authoritarianism, critiques of capitalism, and monuments to soft power. Her technological happenings anticipated the future of mass communication. Utilizing satellites, phone lines, and closed-circuit television, Minujín forged connections that foreshadowed today’s world of constant contact. Spanning more than six decades, Minujín’s oeuvre is rooted in her belief that people should live in art, not just look at it.

“We wanted to destroy art—museums, galleries, everything.”

 

Marta Minujín inside Minuphone, 1967

 



HANS ULRICH OBRIST: This is your first exhibitionin Mexico, and it brings together recent works, but it's also the first timethat the El obelisco acostado (The obelisk lying down)—ahistoric piece—will be shown in Mexico. Can you tell us about this?

MARTA MINUJÍN: I made this piece in 1978 for the First Latin American Biennial in São Paulo. I got the idea to laydown all monuments—to change the idea that the world is vertical. The world is actually multidirectional. I don't like thinking that it's all straight. So, I invented the Statue Of Liberty lying down, the Eiffel Tower lying down. All monuments around the world, lying down. The first one I made was a full scale replica of Buenos Aires’s Obelisco, which is seventy-four meters long, but lying down. It was immersive—the people could walk in, there were televisions and Super 8 film projections. Since then, I have made many, many monuments lying down—including the James Joyce tower in Dublin lying down, covered in loaves of bread.

OBRIST: They somehow challenge the authoritarian narrative of publicly imposed representation. They are also anti-monuments?

MINUJÍN: I wouldn’t quite call them that. It has to do with the popular myths that the statues convey—they are national symbols. Like the Statue of Liberty, right now, as a symbol is technically sinking. It is totally lying down and the torch is extinguished. Before, the United States would welcome everyone, but now not so much. So, the statue has to be lying down and that will be my next project for the Venice Biennale next year. I am presenting this to the government for the Argentinian Pavilion, but I’m not sure if they are going to send me there. (laughs) I will do the Statue of Liberty lying down and then cover it with fake hamburgers. People will take one and change it for a real one at McDonalds locations all over the world.

 
 
 

Marta Minujín with El Obelisco acostado (The Obelisk lying down), Parque do Ibirapuera, São Paulo, Brazil, 1978

 

OBRIST: You’ve told me about the Obelisco de Pan Dulce and the Torre de Pan for James Joyce. Food is clearly an important aspect of your art—the idea of edible art. How did the concept of actually eating the artwork enter your practice?

MARTA MINUJÍN: The first edible artwork I created was the Venus de Milo made of cheese. I’ve always been fascinated by participatory art. The idea is similar to my early work, like La Menesunda: people engage directly, moving through the experience, eating, walking, and interacting. I want them to have moments they’ll never forget—like taking a bite from a Statue of Liberty made of hamburgers, or holding a slice of a bread-covered tower, or the Panettone Obelisk. I’ve made many edible monuments because I love for people to be active participants in my work, not just spectators.

OBRIST: You told me once that at ten years old, you suddenly knew you were an artist. Can you talk about this epiphany?

MARTA MINUJÍN: I knew I was an artist at five. I started making art when I was ten. I was a child that knew exactly what I wanted to do. I knew from the beginning. I'm very happy that I did it, but I suffered a lot because I've been very poor in New York, very poor in Argentina. But I got many grants. I received a Guggenheim Fellowship in 1966, so I could live on that.

OBRIST: Last year I saw the exhibition of your very early work at Kurimanzutto in New York. These pieces from the late 1950s emerge right at the moment when informalismo was a strong global force—in Europe, Latin America, even Asia. That’s also where your Catalogue Raisonné begins, with these first informal works. Alberto Greco was important to you then; he would point to a wall and say, “Look at this wonderful surface—I’ll sign it.” Already there was this shift in your attention, from painting an image to recognizing the wall itself as an object.

MARTA MINUJÍN: He was a very big influence on me. When I met him, I was sixteen. I was still in school, and I loved him so much as a friend. At the time, I was painting in a kind of surrealist style—I didn’t really know what I was doing. Then suddenly, I put the canvas on the floor and started working there. I made one painting that was inspired by Alberto Greco. I did many, many works—three or four a day. And then I destroyed almost all of them. Years later, we found some still in my studio; that’s why a few have reappeared now. After that, I began working with mattresses.

OBRIST: I'm very interested in this idea of the mattresses because the mattress works are continuing until today, and they're a very important aspect of your practice. What was the epiphany with the mattresses?

MARTA MINUJÍN: You are born, you make love, you give birth, you sleep, you die in a mattress. It's 50% of your life. And I needed a soft shape. So, I took the mattresses from my bed and glued them onto the canvas. Then I started adding cardboard boxes, mixing different materials with the mattresses. Little by little it grew. When I was living in Paris, I met Niki de Saint Phalle, and she said to me, “Why don’t you paint on the floor?” So, I painted the floor. That was it. I then visited a hospital and sourced some mattresses, which became some of my first mattress sculptures. After that, I abandoned painting objects—for maybe forty-five years. Instead, I focused on performances, happenings, and installations. Then, in 2014, I returned to the mattresses. Now I do both: some textile-based works—you probably saw one at Kurimanzutto—and, of course, the mattresses.

OBRIST: The mattresses also connect to your idea of the Soft Gallery, since softness was something you explored there as well. Can you talk about how you came to invent the Soft Gallery and what it meant for you?

MINUJÍN: This started in 1964 with a work called Roll Around In Bed and Live!, which you could actually go inside. I made it in Paris, because I was living in a place with no bathroom, no hot water, no heating. So, I built this house to protect myself. But I couldn’t sleep inside it—I just couldn’t. In the end, I destroyed it. After that, I made La Chambre d'Amour [The Chamber of Love] together with the Dutch artist Mark Brusse, who I was close to at the time. Then I went on to other projects. The last one from that Soft Gallery series was Erotics in Technicolor, for which I won the Di Tella Prize. With that prize I moved back to Paris and began working with technological art. I did many happenings with artists like Allan Kaprow and Wolf Vostell. In fact, in 2026, the Reina Sofía will present a major retrospective of my happenings and performances. That’s important, because I really began with happenings and performance in the mid-1960s. For example, in 1966 I did Three Country Happening using technology, and even earlier, in 1963, I staged La Destrucción [The Destruction], which was my very first happening.

“I built this house to protect myself. In the end, I destroyed it.”

 
 

Documentation of La Menesunda (Mayhem), Instituto Torcuato Di Tella, Buenos Aires, 1965

Documentation of Simultaneidad en simultaneidad (Simultaneity in Simultaneity), 1966

OBRIST: There’s a clear connection between the Soft Gallery and La Destrucción. With the Soft Gallery, you wanted to create aspace where people could experience art in a softer, more sensorial way. But you also opened it up by inviting artists like Charlotte Moorman, Juan Downey, and Carolee Schneemann to stage performances and events there. In a way, that collaborative and performative dimension had already begun with La Destrucción in 1963.

MINUJÍN: I love happenings—I really love happenings. La Destrucción, yes. In that work, everything was destroyed. A lot of my works, destroyed. After that, in early 1965, I staged a huge happening called Suceso Plástico in a football stadium in Uruguay. I was very influenced by Fellini at the time. It was completely crazy: there was a helicopter dropping live chickens, people with chickens on their heads, motorcycles roaring through the crowd, and participants performing all sorts of theatrical acts. It’s hard to explain—it was so complex—but it all came together as this wild, chaotic, immersive spectacle.

OBRIST: Another really key happening was Mayhem, or La Menesunda. It remains one of your most important works to this day. You had David Lamelas and many other artists involved, and it included sixteen different urban environments. It took place at the Di Tella Institute on Florida Street in Buenos Aires. Can you tell us about it? In a way, it might be your biggest project, because you weren’t just making art—you wanted to reproduce the city itself.

MINUJÍN: Art critic, Pierre Restany called La Menesunda “Pop Lunfardo.” The title itself—menesunda, meaning “mayhem” in Lunfardo, which is slang—captures the chaotic energy of Buenos Aires streets, which we wanted to represent in the installation. I developed the idea with the artist Santantonín, and we invited others to help, but most left for grants, so only David Lamelas stayed. The piece reflects both the disorder and the rhythm of the city—it’s Pop Art, but very local, very Buenos Aires.

OBRIST: You described it as a labyrinth: one room was a refrigerator, another smelled like a dentist’s office, and in another, a couple lay in a bed. The installation even included scents, and it caused a scandal at the time. Can you tell me more about how it was a portrait of Buenos Aires?

MINUJÍN: I like people who don’t know anything about art. My idea is that people should live in art, not just look at it. Like a happening—you enter and are surprised by everything. Anything can happen.

OBRIST: You wanted to create surprise for the viewer.

MINUJÍN: Yes, people enter one by one, alone, and they have to react to each situation. Sometimes they’re completely enclosed and must dial a number to open the door. You find yourself inside an old telephone booth, and then you move on to another space. Each environment engages you differently. There are eleven situations inside. In one, a couple lies in bed—you can even talk with them. That couple stays in bed all day.

OBRIST: Like a living sculpture. And this was all at the Instituto Torcuato di Tella, which was integral to a major cultural moment in Argentina in the 1960s. What was so special about this institute?

MINUJÍN: At the Instituto Torcuato Di Tella, we took over the whole institute and shared the space among ourselves. It was an incredible time. It was fantastic because, at the same time that Pop started in New York, we were starting in Argentina. The director, Jorge Romero Brest, sponsored our work. He didn’t care that we were only twenty years old or that we wanted to destroy art—museums, galleries, everything. He was so open-minded, so smart, so fantastic. He became my best friend.

OBRIST: Where did Jorge Romero Brest get the money to support these projects?

MINUJÍN: Brest was also an art critic and a philosopher, but he sponsored the artists through the Di Tella family. Torcuato di Tella was a wealthy industrialist. They had the biggest art collection in Italy, and they brought it to Argentina. The institute only lasted four years.

OBRIST: Why did it close? Because of the dictatorship?

MINUJÍN It closed because of the Onganía dictatorship [1966-1970]. But Argentina is always going through a dictatorship.

OBRIST: At one point, your work entered a whole new dimension with technology, which is now inspiring many younger artists. Billy Klüver created Experiments in Art and Technology [EAT], bringing artists and engineers together, which you were involved in as well. From the mid‑’60s onward, you began exploring this approach. I wanted to ask specifically about Simultaneidad, which is a pioneering work in this area.

MINUJÍN: I was following Marshall McLuhan at the time and admired him greatly. I read his book—Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964)—which completely captivated me. I was in Buenos Aires reading it, and it inspired me so much that I even went to Fordham University to try to meet him in person. His ideas about media as extensions of human senses and the way technology shapes our perception were revolutionary to me and influenced my approach to art. Before that, I had been doing happenings in Buenos Aires, but they weren’t technological. When I arrived in New York and finally met Allan Kaprow and Wolf Vostell, I asked them to collaborate on a Three Country Happening with me, using all kinds of media. This was one of the first times I integrated technology directly into performance. We communicated across different locations using telephone, radio, television, and even the Early Bird system, an interactive communication artwork I used to connect participants live across distances. Everything was carefully orchestrated so the audience became part of the work itself. Michael Kirby later wrote about that happening, recognizing its importance in merging art, technology, and audience participation. It was an incredible, pioneering experience, and it shaped the trajectory of my work from then on.

OBRIST: It’s interesting because Three Country Happening involved each artist creating a simultaneous happening in their own country: Vostell in Germany, Kaprow in the US, and you in Buenos Aires. You called your contribution Simultaneidad en simultaneidad (Simultaneity in Simultaneity). Can you explain how it worked, since it was so influenced by McLuhan and involved multiple screens?

MINUJÍN: For Simultaneidad, I invited sixty of the most famous people in Buenos Aires—actors, athletes, celebrities—because their presence was frequently covered in the newspapers. I asked them to come to the Instituto di Tella auditorium on two consecutive Mondays, dressed elegantly in black tie. I installed sixty TV sets, one for each participant. During the first session, we recorded their voices on the radio, took photographs, and filmed them as they arrived, sat down, and watched themselves on the television screens. When they returned the following Monday, all the film had been developed. They could see themselves on live television—broadcast through Buenos Aires’s two channels—and also watch Kaprow in the US and Vostell in Germany, performing simultaneously. The feeds were transmitted so they could experience these other happenings in real time. It was incredible: each person saw themselves on television while hearing their voices on the radio. Some participants even experienced a playful “media invasion”—a messenger would arrive at their home with a telegram or ring the bell unexpectedly, asking, ‘Are you this person?’ Then, they’d rush to pick up an old-fashioned telephone to engage with the event. At the time, this was an extraordinary invasion of media into daily life. Today, of course, we are completely saturated—everything comes through our iPhones, and our faces, voices, and actions are instantly documented and shared. Back then, it was a glimpse of how media couldtransform perception, identity, and experience.

 

Marta Minujín and Andy Warhol, El pago de la deuda externa argentina con maíz, “el oro latinoamericano” (Paying Off the Argentine Foreign Debt with Corn, “the Latinamerican corn”), 1985

 
 

Documentation of La destrucción (The Destruction), 1963

 

OBRIST: Before the iPhone, of course, we had the landline. Today, it’s almost an antique object—but in 1967, you created a visionary project called the Minuphone, which initially looked like a telephone booth. You worked with Per Biorn from Bell Telephone and connected with Billy Klüver’s Experiments in Art and Technology. How did it work?

MINUJÍN: Yes. I received a Guggenheim grant and used all the money to realize the project. Billy Klüver introduced me to an engineer who specialized in robotics, and together we built the Minuphone. I described all my ideas, and he made them a reality. We recreated a telephone booth so that when someone entered and made a call, unexpected effects would happen. Green water would rise and fall, then black water would obscure the view outside. It functioned like a color organ, with lights reacting to the interaction inside. As you spoke, your voice created an echo effect, so you might hear yourself repeating, “Hello ... hello? How are you?” The other person on the line could also hear this echo. At the same time, a screen with black light appeared, allowing you to play with your shadow, while numerous other interactive effects occurred. The most striking effect was a light directing you to look down, revealing yourself on a television embedded in the floor. A Polaroid camera would take your picture, so when you left, you could take home a snapshot of yourself in real time.In total, there were seven different interactive effects. On any given day, participants might experience variations—sometimes black light, sometimes the screen wouldn’t activate depending on the number dialed. Each experience was unique, which made the installation very dynamic and engaging.

OBRIST: In a way, the Minuphone led to the Minucode. I’m very interested in the Minucode because it represents a form of free technology—almost like an algorithmically determined dinner party that you designed.

