Barbara T Smith, Fiona Duncan and Mara McCarthy Discuss Radical Actions

 
 

interview by Oliver Kupper

Over the past seven decades, Barbara T. Smith’s transformative practice has charted the evolution of feminist movements, performance art, radical action, self-liberation, time-based media, and collective organizing. In a similar spirit, Fiona Duncan launched the literary social practice Hard To Read in 2016, and she is now presenting a special edition within Julia Stoschek Foundation’s audiovisual poem What A Wonderful World. This program spans multiple floors and features a rare recreation of a 1970s performance by Smith. Joined by Mara McCarthy—founder of The Box Gallery, representative of Barbara’s estate, and daughter of legendary artist Paul McCarthy—Smith and Duncan discuss the intersections of their practices, the lineage of feminist performance, and the enduring power of radical artistic experimentation.

OLIVER KUPPER: Let’s start with Hard To Read, which you’ll be organizing at the Julia Stoschek Foundation. What can we expect? And can you speak to the scope and expansiveness of this endeavor?

FIONA DUNCAN: I was immediately inspired by the building, which was originally erected as the Friday Morning Club—founded by suffragettes. It later became the Variety Arts Theater and went on to host all kinds of events. I’ve heard that even Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin made appearances there, and that it later became a venue for punk shows and more. My program really leans into those feminist origins. It’s a femme-centered program—something Hard To Read has always been. That reflects both my interests and my bias. When I saw what Udo was curating in the space—this sweeping selection of works grappling with American violence, global violence today, and the impulse to rise above it—I noticed some of Barbara’s contemporaries who also made video work alongside performance art, like Paul McCarthy and Chris Burden. And I thought: We need Barbara in this. It felt essential. I was absolutely thrilled when she said yes. There will also be eight additional performances, and the program is intentionally multi-generational—something I always try to prioritize. There's dance, theater, music... It’s like a variety show.

MARA MCCARTHY: Barbara, I feel like, especially when you first started, that distinction was crucial: the difference between black-box, theater-style work and early performance. None of it existed within the context of a theater.

BARBARA T. SMITH: See, I don’t think theater’s important. It’s all learned—like dance. It’s about pretending to be somebody else, and it’s meant for an audience. Performance art was none of that. We didn’t memorize lines. We weren’t doing it for an audience. It happened out in the world, often spontaneously. It carried a different meaning. It wasn’t about creating intriguing interactions between people—it was usually something the artist did themself.

DUNCAN: I think it’s only changed because of material conditions. As the cost of living has risen, younger artists need to be connected to some kind of revenue stream or institutional structure—it’s incredibly difficult to survive without money. Life is expensive. At the same time, the art world has absorbed many radical practices that once existed independently—through experimental theater, alternative spaces, or other autonomous contexts. Now, those practices are largely held within the art world.

SMITH: We didn’t have an audience in mind. We made the work for ourselves and for our friends. And every so often, outsiders would wander in.

MCCARTHY: Well, if we look at the performance you will be doing on Sunday, it was mostly for the public. 

SMITH: We didn’t publicize it to the public to try to get an audience. We just said, “I’m gonna do this piece on Saturday. Come and see it.” 

DUNCAN: You are doing one of your groundbreaking performances from 1975. What’s wild is that you did three performances in a single month—March of ’75—according to your book right here. That’s a remarkable amount. One of them was What Would Dogs Say When They Bark. 

SMITH: For What Would Dogs Say When They Bark, we had someone bring a couple of dogs. The idea was to see what would make the dogs bark—what actions or sounds could provoke them. In the first part, I sat on a stool against the wall, my skin painted completely white. I think people were throwing things at me—there’s a picture of me sitting like that. Then a group of four women joined in. Each wore fabric and clothing in a distinct color—red, orange, green, and blue. They began singing and moaning spontaneously—not a structured song, just sounds. All of this was happening alongside the “throwing” segment. We even played a recording of dogs barking, hoping it might trigger a response from the live dogs. It went on and on, and honestly, I don’t remember if the dogs ever actually barked.

KUPPER: Your performance on Sunday night uses some pretty advanced tech. The use of technology has been central to your practice, and you’ve never hesitated to embrace new innovations. Like Xerox technology. 

SMITH: The Xerox books grew out of my experience at Gemini [G.E.L.]. I brought a drawing and asked if I could make a print of it. They told me that usually, artists come through a gallery—and I didn’t have one. They acted like they’d never heard of me and said they wouldn’t do it. At the same time, a famous artist was printing there. As I drove home, I realized they were just brushing me off. I was really angry—completely pissed.

I started thinking: What’s the technology of our time? It can’t be ink on a soft lithography stone—that’s too old. What would be the new technology? I thought maybe business machines. I looked at blueprints and other office technologies, and the one that seemed truly revolutionary was Xerox. It doesn’t use ink—it uses tiny plastic beads. It’s electronic: the plastic dots are charged to replicate the image, pushed through, and fixed with heat. Heat melts the plastic and transfers the image.I got a Xerox machine and set it up in my dining room. I made thousands of prints, and tons of books. 

DUNCAN: We’ll have copies at the performance on Sunday. There will be a lot of surprises in store and things people can take home with them. 

Click here to RSVP for Hard To Read on February 15, a roaming night of live activations and readings staged throughout the spaces of the Variety Arts Theater. With performances by Bunny Rogers, Lexee Smith, Barbara T. Smith, Patty Chang, Harmony Holiday, Alicia Novella Vasquez x Maya Martinez, Matt Hilvers, The War Pigs, and NEW YORK With books by Bunny Rogers, Barbara T. Smith, Patty Chang, Harmony Holiday, Maya Martinez, Fiona Alison Duncan, Jason De León, and Coumba Samba

What A Wonderful World: Julia Stoschek & Udo Kittelmann on Their Ode to the Moving Image

Travers Vale & George Cowl, Betsy Ross, 1917, (installation view), “What a Wonderful World: An Audiovisual Poem”, 2026. Photo by Joshua White, Courtesy Julia Stoschek Foundation. 

interview by Oliver Kupper

Set across all floors of the raw remains of the historic Variety Arts Theater in Downtown Los Angeles, a haunting, confrontational, and revelatory history of moving images flickers in the darkness. Presented by Julia Stoschek and her preeminent Berlin-based foundation for time-based media, this is not an exhibition, nor a retrospective, nor a white-walled museum journey through chronological time. Described as an audiovisual poem, What A Wonderful World—edited (not curated) by Udo Kittelmann—moves from early cinematic experiments and silent film to contemporary video works by artists working today. The breadth of visual storytelling is astonishing. We sit down with Julia Stoschek and Udo Kittelmann to discuss their landmark paean to cinema itself.

OLIVER KUPPER: I want to start with the title, What a Wonderful World. It suggests optimism. The song is an optimistic song but it also carries an undertone of irony, even darkness, especially in the context of a world in crisis; accelerating authoritarianism, shrinking freedoms, and a growing sense of cultural instability. Can you guys talk about where this title came from, and how you hope audiences will interpret it?

UDO KITTELMANN: Personally, I would say, “what a wonderful world” because it really is for me. But I chose this as a title during a time when it goes immediately with a doubt. Louis Armstrong’s song was released in the mid ’60s, during dark times for Americans. There had been war abroad and civil unrest at home. You can easily compare it to how people feel in this moment. It’s the same in the US and in Germany. We all feel a bit disorientated. That’s why it came to me. Why not this wonderful title?

JULIA STOSCHEK: This title could be a question, but I feel it’s more a statement. The beauty and catastrophe coexist constantly. I think it’s a great title, and we also want the people to leave the exhibition with a little glimmer of hope.

KUPPER: It’s a monumental exhibition centered on time-based media and the deeper history of the moving image. You’ve also staged it in the birthplace of cinema at a moment when the industry feels like it’s collapsing under the weight of late-stage capitalism. Did you see the decision to mount an exhibition of this scale here as a provocation, or something else entirely?

STOSCHEK: Hollywood is the birthplace of visual modernity. Staging an exhibition about time-based media and the moving image felt unavoidable. For me, returning images to their origins is the right gesture and has nothing to do with a provocation. How do you feel about it, Udo?