MINUJÍN: Yes. I received a Rockefeller grant to create a project, and I decided to invest all the money into organizing a very unique event. I brought together forty economists, forty politicians, forty figures from the fashion world, and forty artists. It was a cocktail party with champagne, and I installed six cameras throughout the room so that the guests were filmed from every angle. They forgot they were being recorded, which created an intimate, spontaneous atmosphere. Before attending, each guest had to complete a questionnaire that was published in the newspapers. This way, everyone arrived having already seen the test and the others’ answers, so they were familiar with one another. I even tried to invite Robert Kennedy—I had seen him crossing the street in 1968, just before his assassination—and I asked his lawyer if he could attend. The party included fashion icons like Veruschka, designers, and models, as well as artists—though initially I had planned for only forty, eventually eighty artists showed up. People came even without formal invitations because, in American society at the time, everyone knew about events hosted by the Center for Inter-American Relations. Charlotte Moorman, for example, brought a cello and performed in a corner. The following week, I organized a structured interaction at a gallery with a projection of the event: each guest had ten minutes to move through different groups—politicians, economists, fashion figures, and artists. The idea was to create a dynamic, fluid social environment where everyone engaged across disciplines. Moorman’s performance was integrated into this setting, adding an artistic layer to the social experiment. The whole project was a combination of social choreography, technology, and participatory art.

 
 

OBRIST: Can you talk about your time in New York, meeting Andy Warhol.

MINUJÍN: I was a hippie. When I arrived in New York, I visited all the galleries and went to Leo Castelli’s. I met Andy Warhol, who became my best friend at the time, as well as Nam June Paik, Rauschenberg, and many others I admired. I spent time in the Cedar Bar with people like Carlos Slim. Then, someone introduced me to LSD, and I became fully immersed in the hippie lifestyle—I abandoned art for three years, living in Central Park until around 1970 or ’71. During that time, I met figures like Charlie Chaplin and musicians such as Jimi Hendrix and Johnny Winter, all part of Steve Paul’s scene. I took LSD daily, almost as a spiritual practice. Romero Brest visited me in New York, and I was living barefoot in the summer, never wearing shoes—which, as you can imagine, left my feet in poor condition. I decided to bring the hippie culture to Argentina. Romero Brest asked if I wanted to do something in detail, and I said yes. I imported psychedelic aesthetics, including lights, film, sound equipment, and techniques I had seen at rock concerts. I also brought acid and shared it with young people who helped me organize events. I had them dress like Hare Krishnas, and I transformed spaces with black lights, strobe lights, silver rooms, incense, and music. It became a full immersion in the hippie lifestyle, and many young people in Argentina followed this cultural wave. After some time, I returned to New York, and the hippie scene had vanished there. It was an intense, transformative period, both personally and culturally, that influenced my later work in immersive and participatory art.

OBRIST: You also created a performance-based economic exchange. In the 1980s, as Argentina faced a looming default on its foreign debt, you explained that, as the ‘Queen of Art’ in Argentina and Warhol the ‘King of New York,’ you symbolized your respective economic systems. You organized a performance in which you delivered his studio as a supportive act—connecting art, economy, and politics in a way that feels especially relevant today.

MINUJÍN: I became friends with Andy Warhol in the 1960s. I went to all the parties with him and even met Dalí, because Dalí would host underground artists every day at the Sunrise Hotel, and Andy was always there. After I returned to live in Argentina, I continued seeing Andy whenever I visited New York—we went to parties, exhibitions, and events together. I decided that, as the ‘Queen of Art’ in Argentina and Andy as the ‘King of New York,’ we could resolve things symbolically. I invited him to participate in a performance where I would pay Argentina’s debt to him in corn—because corn is Latin American gold. Historically, Latin America supplied food during the First and Second World Wars, so corn represented both sustenance and value. He accepted, and the project became a platform for performance, economy, and artistic exchange. I repeated this concept later with a Margaret Thatcher lookalike at the ICA in London, and with an Angela Merkel lookalike at Documenta 14 in Athens. Each time, the project combined economics, symbolism, and art in a performative and humorous way.

OBRIST: What’s fascinating about your work is its focus on process. This issue’s theme is work in progress—literally and philosophically, things are always evolving. That seems very true for your art, which is constantly in motion. The process never stops. “My idea is that people should live in art, not just look at it.”

MINUJÍN: My work is philosophical. And it never stops. With the Statue of Liberty lying down at the Venice Biennale, I always have the next project in mind.

OBRIST: Speaking of process, what does a day in your studio look like?

MINUJÍN: I go there to work, and new ideas come to me constantly. My mind never stops—I have too much imagination. When someone says, “I want to make a film,” I say, “Go for it!” It’s amazing.

OBRIST: I wanted to talk a little bit more about the show at Kurimunzutto. The title is To Live in Art. That seems to be a very important aspect linking many of your works—to live in art. Can you explain that a little bit?

MINUJÍN: Yes, because with everything—the Menesunda, all my work—the idea is that people live in art. They inhabit situations where you can’t say you’re outside of art; it’s completely immersive. Even with the monuments and all my other projects, it’s about living in art. I truly believe life could be richer if people experience art this way, because art creates something unique within each individual. But sometimes you have to guide them into it—they won’t necessarily sense the energy on their own, you see?

Michael Heizer Rock Star

Complex Two, City, © Michael Heizer.
Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation
Photo by Michael Heaizer

text by Hannah Bhuiya

Built by Heizer, alongside generations of workers from 1970 to today, this horizontal desert lithopolis is now the largest contemporary artwork in existence. With an imprint that is two kilometers long by half a kilometer wide, City (1970 -2022) is constructed almost entirely of the raw materials (gravel, sand, clay) naturally found on site in a remote, and somewhat radioactive, Nevada valley. Securing the location in his mid twenties, the younger Heizer—already a disruptive international art star—intuitively saw what could be realized here; for his purposes, the harsh conditions were a geologic jackpot. Now eighty, he’s devoted his life to wresting these shapes from the arid, mountain-ringed plain. In late 2022, the artist’s very personal vision was opened for strictly managed public visitation on certain days of the month and year. Satellite eyes get a more constant view, where, just like the Great Wall of China or the pyramids of Giza and other emblems of national power, the graphic footprint of this (one) man-made monument is visible from space at all times. To comprehend City, it was essential to experience it.


Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

— Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” 1855


“I am not here to tell people what it all means. You can figure it out for yourself.”

— Michael Heizer, to The New York Times upon the inauguration of City, August 2022

38.03000° N, 115.436111° W
Michael Heizer’s City (1970-2022),
outside Hiko, Nevada.

Perhaps the most unnerving aspect of City is that it is invisible. You have been told you have arrived. But as you approach, there is absolutely nothing to be seen above ground, no hint at all of the soaring, otherworldly landscape that had lured you there. Driven up together with others in that day’s entry group, you do see a working cattle ranch: a homestead, vehicles, fencing, a corral. The trees growing around the perimeter of the compound are the only ones so tall for hundreds of miles around. The one detail, which infers that this off-grid oasis belongs to one Michael Madden Heizer, contemporary artist, mover of monumental stones, creator of City, is a cache of extra-large boulders trussed up behind a dark green farm gate. No ordinary cattle-rancher would have megaliths like this lounging so casually in his backyard. Rather, these are future Levitated Masses, embodiments of the artist’s inimitable visual language. Only an ice-age glacier has moved more great stones across such vast distances

The glimpse of Heizer’s private enclave is brief. Further down the slim side road, the van cruises up to stop at a large mound of gravel, and you enter City proper. It is only when you are standing inside that City deigns to reveal its full breadth. To create the plateau spread out before you, millions of tons of material have been blasted away over fifty long years of labor, and it’s all still there, rearranged, refined, re-formed. Sunken in City’s core, you no longer see the Heizer homestead, or even the mountain ranges. All else disappears; your entire world is now this network of looped lanes, sloped stelae, and sculpted Euclidean solids. You will have three hours to explore before the Triple Aught Foundation (which administers City) returns to collect you.

Within City, there is only City. There is nothing here to sustain your physical body with its many inherent weaknesses: no shelter, no shade, not even a park bench seat. But to your spirit, it feels limitless. This is a muted primal state you’re pulled back from in dreams that evaporate upon waking. You can now feel limbically, your boundaries dissolved; you, too, are the landscape, from your soles to the ends of your hair shafts, now alert cellular antennae. There is no sound, no breeze. No extraneous stimuli to detract from your absorption of the continuum before you. There is only the sun above, and you; Fata Morgana mirages shimmer ahead as you walk the stony allées. Sharp angles versus textured gradient, faultless concrete, and unseen steel transmogrified into avatars of ‘Pure Form’ in the Platonic sense. It evokes the Futurism of The Lawnmower Man (1992) or Dire Straits’ “Money for Nothing” (1985) music video, when the geometric grid underlying all 3D form becomes visible. This is an architect’s blueprint made real, instant access to an aspect of the shadow world that lies behind every ‘normal’ city.

 

Michael Heizer —
City, Complex 1 Construction,
Garden City, NV – 1970
Photograph by Gianfranco
Gorgoni © Maya Gorgoni
Courtesy of The Estate of Gianfranco Gorgoni

 

In a normal city, being truly alone is impossible; here, all comforting supply chains are severed. Here, you are alone. The sole participant in a science fiction game, whose rules you sense in your ganglia, watch for airborne attack. Every moment you remain in City, you’re exposed to the full face of the elements, as if already lain on the sky-pyre of a Zoroastrian tower of silence for the eagles to pick your bones clean. A deliberately pre-ruined ruin that time cannot touch. The closest to nullity you can come while still alive, this is a hyperuranion, a portal into ‘Aletheia,’ the world of perfect forms beyond the river of Lethe. To stand within City is to confront your own death; to return from City is to survive it.

It’s a small club, those who have been allowed to breach this threshold. The public-facing ambassadors of City are Ed Higbee and Brent Holmes, who had met us at the Triple Aught Foundation office on the main street of Alamo, NV (pop. 822). City is cocooned within the 704,000 acres of the Basin and Range National Monument, off State Route 318, and the drive up is a scenic wonder. Ed, a Nevadan born and bred with a family background in ranching (his cousin Jeanne Sharp Howerton is a local historian), shares lore about rock formations, hot springs, and the silver lode still hiding in the mountains. He helped construct City back in the ’70s with others from his high school who’d ride out for a few days of hired labor. Holmes, who manages the visits, is an artist who writes on cultural aspects of the entity that is Las Vegas, which he knows well, being the son of a longtime Strip headliner. He’s wearing black cowboy boots from a recent road trip across Texas. Whereas Heizer himself is immaterial, a presence behind the curtain, Higbee and Holmes are friendly, present, human. Neither lecture on what to expect at City. But, intent on sparking a locally-rooted sense-memory at the final gate, Ed picks a sprig of sagebrush. Handing it over, he instructs me to crush the trefoil leaves—the smell is fresh, sweet, and as he wanted it to be, Proustian, unforgettable.

The aesthetic coherence of City is formidable. There’s not a rock out of place. Subtle ton sur ton gradations of sandstone on sandstone. Ecru on ecru. Russet to raw umber. With a sleek, industrial allure, as if engineered by an alien intelligence, the surface reads like ribbons of smooth concrete, a surreal skate park of dreams. Brent mentions that just after pictures of the completed City hit the press in 2022, an adventurous set of skaters made a trek out to what they imagined as the ‘El Dorado’ of skate spots. Turned away by workers who’d caught them on the camera feed that covers the preserve, had the youthful trespassers somehow gained entry, they would have been disappointed. Images can be deceiving. What looks like lanes of smooth cement is actually composed of loose, graded gravel, a detail that photography just can’t capture. Millions upon millions of stones have been crushed and combed out to create soft oblongs, curves, and mounds. Precious rubble. The raised concrete borders outlining the infinite ‘race track’ are around the same size and are shaped like any sidewalk curb. However, they rarely trace a straight line. Instead, they flow in logical undulation around the contours of the topology.

Complex One is comprised of a ‘T’ bracket set over an ‘L’ shape bar of the same width, resting upon a ramp of levelled earth bookended by wedges of sloped concrete. From afar, they seem to touch, creating a rectangular rune; when you stand before them, you realize that they’re set many meters away from any real connection. It’s a heroic trompe l’oeil. To the right, looking over the plaza below, the textured red cement pours that cascade down Complex Two are like shards of Mars. These and the further perimeter slopes are coated with a rough, crushed scoria utterly hostile to human flesh. Not only is injury inherent in the materials, any scuff marks on the gargantuan version of his ‘45º, 90º, 180º’ concept (several steep triangular blocks upon a thick rectangular base, and the only skateable platform) would surely have summoned a furious Heizer and a loaded shotgun. And if the interlopers had managed to broadcast the desecration as YouTube channel content, violating his strict image release policy, he’d probably have bulldozed it all and started over. In the austere fiefdom of Heizer, there is no graffiti, no fooling, and NO UNSANCTIONED PHOTOGRAPHY.

Because Erich von Däniken’s ‘Ancient Aliens’ did not build this. The Earthly and earthy American maverick Michael Heizer did. This City has one architect, one urban planner, one general contractor. He is the garrison commandant, chief engineer, generator technician, Mayor, and Sheriff. A ‘Wizard of Oz’ exerting a panoptic presence felt every moment you stand inside his borders. Defender and Protector of the ultimate gesamtkunstwerk, he’s Ayn Rand’s Howard Roark, his hard-won skyscraper horizontal and built with negative space. While it’s true that the obdurate Heizer is adamantly resistant to categorization, always mortally determined to emphasize his independence of thought, agency, and originality, refusing to be part of any group or movement from the start, the following is also true: City is ‘Land Art’s Final Boss’. Because after this, the game is over. And Heizer has won.

There’s no mystery to how Heizer built his invincible City—sun-up to sun-down out there on the plain, sustained by gallery sales and private commissions. Anything garnered from a little gambling session down in Vegas went in the pot too. The total cost of City is cited as around $40 million, which, for half a century’s worth of yellow iron and manpower, as well as maintenance of the work far into the future, is not outrageous at all. It could have cost a lot more. Unlike the foreman of an extractive open pit mine, ripping the guts out of the earth for exponential profit, Heizer never had access to anything nearing the power of a Bagger 293 (the largest earth mover in the world). Or even the organized workforce of thousands marshalled by the viziers of antiquity. Aiming for, and achieving, totalitarian control of his own one-man city with only the resources at hand, Heizer has truly pulled off something impossible.

What only Heizer can explain, though, is the why. And as a professional enigma, he’s not going to, as he declined to commit more to the record than what he’s already said. But that’s okay. Because everything the artist has ever said, or ever made, says something about City. And vice versa.

40.72287° N, 74.00039° W
[former site of] Michael Heizer’s loft,
79 Mercer Street, New York.

Construction of the World Trade Center (Twin Towers) began on August 5, 1966; the North Tower was completed in December 1970, and the South Tower in July 1971. Within the same time frame, the career of young artist Michael Heizer was rising just as fast. Born in California in 1944 with family roots in Nevada, he moved to NYC in 1966 after nixing his studies at the San Francisco Art Institute. Selling a few drawings here and there, he was getting by as a loft painter when he met the more established Walter de Maria on the job. A friendship was forged, and long nights were spent talking and drinking in Heizer’s Mercer Street loft, putting the world to rights. Mixing with the whole Warhol, Max’s Kansas City, downtown scene, he rubbed his shoulders with others wanting to make their mark on the ‘art world.’ Formally, the artist had been experimenting, moving from spraying geometric masonite panels with car paint to coating shaped canvases with layers of clear lacquer, as if not painted at all. Heizer was also exploring bold stylistic graphisme, as seen in the monochrome oblong Track Painting of 1967. But painting alone wasn’t physical enough for this active West Coast kid. As he explained to Julia Brown in their interview for his MOCA exhibition, Sculpture in Reverse (1984): “I was determined to be a contributor to the development of American art, not to simply continue European art. By European art, I mean painting on canvas and sculptures that you walk around and that look like Balzac or Moses.” He was setting himself up from the get-go as the‘anti-Rodin.’

34.64708° N, 117.60175° W
El Mirage Dry Lake, CA

For the Land Project events throughout 1968, Heizer was irresistibly drawn back to the origin points of his bloodline, to dry lake beds and tracts of desert land whose names speak to a rough past of conflict, clash, and mineral exploitation: Massacre, Coyote, El Mirage, Silver Springs. He dug and blasted and cut and kicked. There was no one out there to stop him. This was his true palette, the sun-baked salt-rock remnants of Pleistocene Lake Lahontan, which had once glistened from mountain to horizon across the state. And here we learn that Heizer’s titles are literal terms that lock on each component and most exactly describe ‘what it is.’ Circular Surface Drawing (1968) is the surface of a dry lake bed upon which circles have been drawn (using earth thrown out of the open back of a moving truck). A sketch from a North Nevadan intervention, Sanguine Surface Seduction — Thanatopal Phantasmagoria Complex, shows a large square block entombed in an open excavation, sex and death, and telluric currents colliding. His Nine Nevada Depressions (1968) burned Heizer’s glyphic vocabulary into the aesthetic consciousness of the epoch, Nazca lines for the post-industrial society. Then, when he invited some of his New York City friends out West, Heizer ignited the Land Art/ Earth Art movement without even trying.

Dear Dick, Land project positive. Imperative underway. Death forces must be spent, spiritual waves felt. Thanks for route information. Don’t underestimate dirt.

— Walter [de Maria] and Mike [Heizer], Western Union Telegram to Richard Bellamy at Noah Goldowsky Gallery New York, sent from Williams, AZ on Route 66, on April 6, 1968.


40.76356° N, 73.97558° -[former site of] Virginia Dwan Gallery (1965 -1971),
New York.

Heizer had secured some key patrons and collectors by the late 1960s—New York taxicab mogul Robert Scull, West German art dealer Heiner Friedrich, well-connected curator Richard Bellamy (as per the telegram above), but his horizons were ever-expanding. Without gallerist and 3M heiress Virginia Dwan’s profound enthusiasm for this type of work, backed up with an effectively unlimited production fund, there would be no Land Art movement to study, only hazy ideas sketched out on the back of Stardust Hotel dinerplacemats. In October 1968, Heizer’s large-scale color transparency of Dissipate 2 (1968) was part of the seminal Earth Works group show at Dwan’s elegant Manhattan gallery, appearing alongside work from coevals Dennis Oppenheim, Claes Oldenberg, Walter de Maria and Roberts Morris, and Smithson. The scattering linear trenches he’d cut into the parched Black Rock desert crust, patterned after the random trajectories of dropped matches, connected with the in crowd. The content of this show cannot be divorced from the political and social turmoil of its era, with the Weather Underground and other student groups exploding in the daily headlines. Those who protested government hegemony, police brutality, or Vietnam, blew up buildings or robbed banks, were arrested and placed on FBI watchlists for life. Heizer and friends blew up some land out in the desert, and were lauded as leading avant-garde artists. Happening right in the belly of the beast, with Dwan Gallery perched near The Plaza and the Park, the exhibition marked a key ‘art world’ breakthrough that bolstered the nascent careers of everyone involved.

The much-reviewed presentation was made possible, at the most base level, because 3M doesn’t just make Post-its®. The Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company, co-founded in 1902 by Virginia’s father, John Dwan, sought out minerals for use in industrial grinding machines. Varieties of sandpaper were 3M’s primary output until their “specialty chemical” labs began to transform compounds aimed initially at military, nuclear, and aerospace applications into a battery of products for the burgeoning consumer age. That handy can of Scotchgard™ found in every home came from tech developed for coating jet fuel hoses. 3M factories in the heartlands churned out water-resistant Per-and Poly-Fluoroalkyl substances, aka PFAs (supplied in bulk to DuPont, who had coined the catchy name, Teflon™), aka river-contaminating, cancer-causing forever chemicals. Perhaps it was a sublimated affinity for (or acknowledgement of) the chthonian source of her wealth that compelled Dwan to so open-handedly support the interventions of Heizer, Smithson, and de Maria, artists who boldly appropriated that self-same American land to yield independent, anti-commercial statements. Like an ouroboros, Dwan’s “clean” corporate cash had snaked back through systems of commodity exchange to become Earth Art, dirt again. Sight-unseen, Dwan had commissioned and underwritten Double Negative, and it was also from Dwan that Heizer received the initial loan needed to secure the land in Garden Valley, NV that would become City.

46.9443° N, 7.4494° E
Kunsthalle Bern, Switzerland. [former site of]
Cement Slotand Depression, (1969).

In 1968, the American tobacco manufacturer Philip Morris sent out an emissary from their New York PR agency to solicit art events to sponsor. When she found her way to curator Harald Szeemann at Kunsthalle Bern, one of the most powerful shows of the era, Live In Your Head: When Attitudes Become Form, was propelled into being. The inspired and inspiring curation was quickly pulled together as a ‘happening’ over March and April 1969. With airfares and shipment costs covered by the sponsor, erudite Europe was to welcome the radical Americans to compete with the best of their own conceptual and minimalist avant-gardists. Heizer was a key part of the vision, traveling to Switzerland and also to a similarly themed show, Op Losse Schroeven (On Loose Screws), at the Stedelijk Amsterdam, curated by Wim Beeren. At both, the artist hacked into the earth and smashed the cement of the towns hosting him. In some archive shots, Heizer jubilantly shatters craters into the Kunstahalle entrance concrete with a wrecking ball, smoking a cigarette, his other hand holds a stick of marking chalk. It was a super-grouping of practitioners of the ‘anti-form’ revolution: Richard Serra, Joseph Beuys, and Lawrence Weiner, who hand-chiseled a square ‘hole’ in the interior plaster. Heizer made an impression as a French-conversant, Claude Lévi-Strauss-quoting thinker who also knew how to operate heavy machinery. This was a new, unsettling language infiltrating and threatening to implode the city’s most august cultural structures. As Heizer wrote in his December ’69 Artforum cover story, captioning pictures of Cement Slot (Bern), a line in the grass aligned to the spire of the Munstertürm across the river, and Sidewalk Depression (Amsterdam): “One alternative to the Museum enclosure is to go beyond it. Both art and museums are victims ofthe city, which demands compliance with its laws and limits. Anything is only part of wherever it is.” He meant every word.

36.61586° N, 114.34455° W
Double Negative(1969-1970)
Carp Elgin Road, NV.

Double Negative ‘goes beyond’ in the most immense way imaginable. Cut into his familiar Nevada terrain, Heizer’s statement was an earthwork as it had never been attempted before. From 1969 to 1970, massive twin trenches were dynamited out by Heizer, and the ravines were cleared by an intrepid local tractor operator. The incisions sliced into opposing edges of a mesa cliff to expose raw and ancient sedimentary layers, removing over 240,000 tons of rock and earth. The two cuts create a gash approximately 30 feet wide, 50 feet deep, and 1500 feet long—around the height of a New York City skyscraper. You need a plane and an off-road vehicle to even attempt to go there, but it’s worth it. Viewed from above, it’s like a god dropped a thunderbolt before grabbing it back violently, ripping out the central void in the mesa. Standing within the work, you become a Rückenfigur suspended over the crests of the badlands valley tumbling before you, a Caspar David Friedrich of the West, wandering above an empire of dirt.The impact of Double Negative was seismic, especially so given that it was intractably installed in a place where almost no one actually could see it. The audacious ambition of the piece became known through the epic aerial imagery Heizer brought back to town, shot by chiaroscuro maestro Gianfranco Gorgoni (a photographic portraitist who had lensed an encyclopedia of artists from Giorgio de Chirico to Chuck Close).

35.78863° N, 115.25699° W
Jean Dry Lake, Nevada [former sites of]
Rift 1 (1968) + Circular Surface Planar Displacement (1970).

The visionary collector Sam Wagstaff comes into the picture at this explosive moment in Heizer’s career. His September 1969 Other Ideas exhibition at the Detroit Institute of Arts, where he was employed as Curator of Contemporary Art, included drawings of Heizer’s Of/For Earth Projects, featuring pictures of the Moon surface annotated with his trenchant motto “Art before Life,” among a chaotic mass of interactive exhibits. When the East Coast blue blood of independent wealth (derived from family real estate holdings in Manhattan and Long Island) made his trip out to Nevada, he brought along an 8mm film camera. Through his lens, a mid-twenties Michael Heizer dazzles; he’s got the bone structure of a young Chet Baker with the ‘Western Man’ aura of playwright Sam Shepard, topped off by dark, windswept locks. Shirtless and sunglassed, in jeans and boots, Heizer guides Wagstaff to his previously made cuts and substrate insertions into cracked dry lake beds. The men survey the remnants of the death-defying, Evel Knievel stunts that carved raw circles with just a string pinned in the dirt, spinning the motorcycle like a kinetic compass needle. These works are the residue of thrilling recklessness: a tire blowout or a minuscule miscalculation, and it’s all over for both art and artist. As Heizer walks away from the camera, the frame widens; the figure of the artist melts into a slim silhouette, a man alone against the ring of black mountains enclosing the dusty arena of his labor.

45º, 90º, 180ºCity © Michael Heizer.
Courtesy of Triple Aught Foundation
Photo by Ben Blackwell

City, 1970 — 2022 © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo by Eric Piasecki

City, 1970 — 2022 © Michael Heizer. Courtesy Triple Aught Foundation. Photo by Eric Piasecki

42.35947° N, 83.06461° W
Detroit Institute of Art, [former site of]
Dragged Mass Displacement (1971).

Another reel by Wagstaff captures the spring 1971 work-in-progress of Dragged Mass, whereby the full weight of a 30-ton block of Vermont granite became mired in the mud of the Detroit Institute’s Woodward Avenue lawn. Heizer himself drove one of the bulldozers. The museum show had been titled Photographic and Actual Works, and inside were images of the Munich Depression crater pit dug in May 1969. However, many saw the weighty actualization outside as a disturbing act of aggression and vandalism, not art at all. It seems staging unfiltered violence on a busy thoroughfare in the heart of an already hurting metro center provoked a louder voice of protest than the lonesome desert. The recent riots and rebellions that had taken place just blocks away were quashed with excessive use of force and led to multiple fatalities. These ‘massacres’ were fresh, not of legend, leading to a diametric conflict with the DIA board that prompted Wagstaff’s resignation from his position, but not before they forced him to pay $10,000 to resow the lawn. (The bronze cast of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ by the steps was more along the lines of what the conservative trustees appreciated.) The civic fury was so keen that later the stone itself was hauled away and dynamited to shards, never to drag its mass in that town again. Returning to his Bowery-view apartment and thrust back into the pulsating New York scene, Wagstaff was soon to meet Robert Mapplethorpe, his life partner and muse from 1972 on.

 

Michael Heizer’s Double Negative Morman Mesa, Overton, Nevada 1969 — 1970
Photo by Gianfranco Gorgoni © Maya Gorgoni. Courtesy of The Estate of Gianfranco Gorgoni

 

37.17694° N, 116.04611° W
Sedan Crater, [former site of] Nevada Test Site
Proving Grounds.

[To see the nuclear shot scars, just zoom out from the Sedan blast crater, then scan south toward Yucca Lake.] By the early 1970s, the polarities of Michael Heizer’s universe had been firmly established. While his name was in circulation on the high-cultural currents of New York and Europe, his physical body spent most of its time isolated in Nevada’s nuclear-adjacent wastelands. In the desert, he was the master of his own enterprise, far from Gotham’s excesses, art dealer hustle, and staid museum boards. Here, he was head-down, boots on the ground, working on City: Complex One in earnest. Riding his motorcycle to town for supplies, to use the phone, to even see any other person, he was an arrow of rising dust along the road. He was breathing it in, sweating it out, on this land, his land. He had no neighbors. At first living in a trailer, later building an off-grid homestead ranch and studio, City became the primary focus of his energy, the ultimate ‘onsite’ base where he could ‘expend death forces and feel spiritual waves.’

No foreign nation has ever attacked the United States with a nuclear device. But the United States has, attacking itself over and over again, under the euphemism of ‘testing.’ For Nevadans, the Cold War was burning hot. Between 1951 and 1992, the US military joint forces carried out 100 atmospheric and 828 underground blasts, around 90 miles from City, depending on the position of the individual detonations. As Heizer was drawing up blueprints to fulfill his vision of a ‘world after time,’ the Baneberry test of December 1970 rocked the valley with a 10-kiloton bomb set off next to an active earthquake fault line, cracking the rock strata and venting a toxic cloud that drifted out on the desert breeze, poisoning ranch land and people inside their homes. These residents of Nevada, Arizona, and Utah who were able—much later—to apply for government compensation for certain types of cancer are called ‘Downwinders.’ Downwind? Heizer had decided to plant himself directly next door. With this perilous proximity, Heizer’s circles, lines, and pits are anarchic gestures that provide a subversive corollary to the military operations that intentionally and repeatedly scarred this defenseless terrain. This is a metaphysical nihilism fascinated by entropic destruction and enraptured by the beauty in each white-sky blast.

In Fondazione Prada’s Michael Heizer monograph (concurrent with a major show in their Milan space over winter 1996-7), I discover several images of City as a work-in-progress. One breathtaking series, spanning several double-page spreads, shows Complex One and its undeveloped surrounds blanketed in a layer of soft snow, a poetic obliteration perhaps hinting at the nuclear winter always hovering in the skies. In 1969, the book’s author, Germano Celant, always enamored of the foundational disruptors, had been present in Bern to witness those ‘attitudes become form.’ The influential Italian curator also included Heizer in his 1997 Venice Biennale statement, “Future, Present, Past.” Heizer was all three. In 2013, when Celant decided to reconstruct the When Attitudes Become Form exhibition at the Fondazione Prada Palazzo in Venice, Heizer’s 1969 interventions could not be restaged. In our play-it-safe, regulation-and-permit-filled age, you’re simply not allowed to smash the Stones of Venice. Lawrence Weiner was allowed to rechisel his square hole in the wall plaster, but exterior ‘vandalism’ was a no-go. In 1969, the show was an impromptu and unpredictable live happening of unchecked audacity with free cigarettes and no ‘health and safety’ reports required. Today, the electric charge of breaking ground, the ‘looseness’ of those screws, has been lost. The ecstatic truth delivered by the original Heizer work is irrestaurable.