KITTELMANN: It was never intended to be a provocation. When I do projects of this scale, my intention may be to irritate, but it’s ultimately to think about what art can deliver to an audience, how they serve from what they see and hear and experience from it.

KUPPER: Irritation is an interesting word to use as an alternative to provocation.

KITTELMANN: It’s not meant to be a confrontation. It’s an invitation for everyone, not just the art world elite.

Left, Jacolby Satterwhite, 2 Shrines, 2020: right Doug Aitken, 2 Blow Debris, 2000, (installation view), “What a Wonderful World: An Audiovisual Poem”, 2026. Photo by Joshua White, Courtesy Julia Stoschek Foundation. 

KUPPER: Nam June Paik had a lot of forward-thinking ideas about where media was going, despite not knowing exactly how this attentional economy of flipping and scrolling was going to work. This feels like the opposite of doom scrolling. It feels like you’re flipping through the channels of a real experience as you go through the floors.

KITTELMANN: Absolutely. In 2022, I curated an exhibition about neuroscience in collaboration with Taryn Simon for Fondazione Prada titled Human Brain. What I really took away from it is that we know almost nothing about the human brain. All we know is how easily you can manipulate humans—their thinking, emotions, behaviors—with images.

KUPPER: Time-based media has always been not only understood as a mirror of the zeitgeist, but also as a powerful mechanism to shape it by propagating ideas, ideologies, and mass psychological states. At the same time, the US feels increasingly in the grip of a new fascist oligarchy, one that echoes Germany in the interwar period, particularly in its weaponization of propaganda via media spectacle. Why do you think we remain so seduced, almost helplessly, by the power of moving images?

STOSCHEK: I’m coming from a European perspective that was shaped by postwar history, where political images are never neutral. That awareness stays with us and brings a sense of responsibility. From the outside, what strikes me most in the US right now is the power of the spectacular. Images move super fast and often simplify very complex things. That’s not new, but it has been amplified by the scale and the speed of current technologies. I observe these developments closely. I’m a collector and my role is to create a platform for artists and their work. This exhibition, What a Wonderful World, is not about moralizing or offering answers. It’s about slowing down. We want people to pause, to reflect, and to create a space of awareness.

KITTELMANN: You may consider What a Wonderful World propaganda as well, but for the better, not for the worse. You can use images for both sides. This project is a plea for a return to humanity. I’m not talking about the US. I’m talking about the whole world. That’s it.

Precious Okoyomon, It‘s dissociating season, 2019 (installation view), “What a Wonderful World: An Audiovisual Poem”, 2026. Photo by Joshua White, Courtesy Julia Stoschek Foundation. 

KUPPER: How did you guys come together for this, and on both a conceptual and formal level, what were some of the frameworks that helped shape this project?

STOSCHEK: I’ve been following Udo’s work for a long time. From when he was director of the Nationalgalerie in Berlin to when he was working for Prada Foundation, Beyeler Foundation—a very, very long time. A few years ago, we were talking and I mentioned that two thirds of my collection is comprised of either artists or works that have a connection to the US. I was a board member at MOCA from 2018 until 2022, and I have always wanted to show these parts of the collection in the US, but since then, it was clear that it had to be Los Angeles because of its connection to the moving image. And then Udo came up with the idea to show all of the early cinema classics and silent movies.

KITTELMANN: Well, when Julia asked me what I thought about doing the project in Los Angeles, I immediately said yes. I was thinking about combining the history of the moving image, from silent film to more recent art-based works. That was the very first step. The conceptual idea was drafted one and a half years ago, and nothing big has changed. But what we can see now is that the issues that this project is dealing with are getting more and more present. I wanted to look at early film classics to show that the technology may have changed over a hundred years, but the issues that the films were dealing with haven’t changed at all. These are the general lines of humans: they’re looking for love and they’re always in some kind of struggle. Life is always a combination of magic, tragedy, and drama.

KUPPER: At what point was it decided that the exhibition would take place at the Variety Arts Building? How did you find this space?

KITTELMANN: From very early on, it was clear to me that I did not want to move into a building that could be easily transformed into a white cube event. So, we looked for places like shopping malls, theaters, but no white-cube-related buildings.

STOSCHEK: It was a long, long journey. I don’t know how often I was flying to Los Angeles to find the right venue. We were supposed to do this show last year, and as you all know, the fires happened. And then, last summer, we all flew in with a location scout. Luckily, we found this treasure, this incredible landmark in downtown with a wonderful history. This building was founded in 1924 by LA’s first women’s club. It was used as a cinema in the ’30s, but also many important figures like Buster Keaton, Laurel & Hardy, Clark Gable, all of their careers began on the main stage and in the main theater. This venue is filled with so much history and now it’s an event space that gets rented out for things like Halloween parties. To reactivate it with stage performance and the moving image makes me very, very happy.

Georges Méliès, Le voyage dans la lune (A Trip to the Moon), 1902, (installation view), “What a Wonderful World: An Audiovisual Poem”, 2026. Photo by Joshua White, Courtesy Julia Stoschek Foundation. 

KUPPER: Going into the basement really feels like you’re stepping into a Berlin nightclub.

STOSCHEK: Yeah, absolutely. But also, there’s three main stages. There were some older people at the opening who remembered going to the theater, but I was also so impressed to see so many young people. A lot of them had never been in this old building. It was lovely to introduce people to something that’s always been here.

KUPPER: It really is a gift to LA, so thank you for that. Calling it an audiovisual poem really allows for a lot of risks, contradiction, emotional slippage. As a curator, what kind of freedom did calling it an audiovisual poem give you to frame the exhibition?

KITTELMANN: First of all, I hoped that changing the term from an exhibition to a poem would change the expectations of the audience. An audiovisual poem makes it immediately more emotional. It asks you to share the poem with empathy.

STOSCHEK: This show, this poem is beyond familiar formats. Opening hours are Wednesday to Sunday, 5:00 PM until midnight, which is quite unusual for Angelenos. People get popcorn. We have at least forty-four rooms, and the visitors also have the freedom to move around wherever they want to. There are no rules. I think that’s very important

KITTELMANN: As I said, embrace the disorientation. And this comes so much with the feeling of our current time. We are so in a mood of being disorientated.

KUPPER: Why not make this a permanent experience in LA? Have you been asked that a lot?

STOSCHEK: Intensity needs finitude. The complete show is a cinematic experience. A film also has an ending. I feel very happy to feel so welcomed in Los Angeles. Let’s see what the future brings.

What A Wonderful World is on view until March 20th in Los Angeles. Click here for more information/reserve tickets.

Arthur Jafa, Apex, 2013, (installation view), “What a Wonderful World: An Audiovisual Poem”, 2026. Photo by Joshua White, Courtesy Julia Stoschek Foundation. 

A Great Deal of Quiet Drama: An Interview of Painter Sosa Joseph

Sosa Joseph, Devil’s hour, by the river, 2025

interview by Alper Kurtul

Some landscapes are not merely seen, but remembered. In Sosa Joseph’s canvases, rivers overflow, rain does not simply fall; it seeps into bodies, homes, and time. These paintings do not so much narrate the past as they establish a state of memory that revives it. Figures sometimes become distinct, sometimes fade; like memories, they oscillate between clinging and vanishing.

ALPER KURTUL: Standing in front of these paintings, I felt as if the river was remembering on my behalf. When you return to Parumala in your mind, what is the first sensation that comes back to you?

SOSA JOSEPH: Rivers remember—especially, I’ve read, where they used to flow. But I don’t know if the river I remember remembers me. In any case, when I “return in my mind” to the riverbank in Parumala, where I was born and raised, the first sensation that comes back is a sense of peace and contentment that feels very close to joy. I don’t think this is because my childhood and adolescence were free of privations, anxieties, or conflicts—there were many. But the setting made all the difference.

We lived right by the river, and much of my childhood was spent roaming the wilderness along its banks. I spent a great deal of time in the company of the river and the rain, as well as plants, birds, and animals along the shore. From an early age, I formed a sense of camaraderie with animals and plants. There was a kind of idyllic primitivism to those days, which now strikes me as blissful.