I attended the reiterated 2013 show, where Celant, Rem Koolhaas, and Thomas Demand’s sensitive installation with its films from the era, transported viewers back to this lip of time, before any of these artists knew if success or obscurity was their fate. It’s a difficult task to live forever on the edge. But I feel that Heizer’s practice is still edgy, because it has never ceased to be riven with risk and confrontation. He’d already called it, telling John Gruen in 1977, “[W]hatever I was doing, I was doing it first. And whatever I was wishing, I was doing it myself. My area hasn’t changed at all, and this will become evident later. There will be no change.” I would hazard that this tight-rope tension is what keeps him alive to fight another day. As Celant perceptively observed in the documentary Troublemakers: the Story of Land Art (James Crump, 2015): “When I did the book on Michael Heizer, he was on the verge of dying, because his nervous system was collapsing. Dying in the middle of the work, not finished. This kind of divinity, the idea of creating something so big that you have to die for it. Being a slave of yourself, creating your pyramid, being buried inside. Making the nature of their work incredibly long, and kind of mythological.”

40.73175° N, 73.97782° W
Stuy Town, New York City

What kind of man builds his own city? Strikes out in pursuit of a ‘divinity’ that will last for centuries, his immortality encapsulated in the stones he has brought together? It’s been attempted before, by Baron Haussman in Paris, Judge Woodward in Detroit, Robert Moses in New York, Corbusier with his Plan Voisin and Ville Radieuse concepts. Or Albert Speer’s Germania, of which only the 13,000-ton concrete cylinder of the Schwerbelastungskörper (heavy-load-bearing-body) remains, and that was just a test to determine whether the muddy earth of Berlin could support the new city. It couldn’t. The complications of history meant that none of them were able to complete their urban redesigns with Heizer’s degree of autonomy. Contemporary times entertain grandiose hypothetical projects. Think of the futuristic NEOM and ‘The Line’ developments in the coastal desert of Saudi Arabia driven by Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, or the ‘Seasteaders’ who tried to take over islands in French Polynesia to start a techno-topian society with the support of Peter Thiel. Municipal planners hired big architects to create suburban mass-utopias, and they dreamed up monstrosities like Thamesmead (UK, 1968-) and Corviale (Rome, 1973-). The strategy was to create all encompassing concrete megablock ‘rat park’ complexes that their residents “would never need to leave.” Then there are his fellow mavericks, without any outside support or state mandate, who are seized by the same obsessive impulse to agglomerate on a grand scale. In Florida, Edward Leedskalnin levitated massive blocks of limestone to build his Coral Castleall on his own, without the use of construction machinery, not once but twice. Even today, no one knows how he did it.


Who built the seven gates of Thebes? The books are filled with names of kings. Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone? And Babylon, so many times destroyed. Who built the city up each time?

— Bertolt Brecht, from “A Worker Reads History,”


193525.6995° N, 32.6391° E
Luxor, Egypt

The ancient Egyptian city referred to by the Greeks as ‘Thebes of the Hundred Gates’ is today known as Luxor. Where Heizer’s father, Robert, an archaeologist and Professor of Anthropology at Berkeley University, was, in 1971 and 1972, working on a project funded by the National Geographic Society. His artist son visited him there, also taking a side trip to the Saqqara necropolis, where the crumbling step pyramid of Djoser remains; it is said that this is the prototype for the perfection of the Giza pyramids. It’salso been cited as a precursor to City. Many critics turn back to his family origins to explain Michael Heizer and his oeuvre—particularly, to the influence of his father, a specialist in Olmec colossal sculpture and the geology of the Great Basin. Then, there are both of his grandfathers: Ott F. Heizer, who was a mining engineer and manager of the Nevada-Massachusetts Company tungsten ore mine, and Olaf P. Jenkins, the chief geologist of California responsible for mapping the geologic makeup of the entire state. These were the kind of men who always weighed in tons. When interviewed by Phyllis Tuchman in 1971, who asked about the influence of his father’s practice, Heizer was dismissive: “It’s a very convenient way for some people to attempt to define my work. I’ve never been victimized by any sensibility, so for me to be victimized by some academic methodology ... I don’t think that the people who have seen my work think that.” And I agree with him. We don’t. His City speaks its own idiom. But I do envy the upbringing that formed the mind that made it. As an adolescent, he joined Robert Heizer’s expeditions throughout the Americas as a draftsman. It was like being Indiana Jones’ son, discovering the geodesy encoded into the snaking stairs of ‘El Castillo’ in Chichén Itzá or the plazas of Teotihuacan, engineered as precisely as a computer chip. There was also a year spent in Paris while the professor was researching at the venerable Musée de l’Homme, which looks out over the grandeur of the Champ de Mars and the Eiffel Tower; inside, a treasury of artifacts illuminates’ the story so far’ of human existence.

36.0955° N, 115.1761° W
The Luxor Hotel & Casino, Las Vegas

There’s no logistical way to avoid staying a few nights in Las Vegas if you’re making the drive to Alamo from Los Angeles. Las Vegas itself offers up the simulacrum and spectacle others wish to find in City. These threads fuse the programmatic architectureof the Luxor hotel, where I chose to stay. Inside the Po-Mo black glass pyramid and matching cubed half-ziggurat tower, there’s also a scaled-to-size Mayan ‘Temple Of Kukulkan.’ A pillar of white light beams up from the dead center of the mass into outer space. Vegas is truly a harsh bookend to City’s transcendental peace, its chaotic signifier overload triggering the opposite sensory perceptions in every way. But this aligns with what the holy cities of the ancients have become—my own psycho-geographic paths and Heizer’s merge in these Egypts, real and remade. I’ve been to the Saqqara necropolis, where Djoser’s experiment was marred by modern scaffolding and a stack of rocks in front. The Giza Plateau was calm only on the morning after a massive sandstorm,which kept both tourists and touts away. The control of perspective and perception is not possible at any of these sites or any living conurbation. They are nothing like City, spiritual inheritor of their ruins, but not of their profoundly functional past. City has not been built to host mass gatherings, bloody ball games, or to enact harvest rituals. Set far from the madding crowd, it stands alone, facing off with eternity in immaculate solitude.

34.051612° N, 118.255050° W
North, East, South, West ( 1981),
444 South Flower St, Los Angeles

Heizer’s more publicly accessible works of sacred geometry and raw mass have become part of our contemporary power lexicon, placed carefully inside buildings and at sites that our culture deems important. Installed in the first years of Reagan’s presidency, Heizer’s set of four burnished steel shapes, commissioned by the Rockefeller Development Corporation, occupy the lower lobby of a towering corporate building in the part of DTLA closest to Manhattan’s vertical thrust. An expression of his ‘North, East, South, West’ motif, with each cardinal direction assigned a particular form (stacked cuboid, truncated cylinder, cone, wedge), the industrial steel polygons are finished with a hand-buffed texture, the kind you might find in a carpark elevator. In September 2001, the obliteration of the World Trade Center complex devastated New York City. This was the symbolic equivalent of a nuclear detonation, not in the ‘empty desert’ away from scrutiny, but in a densely populated business district with the world’s media transmitting every second of the horror. At the same time, Heizer was suffering physically, diagnosed with a debilitating polyneuropathy that attacked his nerves from within and made it difficult to use his hands: for such an active person, a crushing blow—all those years breathing irradiated desert dust had shattered the defenses of his own body. Through it all, despite the pain, he kept working. This was a war of attrition, against himself, like America’s atomic ‘tests.’ From these times of darkness emerged the most striking version of North, East, South, West (1967/2002), permanently excised from the flooring substructure of the new Dia Beacon building. (One of the original co-founders of the Dia Art Foundation is Phillipa de Menil, whose descent from Conrad Schlumberger, mining engineering genius -he devised a method to stab electrical currents deep into the earth to reveal its mineral secrets - ensured an enduring family legacy of cultural support). Visiting the upstate museum soon after it opened in 2003, I was astonished by the four ominous holes (and the natural standing stone encased so tightly in the wall). Just as his early ’80s iteration’s ‘positive’ expression of ‘NESW’ shone bright, the post 9/11 iterationwas literally negative, abyssal, Hadean. Heizer had been to the gates of hell and back, and lived to make sculpture of the tale.

34.06448° N, 118.35992° W
Levitated Mass, (2012) LACMA, Los Angeles

In 2006, at the Stone Valley Quarry in Jurupa, CA, Heizer was presented with a specimen of the kind of lithic power (size, mass, texture, shape) he had long been seeking. Pyramidical and pneumatic, this rock had movie-star presence; as Heizer exclaimed on the spot, “That’s the one.” During his 1969 attempt, the mega-boulder selected had broken the crane hoisting it, and the work had to be abandoned. But now, with a $10 million transportation budget and a plum site at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the configuration would rise again. Heizer drove his Airstream trailer down from Garden Valley to LA to meet the prized rock, which went on its own overground journey, watched in awe by thousands. The 340-ton granite megalith is now permanently balanced atop a custom concrete slot-ramp adjacent to 6th Street and the La Brea Tar Pits. The prime position guarantees this boulder will be seen by more humans in a few hours than City will over many years. On Olaf P. Jenkin’s Geologic Map of California (1938), a hand-drawn legend tells you what lies beneath each grid zone. Zooming in on an antique map seller’s listing, it’s beautiful, a work of art. Under the Fairfax District hides a base of ‘Qal,’ or quaternary alluvium, which is unconsolidated sediments of sand, gravel, and clay deposited by flowing waters during the Quaternary Period. A tectonic fault leaks the inky crude oil that preserves fossils and evidence of past habitation: the ideal subterranean underlay for his grandson’s big rock. LACMA’s Michael Govan (director at the Dia Foundation during multiple major Heizer commissions) was the force behind the high-profile project, which he expertly leveraged to persuade significant patrons and sponsors to furnish the funds that enabled Heizer to complete and ‘open’ City. I attended the June 2025 preview of Swiss architect Peter Zumthor’s Brutalist new LACMA building—an implacably grey Berlin bunker/bomb shelter/ freeway overpass hybrid that was also commissioned by Govan. A central strip of glass brings some levity to the raw concrete structure. Looking out the window, there is a vision: Levitated Mass resplendent, a solo-henge glowing against a liquid-gold LA sun.

33.96610° N, 118.45639° W
Displaced/Replaced Mass (1977) 4 Yawl Street,
Charlie Beach, Marina del Rey

There’s one more Heizer within my geographic reach. On the beach frontage of art collectors Roy and Carol Doumani’s (former) home lies a reiteration of Displaced-Replaced Mass #1, a Robert Scull desert commission of 1969. Four dark granite boulders have been laid into hazardous ankle-snapping concrete pits, like open tombs. A local woman gives passersby a rundown on the collection inside, but hadn’t known the provenance of the Heizer works, even though she’d seen the big rock at LACMA. I walk towards the Pacific to read my book—Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities (1972), which was with me in City. By the water is a family, their accents Antipodean, parents, a sister, and brother, California sun-kissed. The son has dug a large rectangular hole at the tide’s edge. The boy’s excavation is an exact echo of Heizer’s pits at the tall white house that I can still see by the path. He’s not copying, though. These are primal shapes. They are encoded into our inbuilt human urge to control and make a mark on our lived environments, with a form derived from the sacred mathematics whispering through the helical coils of our DNA. When their beach day ends, the family packs up. The boy lingers last. Running back to his creation, he yawps, “I’m the king of the hole.” Only then can the young artist leave his afternoon’s work to face its inevitable sublimation back to Nature. At the same time, someone’s speaker is playing Tears for Fears’ 1985 classic,“Everybody Wants To Rule The World.”

Michael Heizer — Circular Surface Planet Displacement, Jean Dry Lake, NV - 1970
Photograph by Gianfranco Gorgoni © Maya Gorgoni. Courtesy of The Estate of Gianfranco Gorgoni

The author would like to thank the Triple Aught Foundation, Brent Holmes, Ed Higbee, James Crump, Meagan Jones, Gagosian, Getty Research Institute, Smithsonian Hirshhorn Library, Balch Art Research Library and Archives @ LACMA, and especially, Efe Ramirez, for their support of the Cityexpedition and this piece.

REFERENCES / SOURCES:
“The Art of Michael Heizer,” Michael Heizer, Artforum, December 1969.
Other Ideas, exhibition catalog, Samuel J. Wagstaff, Detroit Institute of Arts, 1969.
Michael Heizer interviewed by Phyllis Tuchman, audio recordings, c/o Getty Research Institute, 1971.
The New Avant-Garde: Issues for the Art of the Seventies, Gianfranco Gorgoni, Pall Mall Press, London, 1972.
“Michael Heizer: You might say I’m in the construction business,”John Gruen, ARTnews, December 1977.
The Shock of the New. Vol. 8 -television episode, “The Future that Was,” presented by Robert Hughes, BBC Broadcast Archive, 1982.
Sculpture in Reverse, Michael Heizer, Julia Brown, Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles, 1984.
Primal Acts of Construction/Destruction: The Work of Michael Heizer 1967-1987, Dissertation by Patricia A. Fairchild, c/o Balch Research Library at LACMA, 1993.
Michael Heizer, Germano Celant, Fondazione Prada, 1997.
Six Years: The Dematerialisation of the Art Object from 1966 to 1972, Lucy Lippard, Berkeley, University of California Press, reedition 1997.
Mono Lake, short film, 1968/2004 by Nancy Holt, c/o Holt-Smithson Foundation.
Hopelessness Freezes Time -1967 Detroit Riots, Detroit Techno and Michael Heizer’s Dragged Mass, Edgar Arceneaux with Julian Myers, Kunstmuseum Basel, 2011.
Live In Your Head: When Attitude Becomes Form: Bern 1969/Venice 2013, Germano Celant, Fondazione Prada, 2013.
Levitated Mass: The Story of Michael Heizer’s Monolithic Sculpture, documentary, director Doug Pray, 2013.
Troublemakers: The Story of Land Art, documentary, director James Crump, 2015.
Michael Heizer: Altars, edited byKara Vander Weg, Gagosian Gallery/Rizzoli, 2016.

Venera


photography by Lolita Eno

styling by Peri Rosenzweig

interview by Oliver Kupper


From the 1960s through the 1980s, the Soviets launched a fleet of probes toward Venus in what became the legendary Venera program—it was the first time human-made machines captured and returned images and sounds from another planet. What they revealed was staggering: a furnace-world of sulphuric skies, crushing pressure, and an atmosphere as brutal as it is apocalyptic. Drawing from that legacy, the experimental duo Venera—Korn guitarist and co-founder James “Munky” Shaffer and filmmaker/composer Chris Hunt—conjure a synth-driven cosmos just as mysterious and merciless. Their music is a psychological hymn to interplanetary Venusian travel, a soundtrack for drifting through toxic mists and colliding with the planet’s hostile refusal of organic life. But it is also something closer: an original score for our age of unraveling, a psychic reverberation of a society at the edge of rupture. Their sophomore album, EXINFINITE (out September 2025 on PAN), featuring the spectral voices of FKA twigs, Chelsea Wolfe, and Dis Fig, plunges deeper than their 2023 debut—heavier, darker, and more unrelenting. Shaffer’s guitar riffs—instrumental in shaping Korn’s signature sound—mutate here into foreboding, unbound chord progressions. Hunt, through his singular worldbuilding of sound and visceral pulsations, conjures soundscapes that shift from the eerily spectral to a violent primordium. Together, they navigate a shared sonic language, exploring the liberating force of experimentation and the transformative power of collaboration. The result is a nightmarish, chthonic vision—at once beautiful and orchestral. In the following conversation, Shaffer and Hunt delve into the origins of Venera, which began with an early studio session during work with Xhoana X and was further sparked when Korn commissioned Hunt to create pre-show music for their 2022 Requiem Tour.

 
 

OLIVER KUPPER: I want to start with the inception of Venera, which began around 2022 in Los Angeles when you were both recording with Xhoana X. Can you talk about the beginnings of your collaboration?

JAMES “MUNKY” SHAFFER: We needed somebody to design pre-show music for Korn’s Requiem Tour. He and I had already been working together, so I knew right away that Chris is very talented as a filmmaker and in creating sound design. During the Korn tour, Chris and I were already diving into some pre-recorded materials that we had. We went through the sequencing of the first Venera record and finalized some of the first recordings. I don't think we even had a label at that point.

CHRIS HUNT: From there, James and I got back together in LA and we really started to go down the rabbit hole together.

KUPPER: Chris, can you talk about what drew you into this sonic collaboration?

HUNT: James and I share a mutual love and language with which we communicate to one another sonically. In this record, there's a density and an intensity to what we both are drawn to in terms of sound. Our friendship and collaboration is an extension of that landscape. It's these very general kinds of genre terms, I guess. But there are certainly components of soundtrack stuff, ambient music, and part heavy music. I didn't necessarily grow up a huge Korn person, or even a huge metal person, but I always had an affinity for noise music and different heavier music. There's this nexus or a matrix of those elements, sounds, and aesthetics that were very common to both of us and still are.

 
 
 
 
 
 

KUPPER: Can you take me through your collaborative process? What does that experience look like in the studio?

SHAFFER: It's so much fun. Chris will grab a few pieces of equipment, whether there's a drum machine, a small synth, or a desktop synth. I'll get my guitar with a couple of my favorite pedals, because I'm always looking for new sounds to take me into another world outside the guitar, even though that's my medium. Then, we'll get together in the studio. We did a lot of stuff at my old studio in downtown LA. We'll kind of start slowly, dipping our toes into some sounds, and we'll look at each other and be like, yeah, that's cool, let's go with this. We don't talk about tempo or keys a lot right off the cuff. It comes from improvising and finding a common path, letting that dictate where it goes; we each let the other pull us back and forth. One of the things I love that Chris and I do is that intensity and density he mentioned, where comfort can grow from this discomfort. If I’m in a bad mood and something negative happens, I would only see this darkness. I think that's the beauty of some of the things we recorded—when you listen, you can feel a certain tone, and it can be this beautiful noise.

HUNT: This tension is an interesting way to describe it. For the past five years, every time we've gotten together has been equally joyful, inspiring, and productive. On one side of the spectrum, in terms of how we work and explore our practice, it’s a very easy, unfolding, joyful kind of flow. On the other side, I take our recorded materials and obsess over them to a very granular detail. I’ll take one bar at a time and identify clusters of materials like they’re pieces of a puzzle. Then, we talk about what the puzzle needs to be and start putting the pieces together. It feels very fulfilling. There's a lot of inspiration and joy behind doing that work, but it's also a lot of labor.

SHAFFER: Chris has this really unique ability to listen on a macro level. You know, when you're looking at something and on the surface it’s not so interesting. But when you look at it under a microscope, you start to see all these textures, this interesting landscape, and you start to expand on it. He's really great at creating a whole world within a world. It's one of the reasons why I love working with him.

KUPPER: It's very rare to meet somebody that you have this creative synergy with.

SHAFFER: Definitely. When we first started to record, we were having so much fun. The satisfaction of having no boundaries—there’s no guardrails when we record, no box we need to fit in. We’re just creating from complete artistic passion and creativity, not for a single on the radio. There’s an openness and freedom to that. It’s very rare to me. I’ve worked with several people through the years, but except for the band, Chris is the only one I’ve had this connection with on a creative level. We share the same creative vocabulary.

KUPPER: Do you feel like all that freedom was jarring after years of being in a band that was forced to produce hits to satisfy a record label?

SHAFFER: It’s a relief. There's a lotof pressure that I don't have any more. I feel liberated.

HUNT: We have our own language. We hope that it exists in a different space than Korn’s music does. Obviously, with the utmost respect and appreciation for that work, it’s amazing and legendary, but the language of the music here is just a little different. For us, a lot of it is driven by the process of exploring.

SHAFFER: When I'm working with the guys in the band, I'll write something at home and take it in and we’ll check it out together and build on it. When Chris and I are working, we want to discover where this experiment will lead us, we want to discover what grows in the lab.

KUPPER: The language is fascinating—you’re teasing the album with striking, dark, poetic texts by Amy Ireland. Can you talk about the textual and visual language behind it?

HUNT: Generally, it functions in two disparate but also harmonious ways. On a simple level, I just wanted an interesting language to accompany what we share about the music during the release process, publicity, and social media. Because so much of these processes are tied to the social media landscape, I’d much rather have another texture or layer we care about—something that helps fill out the story of the music. Then there’s the other part: using text. Imagery or text isn’t particularly new, but finding people connected to the world we feel the music lives in, who speak a similar language, is. With this, we’re letting them exist in that world in a very open way while adding a layer of their own—either narrative or an expansion of the concepts we’re exploring. In the most recent work, it’s Amy Ireland. She’s such a brilliant thinker and writer. I know her work through xenofeminism and her connection to CCRU [Cybernetic Culture Research Unit] in the UK.

KUPPER: You guys are bringing in Dis Fig, FKA Twigs, and Chelsea Wolfe. How does that process work, reaching out to these people and collaborating with these other musicians?

SHAFFER: When we are recording the songs and Chris is digging through, he will suggest things like, maybe this track will be interesting with vocals on it, and maybe it could be a female voice because it feels feminine. Then, we come up with a wishlist of interesting people who might help the track, and we give them a palette or a canvas to do their thing. We’re totally open, which is why when we reach out to them, they’re also open. Once they hear the music, they want to create their own thing over it. It’s fun because we get to create a wishlist, go through it, and contact people. It’s not a long list, honestly; it’s mostly through existing relationships. I mean, I don’t know Radiohead (laughs), so it seems like it would be difficult to reach Thom Yorke, which could be another amazing collaborative moment. We try to reach within our own network and connect with people who are interesting and talented.

HUNT: This project has been interesting and fulfilling, and the collaborative aspect of it is an extension of the way James and I work as well. At the same time, it’s also very focused on what it is and what we want it to be, and the process with James and me—the way we work—has been very resonant with everybody we have reached out to. Every vocalist who has contributed to the project has done so in such a smooth and inspiring way. It has been almost shocking how little challenge or back-and-forth there has been. It’s been such an interesting gift.

 
 
 
 

KUPPER: Do they come to the studio, or just send audio tracks or layers?

HUNT: FKA Twigs was the only person we got to spend a day with in the studio, which was a magical set of circumstances. For that track, James and I had a list of materials that we thought might be interesting for her to sing on, based on her previous work. When we got into the room and started playing these things, she was totally disinterested in every idea we had. But fortunately, because of the nature of how we work—how much capturing and accumulating sound and material process we have—I was able to just open a big folder of stuff and offer her more ideas to choose from. There was a very random part of one of the rough ideas that she liked, so we started expanding and chopping it up in the moment with her.

SHAFFER: Yeah, she was such a pro. Watching her process of creating this fresh track was really inspiring—she went in, laid down her background vocals, then her main vocal. Usually, people work on tracks for six weeks or more, but with her, it took six hours, and the song was done. It was incredible.

KUPPER: How do you think this album differs from the earlier ones? What do you think your take is on the evolution of it?

HUNT: It’s a similar level of openness in terms of experimentation for us in the process, but experimental in a different way. It’s not rigid, but a bit more structured. There is generally more percussion with drums and rhythm throughout, and the ideas are a little more succinct.

SHAFFER: It feels more structured, and yet it’s the same world that we created on the first album. But there’s an expansion and more focus on some of the details of that world.

KUPPER: James, you mentioned Thom Yorke. But Chris, who's a dream collaborator for you?

HUNT: Oh, man, I have him right here on this Zoom call. (laughs) I really don’t have a good answer for that. I feel like the dream collaborator is yet to come. We have to make the dream music for it to reveal who the dream collaborator is.

KUPPER: James, this project feels like such a deeply intellectual side to your sound and musical philosophy. What do you think fans of Korn might misunderstand about you through this music, and what do you hope to clarify about this side of your musical output compared to Korn?

SHAFFER: For me, it’s an extension to experiment deeper into what I love, which is designing sound. I can design sounds on Korn records, but they are more riff-based. This is another branch of what I love: ambient music, electronic music, while still having guitar-driven elements and some aggressive drums. It also goes back to when the band first started. When Korn first started, I always loved John Zorn records—this crazy noise stuff. And then, I heard a Mr. Bungle album and saw that Zorn was the producer. I did some research and found out he is a saxophone player, but also a producer with projects like Naked City and other interesting works. That opened the doors for me and kept me inspired to create things like this. It also challenges some of our fans to step into that world with me, whether they like it or not. I hope they find something interesting in it and understand that it is just another creative way for me to express myself, both through the instrument and music, and also contribute to the visuals, creating a new extension of who I am.

KUPPER: What are you both working on now, individually?

SHAFFER: We’re working on a third album, and we have a lot of materials I don't want to describe prematurely. It's exciting, and it feels like a new branch that's sprouting in this world that we've already created and that's taking root.

HUNT: The thing that's been so lucky about James and me is that we’ve been working basically anytime we see each other, for two or three days. It’s sort of a double-edged sword because we're constantly productive, but it also means there's a mountain of material. And what I love about the project is that it’s a work in progress in a deep way—we’re constantly evolving.

SHAFFER: I look at it as us being sonic explorers—we keep trying to find new caves and new landscapes to either create or explore and see where it takes us. There's just so much creative satisfaction in it. Especially when you discover something new, it's very satisfying to the creative soul. We have so much music; it's crazy. And it's all interesting. When Chris goes in to find the moments that have that magic inside of them, it's like stepping into a whole other world. We also like to go to a few different studios around LA because each one brings out a different texture and adds elements we weren’t expecting, whether it’s the mic positions on the drums, how I’m set up, the amp I’m using, or just the character of the room itself. We really get inspired by different spaces. The more we explore different rooms, the more we discover. We haven’t done anything outdoors yet, which would be really interesting to see what comes from that kind of improvisation in an open space. That’s definitely on our list.

HUNT: There are definitely some sounds on this record that stand out. Specifically, we used field recordings and found sounds. Chelsea Wolfe’s music partner, Ben Chisholm—who worked with her on her part of the track—actually contributed some of those recordings. I think they sounded like wind or something alongthose lines. It was really interesting material and caught us by surprise in the best way.

An Interview of: Diane Severin Nguyen

interview by Whitney Mallett

photography by Zoe Chait

New York–based, California-born Diane Severin Nguyen works across photography, video, and installation, investigating how media and imagery shape identity, history, and power. In a conversation with Whitney Mallett, Nguyen discusses her first live performance, which turns to anti–Vietnam War protest music, reimagined as a televised concert that blurs the lines between performance and broadcast. She reinterprets classic folk and protest songs, tracing how they have been remembered, transformed, and mythologized, while exploring how nostalgia for political struggle shapes contemporary notions of resistance and freedom. This commissioned project unfolds across a new music album, a live band performing as a conceptual art project, and a broadcast performance, creating an immersive exploration of sound, memory, and cultural resonance. It is co-commissioned by The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles.

WHITNEY MALLETT: How are you feeling after your first rehearsal last night?

DIANE SEVERIN NGUYEN: It’s really exciting to actually have the performers to work with. We were just figuring out what everyone’s strengths are and what kinds of characters we could pull out of them. I had everyone pretend they were on a drug—ketamine, LSD, shrooms—and it turned out to be surprisingly effective. It was the perfect layer to free them up. And, interestingly, when you act “psychedelic,” you inevitably channel the ’60s and ’70s. There’s something about that era that just seeps in.

MALLETT: So, is it fair to say that, in assessing everyone like this, you’re drawing inspiration from your performers and building in a collaborative element?

NGUYEN: Yes, of course. I feel like everyone has at least two opposite ends within them, and their personality ends up being some strange average—or even a conflict—between those extremes. So, what I’m doing is making the process more participatory: having the performers explore those opposite sides of themselves. Once we assess everyone, we’ll really know what the best songs are and what narrative makes the most sense. It makes the idea of a musical a lot more fluid, which is fun.

MALLETT: The concept is that it’s a band, right?

NGUYEN: Yes, it’s an eleven-person band, but it keeps mutating. There will probably be smaller vignettes too: three people at once, maybe a medley with two or three together. And at the end, everyone will perform as a group. But honestly, it’s almost too much with everyone performing at once; there are just so many different threads and registers I want to hit within the same performance. For me, the idea of opposites and friction within a person is really important. I want every performer to embody multiple selves, not just one role.

MALLETT: You mentioned the psychedelia of the ’60s and ’70s—is there an anti-Vietnam War reference in it?

NGUYEN: Totally. That’s the whole thread of it. Music in that era was almost dangerous. We’ve been going through a lot of songs from that time. The lyrics can be shockingly explicit about war and questioning authority. It’s not just about reenacting protest music from that era, but about asking whether that messaging collides with today’s music at all. Because people don’t really use music as a medium for mass, populist messaging in the same way anymore. We’re in a very surreal space with music right now. I’m drawn to that era—not just musically, but also through films, books, and especially the French New Wave. French New Wave was formally innovative, but it was also always linked to politics, with the Vietnam War as a constant peripheral subject. It’s fascinating how distant suffering could inspire so much Western creative production. You see people discovering themselves in a kind of liberal humanist way—values like love, freedom, anti-establishment—and yet those values often depended on conflict abroad to find that sense of transcendence. I’m drawn to how conflict sparks soul-searching, then gets commodified—as it did in the ’60s and ’70s.

MALLETT : There’s an almost constant recycling of the so-called “authenticity” of that period. I’m thinking about how much I loved Almost Famous (2000) when I was younger. And then there was that Bob Dylan movie that just came out.

NGUYEN: I also saw that the Whitney Museum is putting on a group show called Sixties Surreal this fall. I feel like those two words, “authenticity” and “freedom,” are so important to the performance. For the past five years or so, I’ve been really interested in how the acoustic has come back, how Gen Z bands are leaning into it, and the authenticity we project onto the acoustic. And how that connects to the authenticity of protests today, it’s still very nostalgic of the ’60s and ’70s. The protests we romanticize most are the protests against the Vietnam War, so in creating the graphic design, that imagery is always there.