Even today, if I spot a squirrel in the park, or watch coots or ducks in London’s many water bodies, it sends me into raptures. I also seek out water—it calms me and makes me feel peaceful. However, one can return to that Parumala only in the mind. Urbanization has changed the place considerably: the swamps and wetlands were filled in, the swamp birds and animals are long gone, and the savage verdure largely lost. The river and the rain remain.

KURTUL: Many of your figures seem to hover between presence and disappearance. When you paint people from your past, are you trying to hold onto them, or let them go?

JOSEPH: Ephemeral—if I may say so—is the quality you’re pointing to: manifesting, then quickly fading away. But isn’t this a quality shared by most of what makes up our lives, or life itself? In a broader view of time, we are all transients—fleeting, fading apparitions. Holding on and letting go are two things we are constantly trying to do within our brief time here.

In the studio, however, when I paint—not just people, but also geography or setting—I can’t say whether I’m trying to hold on or let go. I don’t consciously plan to paint a particular person or place; they simply manifest on the canvas. A painting from the current exhibition that remembers my brother fishing in the rain is a case in point. I didn’t walk into the studio one morning deciding to paint my brother. The process is far more unconscious and spontaneous.

I often paint to see what is already in my head. As I push paint around, figures, activities, situations, and narratives begin to emerge—just like composition and colour. In this instance, I was simply trying to capture rain in a landscape. Through improvisation, a figure began to appear, followed by fish, and only much later did I realize it was my brother, fishing as he once did. In such an unconscious process, I can’t be sure of my motivations. So am I holding on, or letting go? I truly don’t know.

 

Sosa Joseph, Amma wants to finish singing before the flood drowns her, 2024-2025

 

KURTUL: Floods appear in your work not only as natural events but as emotional states. Is there a particular memory of water—its danger, its generosity—that still shapes the way you see the world?

JOSEPH: We loved rain and the river—especially rain over the river—but when it rained heavily and without pause, the river could rise and swallow our homes. And it did, quite often, during my childhood. Floods were common; some years we experienced more than one.

Not all floods were equal. Sometimes the river rose just enough to enter our homes like a timid, almost apologetic guest, occupying only a couple of feet from the floor for a few days. On those occasions, we tolerated its presence and carried on. We children were placed on tables or other high surfaces while adults navigated between these islands. From our perches, we watched the floodwater surround us. Driftwood floated in, sometimes with a snake wrapped around it; fish and frogs entered through the windows.

It made me realize that floods are great levelers. Humans, frogs, snakes, fish, wetland birds—we were all equally affected, disrupted, displaced. And then there were years when the waters rose much higher, submerging our homes almost entirely and forcing us into rehabilitation camps. I remember being evacuated to shelters run by the church or local administration, often schools converted into makeshift camps.

There is a painting in this exhibition that addresses such displacement and rehabilitation: Rain’s Refugees. So yes, this duality—nurturing and destructive at once—is something I’ve come to see as the essential nature not only of rain and rivers, but of most things in life.

KURTUL: I was struck by how women move through these paintings with a quiet authority, even when the scenes look chaotic. How do the women you grew up around continue to live in your work?

JOSEPH: I’m glad to hear that. I’ve painted women living in deeply patriarchal societies for some time now, and when I look at these works, I see it too: a certain silent authority—dignity is another word I would add—shared across these feminine figures.

Even while navigating repressive power structures, women in communities like ours held a great deal of authority, particularly within domestic and personal spaces. They resisted by choosing a middle path between open rebellion and total submission—silently subverting these systems while remaining, on the surface, compliant.

This quiet resistance, marked by subtle authority, was something I saw especially in my grandmother and my mother, but also in many working-class and lower-middle-class women I grew up around. The female figures in my paintings inherit not only this body language, but also the self-possession that comes with it.

Sosa Joseph, The rooster’s crows gave her nausea, 2025 (detail)

KURTUL: You paint from memory, not documentation. Does memory ever resist you—does it ever refuse to give you an image you need?

JOSEPH: Painting from memory suits my practice better. Memory, like imagination, isn’t entirely clear or concrete, and that lack of clarity leaves room for aesthetic interpretation. Photographs or direct observation can be restrictive, making departures from the real more difficult. Memory gives me just enough to work with, without overwhelming detail, and that freedom matters deeply to how I approach color, form, and texture.

That said, oblivion is as powerful a force as memory. Like a tattered tapestry, memory has holes that even imagination can’t fill. I might forget the structure of a flower or the anatomy of a fish or turtle. In those moments, I do turn to studies or reference material.

KURTUL: Your colors feel like weather systems, shifting moods on the brink of something. Do you think of color as something that happens to the painting, or something that emerges from inside it?

JOSEPH: I’m certainly not a painter who meticulously plans color. So yes—color happens. It emerges as I work.

I’ve come to think of color as a kind of music you listen to with your eyes — symphonies of light, in a sense. Some people create music through deep theoretical knowledge; others play by ear. I belong to the latter group. I don’t know much about color theory, and I resist generalizations. I move pigment around daily until I find the tints and shades that feel right.

KURTUL: Some scenes feel like they’re happening now and years ago at the same time. Do you experience time this way when you remember home?

JOSEPH: I wouldn’t say I experience time as non-linear, but memory does refuse to stay neatly in the past. Certain places and moments from home remain active in me—as sensations rather than stories. When they surface in painting, they tend to exist in a kind of present tense, which may explain why the scenes feel suspended between then and now.

KURTUL: In many works, the background feels as charged as the figures, almost like a witness. What does it mean for you when a landscape starts to behave like a character?

JOSEPH: A landscape only feels remarkable as a “character” if one assumes it is merely a backdrop. I don’t approach composition that way. The spaces my figures inhabit aren’t separate from them.

More broadly, I’ve always experienced plants, animals, weather, and geography as living—almost sentient—presences. I grew up talking to plants and animals, even reading to calves, as seen in Girl Reading to Her Buffaloes. I still anthropomorphize elements of nature.

So, when I paint a tree alongside human figures, I treat it with equal involvement. Humans, animals, plants, and the natural world carry equal weight for me—not just aesthetically, but spiritually.

 

Sosa Joseph, The rooster’s crows gave her nausea, 2025

 

KURTUL: Showing these deeply rooted memories in New York—so far from the river that shaped them—did it change the way you understand what the paintings hold?

JOSEPH: I think it’s important to clarify that I’m not showing my memories in New York. My memories matter only to me. What I’m showing are paintings that are incidentally based on memory. That distinction is crucial.

Art is not the same as its subject matter. The real content of a painting is the painting itself—not what it appears to depict or narrate. These works are often called autobiographical, which is partly true in terms of subject matter, but I was never interested in creating a painterly memoir or socio-cultural commentary. My motivation has always been formal: engaging with the aesthetic challenges of painting itself. Everything else is incidental.

Distance doesn’t change what the paintings hold. If anything, it tests whether viewers are willing to engage with painting on its own terms—beyond familiarity, narrative, or place.

KURTUL: Your canvases turn ordinary gestures into something tender, almost ceremonial. When you paint, how do you know that an everyday moment carries enough weight to stay?

JOSEPH: I don’t know in advance. I don’t curate moments from memory to paint. I simply paint, and as I do, moments arrive. Figures walk in. They evolve.

The everyday—the mundane, the banal—contains a great deal of quiet drama and theatrical potential. My task is simply to remain open to it.

Sosa Joseph

Complicated Patterns: An Interview of Ian Davis

Ian Davis, Agenda, 2022. Photo: Ed Mumford. Copyright: the artist. Courtesy Galerie Judin, Berlin.

interview by Mia Milosevic

Connoisseurs of world order fill Ian Davis’s canvases, their picturesque and surreal stomping grounds an ode to both beauty and horror. The eeriness of his hyper-structured displays is overlaid by a rhythmic attitude and hip-hop influence. Davis’s landscapes keep a certain distance from the scenes they portray—the viewer is implicated at altitude, surveying a scene as you might an out-of-body experience. The entrapments of the modern day—wealth, power, surveillance—are articulated by a contemporary rendition of art history’s revered flâneurs. Starting with a blank canvas and a commitment to an idea, Davis’s process is completely inseparable from his final product, which are both uniquely his own. 

MIA MILOSEVIC: How did you get into art initially, and what brought you into your distinct style? 