MALLETT: When I was younger, I just thought of it as ’70s music. It took me getting older to realize it was actually part of a folk revival itself. But also, speaking more broadly about your practice—I loved In Her Time (Iris’s Version). Maybe you could talk about your larger study of feeling. For me, it makes sense that music and angst go together—that whole tradition is one way to access it. But I know it’s something you’re interested in beyond music.

NGUYEN: I don’t always want to reduce my practice to the era of the Vietnam War, but thinking through that period has been so productive for me. On a deeper level, it probably connects to my own search for identity. The Vietnamese body, historically, is imagined as burning, mutilated, and always marked by violence. The Western liberal gaze turns it into an object of pity: I feel bad for you, I’m sorry for you. I’m drawn to those contradictions—the most toxic and the most affirmative sides of sentimentality—and how complex that emotion is. Even as a teenager, I often identified more with things happening elsewhere, or in another time, than with my own present. There’s something about how we need those other images, other histories, to latch onto in order to see ourselves. So much of my practice is about unpacking that gaze—not to arrive at a neat thesis, but to trouble it. In In Her Time (Iris’s Version), for instance, the actress is reenacting a rape scene from a film about the mass rapes of Chinese women. She finds a kind of pleasure in that performance, and with it, a strange authenticity through a predetermined script, and through an event she never experienced. That paradox fascinates me. In the end, I’m trying to think through emotions in a way that acknowledges their complications. Like in Adam Curtis’s work, it’s about tracking how emotions develop over time, and how they shape where we locate both the self and collectivity.

MALLETT: I feel like you’re also talking about consumption—both the cultural consumption of this subject position and how that becomes a way to access emotion. We consume products, media, images, and through that, we construct identity. Going back to the Vietnam War era is interesting, a moment when American society was also negotiating the import of Asian culture: kawaii aesthetics, teen music fandom, and identity as something to be consumed. There are so many layers in how these forms of cultural and emotional consumption overlap.

NGUYEN: It’s weird how teenagers are so malleable, but at the same time have so much conviction. In this performance, it’s less directly about “young girl energy,” but it does circle around what now feels slightly cringe. I’m adapting a lot of language—lifting stage banter, gestures, all those little aspects of a concert that can be played with. So much of it comes back to freedom—not as a movement, but as a texture, as something aesthetic. You really feel it in that era, even in fashion details or interiors from the ’60s and ’70s—shag carpeting, for example. What did those textures actually mean when, at the same time, the television was constantly broadcasting the war? The home became this surreal, almost psychedelic space.

MALLETT: This is probably your biggest performance so far. You’re staging a similar kind of emotional experience as a film, but the process of putting it together is very different. In film, you can rearrange the order of things. So, I’m curious how this compares to your filmmaking process.

NGUYEN: I guess I’m figuring that out too, because it feels strange not to have the mediation of the camera—since I’m so interested in mediation. I keep thinking about how to build the performance with the awareness that performance itself is already a form of mediation, and what we expect from it. For me, it’s always about playing with that. In my films, the last thing I want is for someone to feel they can completely access something—because to me, that’s not possible. You can never fully access a person. So, it’s always about thinking through layers of perception. Approaching that in the context of a concert or performance has been really fun. In a way, it’s almost like my photography. There will probably be parts of the concert where there are no people at all, just lights and kinetic effects. I’m planning to use wind, fake snow, and wetness, for example. I think anything referencing Vietnam will mostly come through this threat of nature—through instability—rather than anything explicit. So, within that space of improvisation, movement, and light, I want to see how all these elements collide and create chemistry. There has to be instability. And because I’m using a concert as the frame, there’s so much to work with. I’m not really thinking in terms of performance art—I’m thinking in terms of a televised concert.

MALLETT: There’s also the mediation of everyone holding their iPhone.

NGUYEN: Yeah, exactly. It’s going to be at BRIC, which is a broadcasting studio. The cameras will actually be on the audience, and I think they’ll have a powerful presence. I like that because it connects back to that era of television broadcasting, when concerts like this were happening all the time.

MALLETT: It makes me think of American Bandstand. When I was a kid in the ’90s, we had the Canadian version of MTV, called MuchMusic. I loved putting it on and dancing along—basically just dancing while watching people dance in a studio. I guess it was a kind of low-cost way to engage with youth culture and music.

NGUYEN: There’s definitely an equivalent to that. The spaces, the sets, the whole atmosphere of live performance feels really familiar to me. They still happen a lot in Asia and other cultures, where the variety show format is such a big thing—the competitions, the constant audience engagement, even the laugh track.

MALLETT: There was a British one too—Top of the Pops. I didn’t watch it contemporaneously, but years later, I would find it on YouTube. A lot of bands like Blur and Oasis performed on it. It was televised live, which feels connected to the semiotics you’re working with in this concert. When YouTube first came around, I remember watching a lot of those recordings. I guess SNL still carries a version of that tradition.

NGUYEN: Yeah, I went through all the SNL performances, Tiny Desk, and Jools Holland. There’s an intimacy that’s not really there.

MALLETT: You get a sense of how good someone is as a live performer, even if you’re not physically there. In the ’80s and ’90s, so much of connecting with an audience happened through televised broadcasts, before the music video became dominant. You wouldn’t know if someone was a strong live performer until you saw them on SNL or the Grammys. And I think that’s the real testament of a pop star—whether they can carry that kind of live performance.

NGUYEN: It’s funny because in K-pop, for instance, there are all these live stage performances and variety show appearances, but what they’re really mastering is performing to the cameras. They’re on seven different cameras at once, which becomes a whole different way to engage the audience. I feel bad for anyone actually sitting in the room—they’re not being sung to; all the performers are focused on the cameras. You see the same thing in fashion now, with any setup that uses that kind of rig.

MALLETT: It does take a specific talent to perform for a live audience. Bruno Mars is good at that.

NGUYEN: (laughs) Yes. I feel like I consume a lot of music where the performers are really skilled at working the camera. I also like how Brechtian it is—this awareness of the apparatus, amping up a feeling of intimacy that they can’t actually have with the live audience because the space is so big. Instead, they project it onto the camera, onto an audience that isn’t physically there. I did something similar when making In Her Time [(Iris’s Version)]. I told the actress, “Pretend you’re being interviewed.” I didn’t actually conduct the interview, but the camera acted as a relay to something else entirely. I’d like to bring that out in this live performance. It surfaces a discomfort, a kind of cringe, but it’s fascinating: you sense something emerging—maybe not narcissism, but a quality that goes beyond the present moment.

MALLETT: You mentioned that you watch a lot of K-pop. Do you think that dance routines will possibly play a role in the performance?

NGUYEN: I wish it could. Of course, I want a dance routine. I’m just trying to work backwards to see where that could make sense. That kind of dancing in unison is not very Western. It is much more Eastern, especially in that era. What you have in the West is people stomping around the stage and kicking things. That’s more the movement that I’m looking for. What are the anti-establishment movements?

MALLETT: That makes me think about this performance art piece I was in for my friend’s undergrad years ago, where we redid Woodstock ’99. We were just breaking stuff. You’re thinking about the original Woodstock as a reference for this, but I just thought of Woodstock ’99 as an example of a total failure of revival. As a child of the ’90s, it felt like history was over.

NGUYEN: Yeah, this is totally in that vein. It’s really funny to think about how everything has been a revival of something else. But even in the ’60s and ’70s, it was already being co-opted in some way. It was also highly effective for advertising during the Mad Men era.

MALLETT: Growing up in the era that we did—we are around the same age—we had to learn that that era also wasn’t authentic, but in the ’90s, we were led to believe that it was.

NGUYEN: I used to listen to folk music in high school, which wasn’t in my immediate cultural context, so why was it so effectively romantic? It felt very real.

MALLETT: Would you be downloading it on Napster?

NGUYEN: Totally. Limewire. Napster. I was so good at stealing everything.

MALLETT: How did you cast the ensemble? Did you send out a casting call? Or was it amongst friends of friends?

NGUYEN: Performa posted on Backstage, and I got a lot of submissions. I narrowed it to twenty, then live-auditioned half. Everyone sang “Let It Be”—I chose it for its simplicity, but I realized how powerful it is. The composition, the texture, the melody—it feels collective, uplifting. Hearing people sing it together was unexpectedly moving.

MALLETT: People say the Beatles are overrated, but it sounds like you aren’t in that camp.

NGUYEN: I’m trying to be objective about it and not think too much about what I love and what I don’t, because it makes it way more fun to go into things that I used to find a bit cringe, over-affected, or not in my taste. That’s the most fun part of the performance: putting everything together. Because half of it is funny, then at a certain point, it becomes just real. It’s about reaching the end and not being able to tell. We can only really test it out if we can see how it affects people.

MALLETT: It is interesting to think specifically about the Performa audience and that demographic. Like Joni Mitchell, she could end up coming to this, which is interesting to think about.

NGUYEN: At the preview, the room was mostly older patrons with a few younger friends. We played Donovan’s “Universal Soldier” as pop punk and Billie Eilish’s “Ocean Eyes” as Bob Dylan. Half the room recognized one, half the other. When the helicopter soundscame in, the older crowd associated them with Vietnam. I liked how those generational differences created multiple entry points for the audience.

MALLETT: Would you say that’s one of your goals—that you’re thinking about the intensity of an emotional experience?

NGUYEN: I just want people to notice certain things more. Sometimes that can feel really good, but it can also make you feel hypocritical or feel some contradiction. It’s a really powerful feeling to confront the contradiction. I even make work from feelings of contradiction. I feel like everything is a weird unconscious commentary on the art world, on being an artist, what people expect from you, and how you play with that. And it’s about that whole system that produces meaning and emotion. There is an equivalent to whatever Bob Dylan’s space is in art, or in everything, where something becomes assigned an authentic form of suffering, protest, or resistance. We should think through where we place the power of intellectual authority.

A Quiet Constant

 

A round table on sustainable fashion with Kostas Murkudis, Lou de Bétoly, and Julie Kegels

Gold foil on cotton canvas, Kostas Murkudis

 

photography by Timothy Schaumburg

interview by Camille Ange Pailler


Coated silk in dark green, Kostas Murkudis


Sustainability has become a corporate trope, a well-worn mindset, a broken promise. And yet, these three designers—Kostas Murkudis, Odély Teboul, and Julie Kegels—offer a refreshing, alternative paradigm. Murkudis, once the right hand to Helmut Lang in the1990s, developed a minimalist, pared-down aesthetic that utilizes industrial materials and patterns, championing restraint and simplicity over waste and excess. French-born, Berlin-based designer Odély Teboul, who founded her label Lou de Bètoly [an anagram of her name] in 2017, embraces decadence and extravagance through upcycled materials and a slow-fashion mindset. Julie Kegels, a graduate of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Antwerp, launched her eponymous label just last year—after a stint with Alaïa—using fashion to tell stories and defy archetypes with sophistication and elegance.

“Fewers seasons. Less product. Less waste. I want to see fashion return to a slower, more intentional rhythm.” — Kostas Murkudis

Coated cotton gauze, Kostas Murkudis

CAMILLE ANGE PAILLER: How do you define your approach to sustainability with regard to material, creative direction, and long-term vision?

KOSTAS MURKUDIS: For me, sustainability begins with respect—respect for the garment, for the materials, and for the person who will wear it. I’ve always designed with longevity in mind, creating pieces meant to live beyond a single season, rather than chasing applause for a few moments on the runway. Every decision, from the cloth I choose to the way a seam is finished, is made with endurance in mind.

ODÉLY TEBOUL: It’s simply in harmony with the way I work. Much of what I do involves handwork and unique, one-of-a-kind pieces made from upcycled materials. I’m not interested in producing quickly or cheaply—instead, I strive to create something meaningful and lasting. I love sourcing old objects and forgotten textiles, and I often find beauty in things that might initially look like trash. It’s about giving new life to materials and creating emotional value through craftsmanship.

Kostas Murkudis

JULIE KEGELS: I’m especially drawn to fabrics that have already lived a life, whether in a garment or another object, because they carry soul and history. I don’t like to think about it as a strategy; it all has to feel spontaneous and not forced. Working with them feels natural, and it also benefits society. In a broader view, it’s also just better for the industry. This should not be a trend, but a norm. Production-wise, upcycling takes much more effort than traditional production. Sourcing the right materials, unpicking seams, cutting, and carefully checking the quality all add extra steps. That’s why we plan to grow the upcycling part of our collections gradually, making it a little bit more prominent each season, without the risk of losing control of it during production.

PAILLER: How do you balance environmental responsibility with building a lasting, thoughtful design identity?

KEGELS: I don’t see them as opposites. Limiting myself to sustainable choices pushes me to be more creative and intuitive. It’s about putting my emotions on the table and connecting with people who recognize a part of their own story in the pieces. That shared feeling creates identity.

MURKUDIS: That balance is the very heart of my work—an ongoing conversation between design and material. Both must speak the same language. Everything is made in Europe, with most production in Italy, Austria, and Germany, where craftsmanship and quality are non-negotiable.

TEBOUL: We’re surrounded by fast, cheaply made objects—it’s overwhelming. For me, the only way forward is to create slowly and with intention. I’m drawn to craft pieces that feel personal and timeless.

“True sustainability is uncomfortable, slower, and often less profitable in the short term—and that’s why it’s so rarely done with sincerity.” — Odély Teboul

 

Polo short and matching shorts made out of upcycled bedsheets reworked into a fur-like texture, Lou de Bétoly

 
 
 

PAILLER: Was sustainability always a driving force for the brand, or did it evolve over time?

MURKUDIS: It was never a strategy or a marketing point —it was simply part of my DNA. Sustainability wasn’t something I had to “adopt.” It was there from the start, unquestioned.

KEGELS: I don’t like to force it. It really should be instinctive. I simply used what I found and didn’t want to waste. Over time, I realized how natural and rich these fabrics are. For me, it’s not strategy but feeling; the materials themselves are inspiring.

TEBOUL: Upcycling has always been part of my creative process. But my commitment to sustainability grew stronger when I made the decision to step outside the traditional wholesale system. Now, I present just one show a year, offer rental options, and focus mainly on custom-made pieces. That shift allowed me to stay true to my values without compromising on quality or integrity.

PAILLER: Is there one adjustment most luxury brands could make with relative ease to reduce their carbon footprint?

KEGELS: Valuing craftsmanship over quantity. Every piece is shaped by many hands, each carrying skill and emotion. When you overproduce, you erase that value. Highlighting the people behind each piece would instantly bring meaning back.

TEBOUL: The impact of fast fashion is far more damaging than that of the luxury sector. When I own a luxury garment, it stays in my wardrobe forever. I believe luxury is rooted in longevity and intention, not overproduction. Embracing this mindset can lead to more authentic and sustainable practices.

MURKUDIS: Absolutely—produce fewer collections, and by extension, fewer products. It’s that simple, though not always easy.

Dress made of draped had pleated vintage nightgownsWoolen knitted pant frames with hand picked feathers found in Lou’s parents’ garden, Lou de Bétoly

 

Top made from upcycled leather, Lou de Bétoly

 

Deconstructed skirt made with vintage lace, crocheted and embroidered with sequins, crystals, and glass beads, Lou de Bétoly

PAILLER: Have there been moments in your career that deepened your commitment to sustainability?

MURKUDIS: Not in a single, defining moment. It’s always been there—a quiet constant in the way I work.

TEBOUL: I’ve always worked on a small scale. I wanted to focus on what I do best, not on how to make things cheaper or faster. Every time I see a coat or a fully hand-crocheted piece being sold for 20€, I feel the disconnection between real craftsmanship and perceived value. It pushed me to commit more deeply to mindful making. There’s something deeply moving about ancient, handcrafted objects—beaded artifacts, timeworn textiles—that reflect the patience and soul of their maker. It’s a strong contrast to much of today’s throwaway culture, where cheaply made plastic goods and careless manufacturing are the norm.

KEGELS: In my hometown, Antwerp, walking down the Meir [a very busy lane with all the big fast-fashion brands], watching crowds hunt for the cheapest pieces, piling up as much as they can carry, feels sickening. It’s the clearest picture of everything I reject in fashion: mindless overproduction and disposable consumption. It’s simply destructive in every sense.

PAILLER: What motivated you to create your own label?

KEGELS: I wanted freedom. To decide what is worth producing, how it’s made, and who makes it. Having my own label lets me align every choice with my values, not just with market demands.

TEBOUL: I’ve been doing handicrafts since I was five—it’s always been my passion. Creating my own label allowed me to build a space where that passion could fully come to life.

MURKUDIS: It wasn’t part of a grand plan. The industry—and the people within it—gave me the encouragement to take that step. Polly Allen Mellen, among others, was instrumental in giving me the confidence to move forward.

PAILLER: Can you talk about some of the trends we’re seeing with greenwashing within the industry?

TEBOUL: Many brands use the language of sustainability without making real change. Words like “eco,” “green,” or “conscious” get thrown around, but if the core business model is still based on overproduction and waste, it’s just marketing. True sustainability is uncomfortable, slower, and often less profitable in the short term—and that’s why it’s so rarely done with sincerity. [pull quote]

MURKUDIS: I’m not here to point fingers or single out specific brands. The issue is complex, and real progress comes from action, not accusation.

KEGELS: One of the most common tactics is the use of vague language—such as “eco-friendly” and “conscious” without proof. Real sustainability is systemic: it means rethinking the entire structure, not just using it as a marketing tool. For me, it’s about joyfully working with soulful materials, while our team member Mauranne [Ricaille], with her background in sustainability and innovation, ensures depth and integrity in our approach.

PAILLER: What can legacy brands learn from independent labels?

KEGELS: Independent brands can be agile and transparent. We can work closely with makers and tell the real story of each piece. Of course, certain innovations also demand significant financial resources. Larger brands often have that advantage, while for us, it takes more time. For example, digital product passports (QR codes that trace a garment’s full journey) require extra investment. We’re not there yet, but we aim to implement it in the coming years.

MURKUDIS: First, [legacy brands] must be willing to see the truth: the scale of overproduction, the waste, the environmental harm. Then, they must look closely at the reality of the world we live in and take meaningful, responsible action in a way that aligns with their own strengths and identity.

TEBOUL: Do less, and do it better. Legacy brands often have iconic pieces and a rich heritage—that’s incredibly valuable. Instead of constantly producing new collections, why not focus on refining and revisiting those classics? Timeless design, not endless novelty, is the most sustainable path forward.

PAILLER: What is your greatest ambition for change in the fashion world writ large?

TEBOUL: I wish that people could re-learn the true value of garments—to understand what goes into making something by hand, and why that matters. The fashion world needs to move away from fast consumption and back toward care, connection, and craftsmanship.

KEGELS: For fashion to shift from speed to care. Care for the clotheswe make, the people who craft them, and the planet that sustains us. True beauty is impossible without respect.

MURKUDIS: Fewer seasons. Less product. Less waste. I want to see fashion return to a slower, more intentional rhythm. It would bring back the joy of creation, rather than the frantic chase for the next trend, a trend that is often obsolete within moments of appearing on Instagram or TikTok. The future of fashion needs more depth, more soul, and more meaning.

“For this piece, we repurposed old Fair Isle sweaters, cutting them into fragments. The insert in the turtleneck was crafted from these, while other parts found their way into details on different tops across the collection.” — Julie Kegels

“The fur top was created in collaboration with a local fur manufacturer in Belgium, a deeply passionate man with an encyclopedic knowledge of every type of fur. He could tell us the exact age and country of origin of each piece. To my amazement, some coats turned out to be as old as my great-grandparents. Working with garments that had already lived a full life felt extraordinary. These materials carry their own stories, their own histories, and by reimagining them, we breathe new life into them. How beautiful is it to think that each piece has already traveled through time, and now continues its journey in an entirely new form?” — Julie Kegels

An Interview of: Camille Henrot

interview by Oliver Kupper

with Estelle Hoy

photography by Steven Taylor


Paris-born, New York–based artist Camille Henrot draws on Buster Keaton’s physical comedy, early Disney animation, and pressing contemporary issues for her first live performance. In collaboration with arts writer Estelle Hoy and costume designer Sandra Berrebi, Henrot stages a tragi-comedy filled with Commedia dell’arte characters, setting the New York City housing crisis as a sharp and timely backdrop. The performance shifts seamlessly between absurdity and pointed social commentary, blending slapstick humor with moments of reflection. Through pratfalls, exaggerated gestures, and chaotic scenarios, Henrot probes how to navigate a world dominated by unpredictability and nonsense. The piece celebrates resilience, resourcefulness, and the human ability to find humor and meaning amid systemic challenges, offering audiences both laughter and a sharp, thought-provoking lens on contemporary urban life.

OLIVER KUPPER: I want to talk about your creative partnership and how it originally started. I read that you became friends around the time of the pandemic, during lockdown.

CAMILLE HENROT: It started with discovering a text by Estelle called “Ça m’est égal.” I was immediately attracted to it. It has to do with the idea of everything being on the same level, which is a feeling I have regarding the difficulty of establishing priorities; this feeling that everything is on the same level. The piece had an illustration of a fox in the snow. I felt deeply connected to that text. It was almost like somebody had been digging a tunnel through my own brain. I thought I need to meet this woman.

ESTELLE HOY: It’s been amazing because we’ve had the chance to collaborate on many projects. The piece we’re working on at the moment is related to Commedia dell’arte, an Italian form of theater. We started it on the beaches of Tuscany, where there were these clear demarcation lines between spots on the beach that you could rent. This is really very representative of the project: the amenities, access, and aesthetic varied depending on your ‘level.’ The more you pay, the more elevated your conditions, and you find quintessentially Italian striped umbrellas with lounge chairs, Campari, dolphin gelati, and a seaside restaurant. We weren’t at the very top of the beach ladder, much to our disappointment. (laughs) Apparently, Camille has always been obsessed with this form of theater—this morning, she sent me drawings from when she was fifteen years old, which were almost reimaginings of Commedia dell’arte stock characters. It’s like she’s been sitting on this for thirty years.

 
 

HENROT: It’s true that the Commedia dell’arte characters have always inspired me. Even before I was fifteen, I was drawing the Pierrot and Harlequin characters. When I was very young, there was a puppet show in the park that I’d watch. Later, I recall visiting the Louvre, where I saw a series of sad characters in costumes in a Jean-Antoine Watteau painting called Pierrot. They looked really depressed, yet they were wearing colorful clothing, like at a party. I was intrigued by that. Michel Tournier also wrote a novel featuring these characters. But there was always something quite scary and a little bit depressing about it. It’s like there was some hidden perversion in the story. I’m at my mother’s house right now, where I found those drawings I did of Pierrot, Harlequin, and Pantalone.

HOY: One of the characters in this Performa opera, Capitano, has really big shoulders and overblown calves. He’s almost a CrossFit-type character. I was thinking about that when I was looking at your early images, because you drew characters with quite broad shoulders.

HENROT: Yes, it was the ’80s. (laughs) I was watching George Michael’s music videos. I was also watching the documentary Madonna: Truth or Dare (1991). I loved her book, Sex (1992). I was interested in all of it. This Commedia dell’arte project for Performa has a lot of childhood fascination in it.

KUPPER: Your work has these abstract, childlike ideas behind it, or engages in the way that maybe children would play.

HENROT: I see that in every artist, to be honest. Most artists haven’t given up on their childhood. Louise Bourgeois said, “All my subjects have found their inspiration in my childhood.” I would say, especially for artists, the difference is whether you embrace the intoxication of your childhood or resist it. We live in a patriarchal world, but we also live in an adult-oriented world where people under twenty and over sixty are treated as if they don’t exist. It’s strange when you think about it, because we’ve all been children, and we will all grow old eventually. So, the idea that society privileges a certain age group, while disregarding others, is quite weird. It’s almost like there’s no concept of intergenerational community. Childhood determines so many aspects of ourlives. The way children see the world, what they contribute to society, is so precious, and there’s so little value placed on the way they perceive the world.

HOY: Even in the embryonic stages of this collaboration, it was geared towards children. It evolved quickly from a target audience of kids to a more adult one, but children will still enjoy it because it’s hyper-visual.

HENROT: Initially, we wanted to do a play for children, a bit like Peter and the Wolf. Then, with the type of drawings I made and Estelle’s writing, we realized it would be inappropriate to say it’s for children. (laughs) But I do think kids will come and laugh, because there are elements of humor that are clown-like—Commedia dell’arte’s signature tricks and physical gags.

KUPPER: Commedia dell’arte is really the origin of modern-day slapstick comedy, but it’s also serious in the sense that it reflects the class struggles of that time. Obviously, we’re living in a time when the socioeconomic divide is so vast. But going back to silent film, I was thinking about how Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin were also exploring similar tropes, which helped people get through the Great Depression.

HENROT: Buster Keaton is a big inspiration for me and for this project. I went to a one-woman show by Christina Catherine Martinez, a stand-up comedian and art critic from Los Angeles. I told her about our project, and it was incredible—she connected all the dots, showing how much French culture is affiliated with vaudeville theater, which stems from Molière, who drew inspiration from Commedia dell’Arte. She explained to me how Buster Keaton’s parents were vaudeville actors, and that the European culture of theater was influential to him. There’s a continuity between Buster Keaton’s vaudeville and comedy, the first cinema with sound. Apparently, when creating a comedic play, the actors requested that an audience be present during rehearsals so they could determine if the material was funny. This is actually the origin of recorded laughter in TV sitcoms. I decided to integrate recorded laughter into the play because I find it amusing to take something from TV and bring it back to the theater. But I had no idea that it came from theater in the first place.

KUPPER: This project is an exciting way to encapsulate many of these ideas for the modern age.

HOY: Engaging actors has been a completely different format from what Camille and I have done before, and that’s presented problems while also being enlightening. When I write an essay, I know the cadence I want it to have; I have a fixed idea of how it should sound when read aloud. It’s been remarkable to see all the iterations that manifest with actors. We had an audition for New York performers with a wide range of talents, including Pilates, juggling, and stand-up comedy, and their depictions were diverse. And definitely not as intended—much better. They were embodying the characters, developing their signature movement, posturing, and intonation. Truly extraordinary to witness, albeit through a laptop on a stool. (laughs)

HENROT: I completely agree. I believe we still need to continue rehearsing and workshopping the script, as we want the project to be very physical—to be grounded in movement. It’s not easy to write movement. At many points, we skirt around the topic of dance, but never actually discuss it. This is where the complexity of writing and documenting movement lies. It was difficult for me to write the dialogue because when I had it in my head, it was too fast for me to put into words. Then, when I write it down, I lose the magic, because I need to hear the dialogue or to speak it myself. There’s a huge difference between the written text and the text performed, because you can really simplify it.

HOY: It has to be quite reductive. I’m not sure if it’s essential to document precise movement. Perhaps because every performance will be different, depending on who’s cast. One character might have a juggling skill, then the next person in the role won’t have that same ability. So, it might even be better to indicate gestural movements that they adapt themselves, which I noticed they did anyway. They really run with their own characters.

KUPPER: An artist collaborating with an art critic is a unique dynamic. When you first started collaborating, did you feel any intimidation?

HOY: From my perspective, absolutely not. I’m not easily offended by feedback. One of the ways that I know Camille needs to be emphatic is that she switches to French. She’s not the type of artist who is intimidating—she’s just a very kind and generous person. Camille, do you think that my being a critic might lead to giving you negative feedback?

HENROT: I think about it as a positive thing. It’s better to receive criticism when you’re in the process of making something, rather than after. I think about it as a luxury in the sense that I know Estelle is sharp-tongued; she wouldn’t let it go if something isn’t exactly right. I trust her to be completely direct with me if she thinks something’s good or not, and I’m the same. I always speak my mind. It’s easy for us to work together because we’re both direct. Additionally, we don’t have huge egos, so even if we can’t align, it’s effortless to negotiate because we always approach things from an analytical perspective: how can we make it work, rather than trying to have the last word. I don’t think we’ve ever had an artistic or personal conflict.

HOY: There are numerous constraints around our projects that make them more complicated, but on an interpersonal level, we’ve never had any significant disagreements. And even when we disagree, we just acquiesce. If I don’t agree with something, you might run with it anyway, and next time, if I love a bad joke you don’t, you’ll give me more room—depending on the project.

HENROT: It’s almost as if we’re two scientists conducting an experiment. We’re putting a little bit of sodium and a little bit of oxygen, a little bit of phosphorus, and we’re like, “Oh, did it explode?” Being funny is so difficult. I feel like you really need to check your ego at the door. For this project, we consulted numerous people, received feedback from friends, and tested our audience.

HOY: Artists are given a chance to truly concoct an experiment for the Performa Biennial. They want people to take risks, even if that means they could fail. Maybe Camille and I approach art-making in the same way; we’re not afraid to fail.

HENROT: No, no, to be honest, I am afraid to fail. I’m terrified. In fact, I’ve pushed back several times when given the opportunity to do performance, because an immediate audience is one of the most frightening things for me. I’ve been trying to avoid it my entire life. Nothing exemplifies being avoidant of live performance more than doing film, because it’s quite the opposite. In film, you control everything—the angle, the movement, you can change the color, you can do slow motion. And in performance, it’s basically an imitation of life: it’s the law of gravity, the law of time, it’s real humans in the flesh. Sometimes I look at the actors rehearsing, and in my mind I’m like, “Can we zoom in and get a close-up of that?” (laughs) I have to keep reminding myself that I can’t.

KUPPER: I think your work deals with incongruity—things that don’t fit into things. Underlying this, I think, is trust in yourself as an artist, as well as trust in Estelle and your collaborative relationship. If one person falls back, you’ll catch each other in these sorts of creative nets.