IAN DAVIS: I got into art the way a lot of people do. I grew up in the Midwest, so I didn't have a ton of exposure to fine art, but I did travel with family. I had grandparents that would take my brother and me to Europe once we got into high school, so I started looking at art. I could always draw though, and people just said, “You're an artist, draw this.” Growing up in Indianapolis, I didn't think of artists as being a job that anybody really had, I didn't know any. So then I went to college in Arizona 'cause I didn't know what a good art school was (laughs). While I was in Arizona, the last year I was in college in the mid-to-early nineties, I saw Jean-Michel Basquiat's work, which wasn't like everywhere at that point—they didn't make like skis and backpacks and t-shirts. I had known his name from hip-hop music 'cause I was big into music, but I didn't know him as an artist. When I saw his work, it was the first time I really related to the way a painting was made. All my paintings were very influenced by him and Philip Guston and Max Beckmann and kind of sloppy figurative paintings—and people were buying my paintings, so I didn't have to get a job. It was cheap to live in Arizona, so I kind of drifted through college, not really knowing what I wanted to do. 

There was a retrospective of Basquiat’s work at the Brooklyn Museum in 2005, I think. When I walked in and saw these things I was like, Jesus, I knew exactly how they were made. I just realized I had internalized them so much that while I was there I was like, I gotta do something else. Like this isn’t me, I'm not doing my thing at all. So I decided I wanted to start making paintings that weren’t expressionistic, but instead very controlled—retaining some of the repetitive, rhythmic qualities of Basquiat’s work. I kept all these compositional things that I learned from him, but started making them in a really methodical, slow way. That's when I started to really paint the way that I paint now—this really hypercontrolled, repetitive kind of thing.

MILOSEVIC: Does music still have an influence on your work? 

DAVIS: Yeah, I mean I like art but music to me has always just been more direct—it just hits me. I’m just more fascinated by music. It just does things to me that art doesn't usually, it can go with you anywhere and it doesn't have all the trappings of the art world. I don't make music so I can just enjoy it, I suppose.

MILOSEVIC: Are there musicians that you feel like you could point to that influence your work, like aesthetically?

DAVIS: Yeah, for sure. I think a lot of music that I like is very sort of repetitious and minimal, like The Fall or Can, or a lot of reggae, I like a lot of jazz stuff like Fela Kuti, just things that sound like interlocking patterns. I think that's what I feel like relates to my work—a lot of my paintings are just a huge series of complicated patterns that are laid on top of one another. I think I like a lot of what that kinda music is doing because it’s what I feel like I'm trying to do with my paintings.

MILOSEVIC: In your artnet interview from a few years ago, in reference to the people you paint, you said, “You know how you hear about a person getting mugged in broad daylight and nobody does anything about it? Sometimes I think I’m painting all those people who didn't do anything.” Could you elaborate on that?

DAVIS: It's funny, I don't remember saying that. I mean, a lot of times the people that are in my paintings aren't really doing anything. And if they are, it's not really clear what they're doing. Like, there's a formal element that they're there for, which is for scale, et cetera. But I think in terms of the meaning of the people, they're not participating—I can't say that for all of them—but usually when they are doing something, I don't want it to be very clear what they're doing. And even if it is clear what they're doing, why they are doing it isn't clear. So, there's a kind of nonsense to it all. I guess maybe that's what I meant, even if the paintings are about some problem, the people aren't really helping. It's a pretty dim view of humanity, I think (laughs).

 
 

MILOSEVIC: In terms of the perspective that you use for a lot of your work, is there a strategy behind it?

DAVIS: I suppose it depends on the painting, but I guess it should be said, I don't really plan them. I kind of figure 'em out while I'm making them. Obviously I'm attracted to a very symmetrical composition a lot of times, especially with the architecture paintings, it's sort of cobbled together. Like it's correct enough that it's not meant to look off, but a lot of times I think about the way a picture can move your eye around. I also think a lot about trying to make a thing that will look striking and interesting from a distance, but then when you get in close to it, there's a lot to examine both with what's painted and how it's painted. 

I like this idea of really clearly and plainly trying to describe something that doesn't really add up or make sense. It's like the bits of a narrative, but I don't have a narrative in mind necessarily. And if I do, I'll realize why I'm making it or what it means while I'm making it. I'm just sort of following formal, allegorical or symbolic notions of giving something a feeling. 

MILOSEVIC: Your recent show at Nicodim was called “God’s Eye View.” Did you come up with the title? 

DAVIS: They asked me for a title and I was having a hard time. Titles to me are always either just there, or I have to search through scraps of paper that I write things down on that could maybe be a title. Usually if I have to come up with one, 'cause somebody's asking me for one, my mind goes blank. Ben from Nicodim called me and said, how about “God's eye view?” And I said, “Oh, that's pretty interesting.” He said, “Well, it's something you said when we were at your studio.” So yeah, I guess it was my idea, but I wouldn't have thought of it. 

MILOSEVIC: It seems like your style has stayed pretty similar maybe since that experience in the Brooklyn Museum and deciding what you were going to paint from then on. Do you feel like your process has changed? Like, not necessarily what paint you use, but your mindset and how you choose your content?

DAVIS: Yeah, because when I first started making them, I couldn't paint very well that way. So they were kind of clunky and I was focused more on the painting than what they were about. I mean, the ideas in them have remained fairly consistent. I think that the kinds of things they're talking about, like wealth and power, are still topics that I'm preoccupied with. That stuff was there even when my work looked like Basquiat, Philip Guston, Max Beckmann hybrids, but I can just paint so much better now. It's kind of subconscious, you just gather techniques that work for what you're doing. I try not to get too concerned about being efficient—there's definitely a quicker way to make a painting like this.

You could plan it and make a digital image and project it and lay it out and do it a lot more directly, but to me, figuring it out as I go and not knowing exactly what I'm making is kind of the reason I'm doing it. I'm sure there’s an easier way for me to do it, but I just figured out some inefficient way. I'm trying not to use technology (laughs).

MILOSEVIC: Do you enjoy the process of not having your paintings pre-planned?

DAVIS: Yeah, because I don't want to make something I've already seen. There has to be something in it for me because—I enjoy painting obviously, it's like the only thing I do—but it's also a lot. It takes a lot. It's a lot of labor. Especially filling in huge areas of people or whatever, it all has to correspond with everything around it. It’s never just like mindlessly filling in. I have to pay attention to all this stuff while I'm doing it. And also try not to like, smear my sleeve across a part of the painting that has wet paint on it and then have to figure out how to fix it (laughs). There's a lot of days where I'm just sitting with one brush, one color, painting one thing over and over and over all day long. And that's kind of a drag, but I think that that's how my paintings end up being what they are.

MILOSEVIC: In terms of the repetition, how do you go about that? Are you trying to be meditative or is the process meditative at all? Are you trying to create that effect visually?

DAVIS: Yeah, it's great when that happens, when you lose track of time, but a lot of times I'm considering so many things spatially and keeping everything in line. I have tricks I can use to do that, but it's rare that I can just shut my brain off and it'll all be laid out correctly. It takes a long time to start something. By the end I'm working on top of a framework that's already there, so it's easier for me to work out how everything will correspond. It’s fun to start them and it's fun to finish them, but the middle is a slog—especially with a larger painting. 

I had a big painting in my show at Nicodim, it was a huge airplane painting, huge for me at least, and the whole time I was just like, well, I'm painting this airplane. I didn’t know why I was painting it the whole time I was doing it. What was the purpose of it? I painted this airplane with all these branches and plants sort of framing it. And I was just like, this isn't enough. But then I kind of just ignored it for a few months, and when I brought it back out and looked at it, I realized that was the point. You can't tell if it's taking off or landing. And there's a lot of different ideas suggested in that—is it going up or down? I just need to have a reason to do things and sometimes I don't know until the end.

MILOSEVIC: Do you feel like you enjoyed your expressionist painting more, or are you drawn more to the visual order that you paint now?

DAVIS: It’s fun to make a painting that takes a couple days or a few hours, but those weren't really my paintings, they didn't really feel like they were mine. I knew I was just learning how to build a painting. But, I'm not like an orderly person. That's the thing. Like this obsessiveness—I'm not like this outside of painting. Obviously it's part of my nature to be this way, but also sometimes I wonder if it's like, I'm from the Midwest and I have to show people that I can really work hard or something. Like I have to prove to whoever, maybe myself, that I can really make a painting and this is the way I'm doing it. 

It wasn't my plan to turn into this, it just sort of developed. I should say though, that in terms of the meanings of the paintings, what's been strange in the last 10 years is that I felt like they used to be speculative. Like some of the paintings were just sort of me being afraid that something could happen. There's this quality of anticipation about them, like something bad is about to happen. I feel like reality has moved so much closer to the thing I'm describing or the world I'm painting, and it's a bit confusing. It's been a bit confusing over the last several years because I feel like I don't want these to feel too topical. I also don't want them to feel too on the nose, you know?

MILOSEVIC: Do you have thoughts about taking your work in another direction?

DAVIS: I don't have fantasies about doing something totally different. I do have temptations to make abstract paintings, I would love to make some abstract paintings, but I feel like there's endless things I could do with the way I'm painting. And if it did change, it wouldn't be because I had some eureka moment that changed it, it would be because I’d want to deal with some kind of subject, so the painting would be dictated by the change in subject matter, if that makes sense. The idea is primary over the way the idea is conveyed. I have something I want to paint and everything else follows—I'll find out how and why while I'm doing it.

MILOSEVIC: What was your process like when you did that cover for The New York Times?

DAVIS: The Times contacted me and needed a cover the following week—it took like four days of haggling over what I was gonna do. It was their idea to portray a bunch of people standing around the White House. But it was my sketches, like they picked one of the sketches I made. And then I made this really little painting because I just didn't have enough time to make a painting the way I would do it. So it didn't feel like my work really. It was a marathon getting that thing done. That felt really different. But it was great to have done a Times magazine cover 'cause however many million copies of that were printed. Ideally it would've been one of my paintings that everybody saw, or everybody who looks at The New York Times. 

MILOSEVIC: Do you think about surveillance when you're making your work? Is that a fear or is it just something that comes out naturally when you're dealing with the content of your work?

DAVIS: Yeah, definitely. Even to the point where I've put surveillance cameras in them, because the viewer is implicated, but not in there. But it's probably a bit broader than that. It's probably more a fear of technology or the unknown. I don't want to emphasize it too much, but the view of humanity I'm describing is fairly dark. Surveillance cameras are just part of the modern landscape but they're also one of the only things I put in my paintings that would put them in the present day. It's a reminder of a lot of different things, I think. And they can also be hidden away in a painting the same way they're hidden away in the world. Like you ever look around, especially in New York, and you're like, God, it's cameras all around all the time and it's like when the hell did that happen—it's a bit of paranoia and there's a lot of anxiety. There's a lot of anxiety in my paintings.

MILOSEVIC: That's interesting 'cause I feel like your work is super meditative in a way, but there is some anxiety, so the contrast is interesting.

DAVIS: It’s funny because I think that that's really what the repetitions are. Because I literally just do this. Every day I'm here doing this. So whatever is in me is in there from day to day. And some days are very anxious and some days aren’t, and I'm also just dealing with the limit of what my hands can do. Some of the things I'm painting are so tiny and detailed—you can paint the same shape 400 times, but it's never going to be exactly the same. You start to notice even in huge fields of repetitions, all these weird little variations that just occur—'cause I'm a not a machine, you know. I'm kind of treating myself like one, but can't be one.

Between Craft, Culture And Feminism: An Interview of Jingyi Li

 
the hidden drawer tea spoon

Jingyi Li. The Hidden Drawer-Tea Spoon, 2024. 16x26x2.5cm, Bobbin Lace, antique tea spoon case.

 

interview by Lola Titilayo

At the center of feminist practice, soft-spoken materials, and Asian heritage, Jingyi Li is defining contemporary artistry through storytelling. Drawing on her PhD in anthropology, she weaves research, memory, and cultural narrative into delicate, hand-crafted lace and other tactile materials, transforming everyday objects into installations that explore emotion, identity, and history. From intimate cutlery sets in The Hidden Drawer to larger immersive works like The Oyster Pail, Li’s work unlocks the expressive potential of unconventional materials, creating spaces where Asian women’s stories are told.

LOLA TITILAYO: The Hidden Drawer places lace directly onto cutlery and vintage display cases. Can you walk me through the original idea for this series? Where did the first image or object come from?

JINGYI LI: The Hidden Drawer began with my interest in the ways women’s desires have been hidden, silenced, or disciplined throughout history. Across different cultures, women who expressed longing or sensuality were often labelled, shamed, or even punished — from moral condemnation to the symbolic “witch hunts” aimed at women who stepped outside prescribed boundaries. I wanted to create a space where these unspoken stories could surface quietly through objects that seem ordinary at first glance.

The objects came from an antique cutlery case I found while wandering through a market. I love spending time with old objects; they hold traces of the people who touched them, the gestures that shaped them, the lives they silently witnessed. When I looked at this case, I felt it could hold a story.

 
the hidden drawer butter knife

Jingyi Li. The Hidden Drawer-Butter Knife, 2024. 20.5x31.5x1cm, bobbin lace, antique butter knife case

 

TITILAYO: Lace is traditionally associated with feminine craft. Do you work with that history consciously? How do you position your hand-made lace work with your mission to build feminist space in your work?

LI: When I first discovered lace and the histories behind it, I felt as if I had fallen down a rabbit hole. Lace holds a long lineage of women’s labor that was often unnamed and overlooked, yet it carries a quiet depth. Working with lace feels like entering a dialogue with generations of women whose voices were rarely recorded, even though their hands shaped cultural traditions in lasting ways.

During my research, I came across the Lace in Context project led by Professor David Hopkin and Dr Nicolette Makovicky at Oxford. Their work brings together archives, textiles, and social history collections, and the online platform reveals an exceptional range of stories and research. It helped me understand how complex the cultural life of lace is far beyond decorative associations.

For me, lace is a material through which I can rethink what feminine space means today. I do not approach it as something fragile or merely ornamental. I use it to speak about desire, intimacy, and agency, and about the shifting experiences of being a woman. The process of making lace is central to this. The rhythm, the knots, and the tension in the thread all become part of the narrative. My body repeats gestures that many women have performed before me, yet I turn those gestures toward subjects that were often unspoken or hidden.

By placing lace in unexpected contexts such as cutlery, furniture, or sculptural forms, I try to create a feminist space where softness is understood as strength, and where femininity is allowed to move beyond narrow definitions. Lace becomes a language through which women’s experiences can be reconsidered and made visible once again.

TITILAYO: How do aspects of Asian cultural history, domestic rituals, textile work, and family traditions appear in your work, explicitly or implicitly?

LI: I grew up in a home where objects were never just objects. My parents collected everyday folk items from across China, so our living space felt more like a living archive than a typical household. There were stone mills once used to grind soybeans, delicate wooden moulds for printing cloth, herbal scales from old pharmacies, and hand-carved tools whose purposes I only learned much later. None of these things were valuable in a conventional sense, but each carried the wear of a long life.

As a child, I was drawn to these objects without fully understanding why. I would pick them up, test their weight, trace the surface of the wood, or smell the faint memory of herbs caught in the grain. Those textures became part of how I learned to look at the world. I realized that every mark or scratch hinted at someone’s gesture, someone’s labor, someone’s story.

This way of seeing stayed with me. When I began making art, I found myself returning to the quiet presence of old objects. They taught me to think of materials as companions rather than raw supplies, and to pay attention to the lives they have already lived. Working with antique boxes, cutlery, or textiles feels like a continuation of those early encounters. I am not simply choosing materials; I am entering a conversation that began long before me.

The influence of that childhood environment continues to shape my practice today. It bolstered my sensitivity to how objects hold memory, how they record everyday histories, and how they can reveal forms of intimacy rarely spoken aloud. In many ways, my work is an extension of that early fascination — a way of listening to the stories that quietly reside in the things we inherit, discover, or choose to keep close.

 
Artwork featuring oyster pail

Jingyi Li. Oyster Pail, 2024. 110x280x1cm, Chinese takeaway menus, wire, paper

 


TITILAYO: The oyster pail carries strong cultural associations of migration and diaspora that are often translated simply as “Eastern cuisine” in a Western context. How does that history or symbolism influence what you are doing with it in this work?