HENROT: It’s true. I would not have accepted this commission if I hadn’t met Estelle. I never saw myself doing it, as I don’t see my type of creativity fitting this format very well. But then I met Estelle, and I knew I wanted to work with her. And I have friends who are musicians and costume designers, so this very quickly became an ambitious project—it’s not quite a performance, it’s almost like a musical.

KUPPER: Can you talk about the fashion and costuming involved?

HENROT: For me, the costuming was a big drawcard for the project. It came first. I have this friend, Sandra Berrebi, who’s a costume designer for cinema. She’s also done costuming for Hermès. I really like her creativity—I feel in sync with her mind. We’ve been friends for almost twenty years, and I always wished we would have a project together. She often posts these images on her Instagram, referencing children’s films from the ’80s—these little operas, musical characters, and muppets. I loved the idea of having a more cartoonish approach to the design of the costumes. Rose Lee Goldberg, the founder and curator of the Performa Biennial, was interested in having me integrate sculptures. It’s intriguing to be given the possibility to sculpt instead with the set in some ways, for example, with light materials like fabric and cardboard. We have references to West Side Story, The Apartment, Tex Avery, etc. I’m more interested in sculpting a silhouette than sculpting an object that the performers dance around, because for me, a sculpture doesn’t need anything to exist around it. And I think a prop has to be light and unprecious, and to engage with the body. I’m more interested in bodies—my sculptures are bodies. If there’s already a body on stage, I don’t want to issue another lifeless body. The body of the actors is so much more interesting because it can move.

HOY: One of the characters’ costumes is built up over his head, so you never actually see their face.

HENROT: It’s a character called Pantalone, he’s the landlord—he is just a pair of pants. In Commedia dell’arte, it’s always the same recurring characters, and he is one of them. Pantalone is one of the bad guys. His greedy hands are always coming out of his pockets, and sometimes from the fly of his pants. We have one character who’s a grasshopper, inspired by Aesop’s fable The Ant and the Grasshopper. There are numerous artistic references for the characters.

KUPPER: They are all archetypes of people that are living in the real world now: crypto influencers, landlords. (laughs)

HENROT: Yes, the crypto character was difficult for us to write; that’s where the limits of your own experience show, because neither of us is a guy, or in tech. (laughs) Also, neither of us is American–it’s a totally different culture from Australia or Germany or France. It’s tricky not to be cliché when you approach something unfamiliar and exotic. However, we’re actively working on it; we’re having Aperol Spritz with real tech experts, trying to capture some of their behavior and phrases.

HOY: The grasshopper character Camille mentioned, Dagmara Zalezinska-Swierszczynska, has Sandra designing an incredible costume, which is compartmentalized and detachable. She’s making all these segments that will be disseminated at the end, which wewon’t elaborate on, so you’ll have some of it to look forward to as a surprise

Linder: The First Cut Is the Deepest

 
 


interview by Summer Bowie

photography by Hazel Gaskin


Nothing is a better testament to the ineffable power of printed matter than the fact that you are holding a print magazine in the 21st century. No one is tracking how long you will stay on this page and measuring it against your identity markers or browsing habits. There is no cookie policy. It’s just you, the images, the text, and the paper. What memories or feelings will this content summon within you as you consume it? If you’re anything like Linder, your sensual experience with turning the pages and inhaling the bouquet they have absorbed might give rise to an uncontrollable urge to reach for the scissors. Known for her iconic photomontages that contrast the incongruous gender representations respective to men’s and women’s magazines of the 20th century, Linder has always had an expert facility for hijacking images. She collects these flotsam and jetsam of Western popular culture and connects them in ways that mirror the hidden synaptic connections within our collective unconscious. Forever beseeching the muse, Linder finds ways of luring her in a multitude of media, including music, dance, markmaking, and printmaking. Her career has been an endless conjuring of that undefinable feeling when the muse comes to possess you and time stands still. Linder may find her in a Playboy, a song, an atlas, or a dress. Each might contain just one part of her that is begging to be reunited with the rest of itself. If you find part of her in this magazine and you feel so compelled, we won’t hold it against you. We won’t even know.

SUMMER BOWIE: Hi, good to see you. Thanks so much for doing this.

LINDER: Oh, thank you. I’ve just been spending most of the day driving through the English Lake District, which was the real cradle of Romanticism. The poet John Ruskin was there, William Wordsworth, and Beatrix Potter. They have a lot of great secondhand bookshops. So, I went there to find material to make new works for Andréhn-Schiptjenko’s booth at Art Basel Paris.

BOWIE: Wow, you must be telepathic because I was just about to ask you what you did today. What did you find?

LINDER: One of them is an atlas of dermochromes. These were books that were produced—full of cases of syphilis—for doctors out in the country who had minimal training. There’s a lot of genitalia in here. Oh, it’s really quite peculiar. I also got a beautiful book of ballet from exactly the same period [shows book]. It’s an extraordinary ballet called The Green Table. Have you heard of it?

BOWIE: Yes, it’s about a war room table, by Kurt Jooss. Oh yeah, that’s gorgeous.

LINDER: There are so many wonderful photographs in here. And I got a huge portfolio from Paris at the turn of the 20th century. It’s full of the most extraordinary illustrations. So, that was my Monday. When one is too much in need of finding that right image, it somehow escapes you. Sometimes I sit there, and the muse does not turn up. I’m just there, I have all the most beautiful material, I have lots of time, and nothing happens. In that case, I usually go for a walk and try to trick the muse when I get back. It’s best when things just find you.

 
 

BOWIE: You open the door and let the invitation do the work for you.

LINDER: Exactly that. There’s an English saying, Chance favors the prepared mind. It’s like going on a first date. You’re open to invitations, but at the same time, you’re quite cool. You want the gods to gently lay these treasures at your feet, and they did today, so I’m very happy. As I was driving back from the lakes, I was listening to the BBC, and they’re talking about the meetings between Zelenskyy and Starmer and Trump, asking questions about how they plan to choreograph it all. It was quite strange after getting this book from a ballet about peace negotiations. It was a great reminder that it’s not just the arts that are choreographed.

BOWIE: Of course, we have the theater of war, and diplomatic negotiations are one of the highest forms of theater. You’ve also taken inspiration from recent technologies like deep fakes, but you’ve never actually worked with digital media. Can you explain why?

LINDER: I worked a little bit with AI, but I found it too easy. I like a slight struggle, as if one is making a jigsaw puzzle, but the lid has been lost. So, I have no idea what the image will be. With the images I’ve just shown you, I would begin to lay those out—lots and lots of images. It’s quite contemplative at first. I look at all those images and think what could I put in to hijack them? I want to take them to a place they shouldn’t go. I just love that sinful moment of cutting up a precious book. Whereas with digital media, there’s no sensation, no perfume, no sense of weight of the original object. I’m just devoted to print media. I love the smell of it. These books have quite a musty, moldy smell right now. For me, that signals that it’s time to work. I like the sensuality of working with very old newsprint. Sometimes when I apply glue, I get an olfactory shock from whatever the paper has absorbed, things like pipe tobacco or a bacon smell.

BOWIE: You’ve also done some works with India ink recently. What inspired you to start making marks on the paper?

LINDER: On the weekend that Roe v Wade was being debated, I had been thinking about my youth, when there were just two channels on TV and the Abortion Act [England, Scotland, and Wales, 1967] was being passed. I was always drawing and painting. I had such a crush on Aubrey Beardsley at the time, and I loved his drawings of small fetuses in bell jars. I began to think about how I could go back to making marks and how I could make a large pen. I suddenly looked at a roll-on deodorant, and I thought, if I empty that, and if I put ink in, that’s like a huge pen, and I was so excited. I was sitting there, drawing, looking at Shunga, all sorts of references, and doing these drawings of fetuses in these watery worlds, really peculiar. I love them because the ink comes out really quickly, so you have to keep the pen drawing very quickly. I did that, and then that dreadful news when it was overturned. That’s maybe why I’ve not gone back to those drawings just yet. I had more than one abortion when I was young, and one of the places I went to was in Liverpool. I remember young women from Ireland were there, because it was still illegal for them. They would all tell their moms they were going to see a friend in Liverpool. The guilt was tough. You would think that things would get better, but the opposite happened.

 
 

BOWIE: Now, it’s easier to get an abortion in Ireland than in most parts of the US. Is the making of the work a very emotional process for you?

LINDER: It’s deeply, deeply pleasurable. It feels very sort of reparative, as if time stands still. I don’t know whether I’ve been cutting out for five minutes or an hour. It’s deeply pacifying and exciting too. I’m a detective, thinking, what’s the muse up to? If I find a fabulous portrait of somebody, I’m thinking, where shall I position her? What kind of room would she be in? It’s that aesthetic arrest I get with a certain image, and I just know I have to work with it, but then the work begins.

BOWIE: A few years ago, you did EMDR [Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing] therapy, and it had a profound effect on the way the work felt for you. Can you talk about that?

LINDER: In 2018, I was invited by Art on The Underground to stay for the summer to design these huge billboards around one of the stations in London. It was all set up to be this really wonderful summer, and then I began to have very intense flashbacks from my childhood. I’ve done a lot of therapy over the years to process the incest I experienced, so I naively thought it was no longer lurking in the darkness of my psyche. Suddenly, my psyche was throwing up this new crop of images from my childhood, and it was very shocking. I have a friend who works with sex offenders in prisons to try and rehabilitate them. So, I asked her what treatment she uses, and she said it’s EMDR and that I should try it. I found a woman who practices it from California, and she took me to hell and back. It’s almost like a Victorian form of therapy, someone waving a wand in front of you in order to neutralize a past experience, but for me, it was incredibly profound, and at times very funny. The only problem was that after I finished my therapy, for about a month, I couldn’t work with pornography. I’d go and see my therapist, and she’d say, “How are you?” and I’d say, “I’m really good, but I’m looking at a pile of Playboys and there is no motivation to do anything with them. Everything I was shown as a young child has been neutralized. Can I have my money back?” Luckily, it only lasted for a short time, and then the images got their charge back.

BOWIE: What was it like in the ’90s, balancing this just-beyond-burgeoning art career with early motherhood?

LINDER: I was thirty-two when I got pregnant, and I’d read all those feminist books from age sixteen about healthcare and pregnancy, and I wanted to do it my way. I wanted to have my baby at home, but at my age, the National Health Service called it a geriatric pregnancy. They kept saying it might be a blue baby, but I did have my son at home, and because home births were very rare in Manchester at that time, the midwife brought all her student midwives in at midnight to watch my son being born. Then, at 8 AM, he still wasn’t born, so the new nurse came in with her student midwives, and my son was born to this adoring female audience who had never gotten a chance to see a home birth. It was wonderful. But being a working mother was difficult. I was photographing Morrissey on his tours for two years, and that was kind of manageable. I’d just go away for a while and come back to see my son. I had good family care. Now, my son is always part of the performances I make. I’m really lucky. He scores music for films, so that’s a good person to have in the family.

BOWIE: You were deeply intertwined in the whole late ’70s, post-punk Manchester scene, and you were the front woman for a group you formed called Ludus. What made you want to make music?

LINDER: If you go to a concert, usually there’s the audience, and then up on stage, elevated, is the superstar. I wanted to make music because for a very short period—’76, ’77, ’78—the gap between the audience and the stage just disappeared. There wasn’t any barrier. Post-punk was exciting because everybody would get up on stage and try and hit drums for the first time, or get hold of a trumpet, make some squeaky noise, or hammer a guitar. I had never sung in my life, but I knew that my larynx is capable of producing a variety of sounds, and it was very liberating. Ludus is Latin for play, so we would improvise a lot, and you could feel that ecstatic freedom where everybody’s really locked as one. I would say to everybody in an improvisation, “You can’t make a mistake,” which is a gorgeous way to work, because in this society where we’re all trying to prove how perfect we are—as mothers, artists, whatever—improvisation reminds you that nothing is wrong and nothing is right.

 
 
 
 

BOWIE: You’ve also produced a number of performance pieces with dancers of various disciplines. Why do you like working with movement artists?

LINDER When I was very young, every Christmas, my mum would buy me the new Princess Tina Ballet Book. Those books absolutely hypnotized me because both men and women had makeup on and were equally extraordinary. I just sensed that this obviously was going to be my destiny. I would beg my mum and dad for ballet lessons, and they would just laugh. They were gorgeous, but we were very working-class. In 2013, I was having a retrospective at the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, and I got in touch with the Northern Ballet company in Leeds. It was the best thing ever after years of looking at those books and finding deep sanctuary in the world of ballet, and they loved working with me because they could do things that were far removed from traditional ballet postures.

BOWIE: You create an interesting provocation for ballet dancers because there’s an unwritten hierarchy of dignity within the performing arts where ballerinas are at the top and sex workers are at the bottom. But you challenge them to tap into a side of themselves that is often reserved exclusively for erotic performers. You confront them with the notion that we’re all just taking on different forms of expression.

LINDER: It’s an empathetic leap into how that woman perhaps would have got up off that shag rug, or how she would have crossed a room, and how she and her friends would have interacted. I haven’t been able to work with anybody in the sex industry, but I did get to work with Mia Khalifa three years ago. She can do that lexicon of pornographic poses in her sleep. She was fluent in that language for a very slender part of her life, but she paid a huge price for it. It was extraordinary working with her, and I do really admire her being so outspoken.

BOWIE: Your performances have very striking costuming, and you have a very particular sense of style. Can you describe your sartorial sensibilities?

LINDER: I’ll be seventy in December, and it’s quite interesting to think about how one should look at my age. After about fifty, you start to feel like a vampire. You can’t see yourself mirrored back within popular culture. So it’s interesting to become invisible, but like in all the good fairy stories, if you’re invisible, then you have a certain agency. You’re not so easily definable. I’ve been working with my friend Ashish Gupta, who works purely in sequins. He has a studio in Delhi, and sequins can become highly politicized. We’re all supposed to just become invisible or muted. But when you have on one of Ashish’s head-to-toe sequined dresses, you feel armored. And because you can’t hide in sequins, you’re forced to lengthen the spine. You have to really own that. Some days, though, like today, I want to be totally anonymous, going around bookshops looking quite normcore. I’ve got my hair in a bun and I’m doing my perverse shopping in peace.

 
 

BOWIE: What is it about that experience that makes you want to go unnoticed?

LINDER: When I was little, I cut up my best dress, and I still don’t know why I did it, but I remember the pleasure of doing that. About a year ago, I told a bookseller that I make collage, and he wouldn’t sell me an encyclopedia because it was too precious. Today, I told someone that I was buying a birthday present, and now I’m looking at these exquisite books, and I’m in that moment of hesitation because I know I’m about to cut something up. Some books, like the ones I got today, I may never find anywhere else. There’s always this moment when I have to take a deep breath because I have so much respect for the printed word and illustration. And then, of course, seconds later, I’m having a great time cutting. I’m cutting all the best bits out of every book and every magazine.