LI: The oyster pail is widely recognized today as a container for Chinese takeout, yet its story is far more layered. It began as packaging for fresh oysters, but gradually became tied to a Western idea of “Chinese cuisine,” even though this style of food and its imagery were shaped outside China. For many people in the diaspora, the oyster pail carries memories of work, migration, and survival, especially for families who built their lives through small restaurants, takeaways, and other labor-intensive trades.

In my work, I draw on this history by transforming London’s Chinese takeaway menus into a beaded curtain that recreates the pagoda motif often printed on oyster pails. The curtain becomes an entryway into a symbolic enclave, pointing to the early Chinese communities that took root in London during the nineteenth century. These communities formed as sailors, workers, and migrants began to settle, creating businesses that offered familiarity and support in a new environment.

This curtain reflects how migrant communities build small cultural enclaves within a city. Chinese restaurants and Asian supermarkets often become more than businesses; they offer a sense of home and familiarity for people living between cultures. By recalling the imagery of the oyster pail, the work points to these modest yet meaningful spaces where identity is negotiated and sustained across generations. It also connects the everyday world of takeaway culture with the broader history of Chinese migration, showing how belonging and resilience continue to take shape even as a community’s visibility shifts over time.

TITILAYO: You’re also doing research in visual anthropology. How do academic research and studio practice inform each other for you?

LI: Anthropology has taught me to see objects in a different way. [Anthropologist] Igor Kopytoff proposes that objects have “cultural biographies,” and this idea goes beyond simply tracing where an object has been. It asks us to consider how objects move across social worlds, how they are classified or reclassified, and how each transition alters their meaning. This perspective shapes my approach to materials. When I work with antique objects, I do not see them as neutral supplies. I see them as objects whose earlier lives continue to resonate. Their presence becomes part of the work, and making with them feels like opening a new chapter in their biography.

My studio practice then becomes a way to think through questions that arise in my research. Through repetition, gesture, and touch, I come to understand craft in a bodily way, echoing what [anthropologist] Tim Ingold describes about making as a form of knowing. The hands often recognize something before the mind fully grasps it. Working with lace and soft materials turns ideas about labor, intimacy, and cultural memory into lived experience rather than abstract theory.

In that sense, the studio becomes a kind of field site, and the field becomes an extension of the studio. My PhD research examines how craft objects hold anthropological stories, and my practice helps me encounter those stories in a grounded and embodied way. The two processes move alongside each other, offering different pathways toward understanding how materials carry meaning.

TITILAYO: In the context of your broader practice, how does Marriage Story complement or contrast with works like The Hidden Drawer or The Yellow Vessel?

LI: Each of these works comes from a different stage of my life, and responds to different questions I was asking at the time. Marriage Story was made in 2021, when I was living in China and witnessing a strong wave of feminist awakening. Many troubling cases involving marriage and domestic violence were coming to public attention. The piece responds to that moment by revisiting rituals from traditional weddings. One example is “crossing the fire basin,” a custom meant to remove the misfortune supposedly carried by the bride. It reflects an enduring misogynistic belief about women’s inherent impurity. By using this familiar ritual, I reflect on the cultural expectations placed on women and the social pressures embedded in the idea of marriage.

The Yellow Vessel was created during my first year in London, when I was trying to understand how East Asian women are perceived within Western cultural frameworks and how stepping outside an Asian context can change how you see yourself. The work uses silk sculptures shaped like historical vessel forms, drawing attention to how the female body has been imagined, exoticized, or idealized through the male and imperial gaze. It parallels my own feminist consciousness developing alongside a new awareness of how culture shapes the perception of East Asian women, including the ways these views are sometimes internalized.

The Hidden Drawer is more introspective. It explores desire and interiority through antique boxes and lace, tracing a quieter process of self-discovery. Instead of responding directly to social events, it turns inward to consider personal memory and the private languages women create for themselves.

Together, these works map different moments in my growth, both as an artist and as a woman thinking through culture, identity, and change.

TITILAYO: As an artist exploring feminist space and Asian women’s stories, where do you hope your work will go next? What questions or ideas are you most excited to explore in the future?

LI: In 2026, I will join the Sarabande residency, a foundation established by Alexander McQueen to support emerging artists across disciplines. I will be surrounded by artists working in many different mediums, and being in that environment will certainly encourage me to think further about where my work can go and the stories I want to explore. Recently, I’ve been speaking with more women and collecting their personal stories. I am especially interested in the intimate and erotic narratives of Asian women, because these experiences are often shaped by stereotypes. By inviting women to speak on their own terms, I hope to make space for complexity, humor, vulnerability, and desire — feelings that rarely appear in public conversations about Asian femininity.

One encounter that influenced this direction came from a shibari [Japanese bondage] workshop I joined in London, followed by deeper conversations with the practitioner. She approached the practice through trust and emotional grounding rather than erotic display. She once described how she reframes bondage and BDSM relationships through a therapeutic lens, focusing on consent, communication, and the body’s capacity to release tension. When I experienced the practice myself, I realized how strongly the body can hold fear, longing, and memory. It made me think about how many stories sit quietly within women’s bodies, waiting for a language that feels safe.

Looking ahead, I want to explore desire as something shaped by culture yet deeply personal. Intimate stories reveal how women navigate identity and expectation, and they challenge the narrow roles often assigned to us. I hope my work can create more room for Asian women to speak about themselves with honesty, confidence, and complexity — on their own terms.

An Interview of Ari and Eitan Selinger on Their New Film 'On The End'

“He must have had a really bizarre experience. He was sitting on his porch watching the movie of his life.”

 
 

interview by Poppy Baring

On The End, directed by Ari Selinger and scored by Eitan Selinger, tells the story of Tom Ferreira, a mechanic living in Montauk at the end of the glamorized Hamptons town. The film, which is heavily based on a true story and was made within feet of the home that inspired it, is a highly emotional chronicle of a contestable yet ultimately good-hearted man being bullied by property developers. The film not only reveals issues of greed and corruption, but it also tells the story of love and loss between Tom and fellow outcast Freckles. With local actors Tim Blake Nelson playing the former and Mireille Enos as the latter, a certain intimacy with the community lends the film a sense of sincerity. In this interview, Ari Selinger and his brother Eitan Selinger discuss their fraternal dynamic, their choices behind the score, and they reflect on the real Tom who inspired the film and passed shortly after it was made. 

POPPY BARING: Eitan, you once said it was always a dream of yours to work with your older brother. How does that dynamic make your job easier or more challenging?

EITAN SELINGER: I’ve always been used to Ari being the boss. We grew up together playing music, and we have the same taste in music pretty much, so it was easier to know where we wanted to head with the score. Where it was tricky was that he had the freedom to call me at any time, and I couldn’t really be upset about that. It was extremely involved, which is a good thing and…I wouldn't say it's a bad thing.

ARI SELINGER: The grandmaster plan was to get this kid to play music and use it to my own abilities. I always wanted him to be part of that artistic arc that I long to build, and where I knew there was always gonna be enough space for tons of people.

BARING: Were there moments when something you felt strongly about including was fought against?

EITAN: Ari always gave me the freedom to push my own ideas. I was more in love with the idea of making the soundtrack organic in a way where I could have non-instruments, household items, even car parts. I wanted to get very rhythmic with it. I maybe went too far with that, and Ari wanted me to do a bit more on the nylon guitar and find more melody, but we met in the middle.

BARING: Did you end up using those sounds from car parts?

EITAN: We did, actually.

ARI: During some of those scenes where you want to have a sound that’s ineffable, we had Natalia Paruz come in and play a saw in the subway of New York. She played it on the Coppola movie [Megalopolis] and Joker [Folie à Deux]. It's saved for some of the more cerebral moments.

BARING: When you first read the script, were there any songs that you immediately knew you wanted to include?

EITAN: Ari always knew which songs he would pull from. With the score, there were certain scenes that, in order to keep everything cohesive, it was tricky. The first sex scene was originally very erotic music and jazzy, and we couldn’t figure out what would go there, but after a while, we took the music from this song that I wrote called “Run the Show,” and it shone in the movie, which was a nice surprise.

ARI: It’s kind of an anti-sex scene, so we needed something saucy, but also more about the heart. We ended with this very folksy sound, taking his lyrics and just playing them on a nylon string guitar. I really love nylon string, like the way Willie Nelson plays. It reminds me of honey or vanilla, just something very, very sweet and textural.

EITAN: We discovered that different strings and instruments fit different environments. For the scenes outside, nylon worked better, and we stuck to that, then when we went inside Tom’s place, it was grittier, the way that steel string is.

BARING: There were two songs you spoke about after we came out of the theater. The first song that opens the film, and the second one, which is called “Long Black Veil.” What was the significance of those?

ARI: This was how I got Tim Blake Nelson on my side. He’s such a music guy and on one of our first calls, I was telling him the reason I had the narration; I wanted the audience to feel like Freckles is holding your hand throughout the movie, maybe throw you off a little bit, but when I brought “Long Black Veil” up to Tim, he was like, “Oh yeah, I love that song. That song’s written by…” and I knew it was Marijohn Wilkin, very obscure, and he suddenly liked me after that.

That song, it’s like the American Beauty thing, where Lester is describing his last day, and you’re thinking, what does he mean by that? You find out at the end what he means, but because of that, it has this eternal quality, because he’s presenting you the story. It’s like a skeleton telling the story.

Mireille Enos and Tim Blake Nelson in On the End

BARING: You filmed it in a house that was a few doors down from Tom’s real house. Was that environment all a product of the set design, or was it equally as cluttered as the actual house?

ARI: We were gonna shoot at his house, which didn’t need any production design; it’s one of the worst-looking houses you’ll ever see, but he had a little bit of a meltdown, and we had to find another spot. My heart was set on shooting that street, and there was a house that was bought by the town and was set to be knocked down a month before we shot. We went to the town board and asked to use it as our canvas. My production designer, Anna, then decided to bring all of Tom’s nicest crap to the yard, which was probably less than 50 yards, maybe less from where Tom’s house is. It was by design, but also with the actual junk that the town wanted to remove. They then knocked the house down a little after we shot.

BARING: What does the actual house look like now?

ARI: Because people need places to stay during the summer, and because Tom had very cheap housing at the side of his house, he took on tenants every year. When he died, the tenants who loved him so much stayed to take care of his brother, Milton. They stayed and cleaned the place out. It does not look like the same place, maybe it does a little bit, but they got rid of years’ worth of hoarded junk. I shot a movie there in 2011, that’s how I met Tom, and it was dangerous just to walk in there, you would be like, somebody's gonna lose a limb.

I don’t know what this was, but a couple of days before he died, he was like, “I’m gonna order some dumpsters and clean the place out.” He never got to do it, but at the very end of his life, he was like, I’m gonna do it, which I think is very poetic.

BARING: When people started taking stuff out of his house to transport it to where the film was being shot, did he protest against parting with his things?

ARI: He probably did. There are two things. One, he knew he was gonna get it back, and the other thing was he was very sick right around the time we were filming. I believe he had a stroke, and he was not fully cognisant of what was happening when we were actually shooting.

I will say this was his idea to make this movie. He was the one who bothered me to make it for the longest time. I think he also felt bad that he bailed on letting us use this house. It was a little bit of those two things.

BARING: Do you think it would’ve been possible to make the film if it weren’t his idea?

ARI: It never would’ve occurred to me. I had no interest in the town politics of the Hamptons. That is not what I find interesting. I found him interesting. I loved him a lot, even though a lot of people did not. It was like South Park. He just made fun of literally everybody and was mean to everyone, and he got a pass for it all. Everybody thought he was an asshole, but his intentions were beautiful and clear. He let us shoot in his backyard; he didn’t even ask for money. He had that goodness in him. He may not have been the prettiest book cover, but he lived something that was very genuine.

BARING: The love story is extremely sad. Were there ever times when you were wary of making the film in such close proximity to him and his house? Did you ever think it was potentially too close to home?

ARI: I worried sometimes that he would stop talking to me, because he was very sensitive about his teeth. Other than that, there were no barriers or limits at all. His daughter told me after he passed that he stayed alive for the movie. He almost died in 2020, and she told me he was sticking around so that he could see this happen.

EITAN: He must have had a really bizarre experience. He was sitting on his porch watching the movie of his life.

ARI: Honestly, it was a surreal experience for me just to make it. I can’t imagine what his mind was doing while watching us tell his story and having a bunch of little people just running around, setting up lights.

BARING: Are you guys both still in contact with his daughter, and when did their relationship improve?

ARI: Through the movie. He told her for years, “Uh, they’re making a movie about me.” I think it was his way of being like, I’m virtuous enough for there to be a movie about me, and then he sent her the script, and I think little by little she was like, I guess he’s not BS-ing me.

She called the day after he died and was like, “He was an idiot as a dad, not a bad dad. He didn’t do anything wrong, but he would bring me to the bar so he could pick up chicks.” I was like, “Ooh, Michelle, that’s bad,” And she was like, “But you know, his love language was all twisted,” and I think she really connected with him towards the end.

BARING: Do you ever think you’ll go your separate ways and stop working together?

EITAN: No, never. This was the whole plan.

BARING: As in you’re always gonna work together on each other’s projects.

ARI: Oh, yeah. If he lets me.

EITAN: I’m still trying to get him in the band. I still have a belief that it’s gonna happen. The first class I took at Berklee College of Music, they asked, “What do you wanna do? What is your dream?” I said, “I wanna make music for my brother’s movies.” It’s very exciting to do with Ari, and I think we’ll always do it.

ARI:We’re like the Partridge family. We’re the beach boys.

Tim Blake Nelson and Mireille Enos in On the End

A Powerful Survivor: Tea Hačić-Vlahović On Her Latest Novel 'Give Me Danger'

interview by Summer Bowie
photographs by Cristiano Grim

The structure of the natural and manufactured world may be a nodal web of endless coequal expansion, but if enough people accept a longitudinal hierarchy as their shared reality, mass hysteria ensues, and a social ladder becomes solid enough to climb. Such has been the case since the dawn of human imperialism, and ever since, those of us who can see the undressed emperor have always easily picked one another out in the crowd. I picked journalist and author Tea Hačić-Vlahović out from this crowd the first time I read her work. So, too, did Giancarlo DiTrapano, the late and legendary editor/publisher of Tyrant Books. A beloved champion of young and daring writers, DiTrapano resuscitated an indie lit scene that had been idling on life support for nearly a generation. He saw the hidden potential in writers like Hačić-Vlahović, whose unpolished prose needed just the right amount of elbow grease to elevate their natural patina. It was only a month before he passed in March of 2021 when Tea texted to tell me that he was planning to publish her second novel, A Cigarette Lit Backwards, and that she had incorporated a small anecdote I had shared with her a year earlier. Her third and most recent novel, Give Me Danger, builds on this lived reality, only in this fictionalized version, her lead character Val’s first novel is a lowbrow bestseller, and her dreams of gaining clout in the indie lit scene are dashed by the news of her would-be publisher’s demise. Val struggles to wade through the gatekeeping social climbers who constitute his outer entourage so that she can simply pay her respects, and her experiences navigating the pomp and circumstance of those who consider themselves the cultural elite are a left-of-center mirror reflecting under an alternating strobe of moody and halogen lighting.

BOWIE: The premise of Give Me Danger starts from the real story of Giancarlo DiTrapano [whose name is Luigi in the book], offering to publish A Cigarette Lit Backwards before his untimely death. How was Giancarlo originally introduced to your work, and can you talk about the significance of this lost opportunity?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: So, I sent him my first manuscript, and he passed on it. Being accepted by him—as anyone who follows his legacy or was familiar with him at the time knows—was a big deal. It wasn’t being published with Penguin, but some things matter more than numbers. Why does Taylor Swift hate Charli xcx? Because Taylor’s not cool and she’s never, ever, going to be, no matter how many billions she makes. So, I wanted to describe this feeling in a way that people outside the industry would understand.

With my second novel, I sent Gian the manuscript, and he loved it. He was planning to start his own publishing company, and he was like, “Yours is gonna be one of the few novels I publish this year with my new company.” Sean’s [Thor Conroe] Fuccboi was one of the others he planned to publish. Then, for some reason, there were all these articles about his other authors, but I was left out, and I later found out through various sources that this was a conscious choice made by someone big in PR.

I lived in Italy for a long time, in New York for a very short time, and then moved to LA, so I never got accepted into the New York scene. This book was really written from the perspective of feeling like an outsider.

BOWIE: After living in Milan, you developed a very sizable Italian audience on social media, and I’ve heard you described as an influencer, which is sometimes used against you as an author, but I’ve never seen you use your following to sell anybody else’s products.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: The only thing I ever sell is my own work, but when you have a large following, people like to call you an influencer, which did discredit me a bit in the American publishing world. People were like, “Who is this blonde girl screaming in Italian on her Instagram account? Like, why should we take her seriously as an author?” Now, I’m not blonde anymore, so I think that’s healthy.

BOWIE: Did you attend his memorial? Was that part of the book real?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Yep. About 90% of what happens in this book is based in reality. I was in LA when he passed, and was told by Rachel [Rabbit White] before the news was out. So, I was invited to the memorial and flew out to attend. And a memorial is supposed to bring a community together around a person, but instead, someone physically prevented me from entering the room, then tweeted, “Some people bring out the gatekeeper in me.” To be honest, I’ve never experienced that much clickiness in my life, and I’ve worked in fashion. I’ve organized parties for Dolce & Gabbana and worked backstage at fashion shows in Milano, but none of it compares to the cattiness of the independent publishing industry.

BOWIE: This is part of why I love the rat character in this book. Anyone who follows your Instagram knows you have this strong bond with animals that are traditionally considered pests, like pigeons and rats. Where does that come from?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Yeah, so in my first book, Milano is represented by the pigeons, and my protagonist speaks to the pigeons; they’re really her best friends. The rat in the third book may or may not be the late editor reincarnated—people can decide that for themselves. But people overlook animals like rats and pigeons; animals that you see all around and take for granted. They’re watching you, they’re studying you, they know so much, and you could learn so much from them if you give them a chance. We can find a lot of wisdom through animal companionship.

BOWIE: You also have a very particular way of fictionalizing your friends and various institutions, like magazines, restaurants, bars, and hotels. I’m curious how you approach adapting those real moments that you’ve experienced. What parts do you keep, and what parts do you tend to change?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: The parts that I keep are the ones that are brilliant and teach us lessons. Like, you can go out with your girlfriends, and maybe three hours are the same stories about the same ex-boyfriends. But then, a few genius phrases will pop out that change your life. You might have said something to someone ten years ago, and then they tell you one day that they think about it all the time. Everyone in our lives has these moments of brilliance, and luckily, I’ve got a really good memory, so I retain entire conversations.

I’m lucky to have really funny friends who say iconic things that I can’t take credit for, but I can adapt them into stories. But all writers leech off of the relationships in their lives, and I have only had exes who have been like, “Why did you write me like this?” And I’m always like, “Well, if you wanted to be written better, you should have behaved better.” Because I only ever make people look better than they are. If you’re doing me the great honor and service of being an inspiration in my life, I’m gonna at least do you justice. I never try to just bash someone. Even the quote-unquote villains in my books, including this one, I still always show either how hot they are, or how interesting they are, or why people are so obsessed with them. It’s never one-sided.

I have some regrets, but too few to mention, as Sid Vicious would say. It’s his song, not the other guy’s fucking song.

 

Mur performing at the launch of Give Me Danger

 

BOWIE: There’s an amazing scene of overheards within the lit crowd. Are those all real quotations, or are some of them made up?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: A lot of those are real, or things I’ve said, or I’ve thought. Nothing is completely made up. Even a plotline with a talking animal still comes from something real. It comes from an idea you had while talking to someone real.

BOWIE: I love the rat because there’s this magical realism to it that I’ve never seen you explore before. You once told me you had been holding back in your writing while you were still married. But when I read your books, I wonder what you could possibly be holding back. Were there moments when you would go, Oh, I can’t write that because it will make him uncomfortable?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: It wasn’t necessarily because of him, per se. It was more about being a person whose reputation affects other people, and I was always afraid of embarrassing him. There were things he read in this book, and he was like, “You can’t publish this.” Meanwhile, Will Watkins, my agent at CAA, was like, “This specific part is genius.”

So, I just realized that I should try to not think of the people in my life while I write in that way. I already think about my mother when I write. I’m always afraid she’ll be worried about me. She already told me that when she’s reading my books, she’s like, “I can’t read this. It’s so dark.” I thought A Cigarette Lit Backwards was gonna be a young adult novel. I thought I was writing a book for teenagers. That’s maybe how out of touch I am with what’s normal. Because when I think I’m writing something really sweet, and when I think I’m holding back for other people, I get told it’s too much. So, I don’t know what this next era’s gonna bring now that I’m living alone and I can do whatever I want. I’m almost frightened of it, but maybe it’s gonna be my Russian literature era.

BOWIE: Your parents play such significant roles in A Cigarette Lit Backwards. It’s really a play-by-play of your loss of innocence. Whereas in the first and third novels, your characters are in their twenties and thirties, respectively, and you talk very casually not just about sex, but sexual assault, to the point that it feels like you’ve accepted sexual assault as a normal consequence of being a woman. Would you say that’s more or less a reflection of your tendency to throw caution to the wind?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: I think I share a lot of those experiences with other women, but I can’t take credit for my attitude. It’s a very Balkan attitude. And it’s due to my love of punk rock. I wanted to be Iggy Pop. I always wanted to be Johnny Knoxville when I watched Jackass. I wanted to be my own protagonist, and I just knew that if I lived the way I wanted to, bad things would happen to me. I’m not saying it’s okay or that the world should be violent towards women, but it is. No matter what, the people you love the most are gonna die, or you’re gonna die before them, so you may as well just do what you want in the meantime. I really have lived that way, and I have some regrets, but too few to mention, as Sid Vicious would say. It’s his song, not the other guy’s fucking song.

BOWIE: I’ve always known women who have chosen not to go out because they’re scared to walk alone at night or they don’t want to wear something because they’re afraid it will attract the wrong kind of attention. But I can’t think of a worse consequence than missing out on life because you were too afraid of what might happen.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Oh my god, that’s exactly it. Because, yes, you can experience an act of violence, but you’re violating yourself every single day that you don’t do what you want to do. This hypothetical danger does potentially exist, but they do this to us on purpose. They make us afraid to live.

 

Poet Rachel Rabbit White reading at the launch of Give Me Danger

 

BOWIE: Tell me about this character, Sandboy, and where he comes from.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Okay, so Sandboy is based on a real person. When I was living in Santa Monica, I would skateboard to Venice and back, and he was this boy living on the beach in this sleeping bag by these beautiful houses. He’s this beautiful blonde boy, and we never really talked, but I would give him things sometimes. I loved Sandboy. I used to give him things, and seeing him there every day in the sand was very comforting to me. He and this other drug dealer character are my main character’s best friends in LA. It’s just such an isolating city that the two people you feel closest to might be totally random people who don’t care about you at all. The book is really about ambition and failure and competition, how life fucks you one way or another. So, I wanted to compare his experiences with those of the coastal elite.

BOWIE: I love the way that your character is constantly the one feeling rejected by him, versus the other way around. In your books and your real life, you’re constantly exhibiting a certain socioeconomic code-switching because you grew up outside of these elitist industries, but you float in and out of them. You can dress and act the part to a certain degree, but you have an unwavering empathy for those who are intentionally kept out.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Being an immigrant my whole life helped me with this. I was an immigrant as a kid, going to America with my family, but then I moved to Italy as a college kid, and now I don’t belong anywhere. I’m an outsider with the poor punks, and I’m an outsider with the rich cunts in the fashion world, and so there’s a freedom to that, like the freedom that Sandboy has.

BOWIE: Speaking of freedom, how has being divorced changed your approach to writing?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Honestly, having more free time is its own challenge. Before, I only had so much time alone, and I’d really shove it all in when I could. Aside from the actual devastation and heartbreak, being divorced is, at first, like being a kid on Christmas, when you can eat cereal all day and watch cartoons. But then, after a while, the cartoons make your head hurt, and the cereal hurts your stomach, and you need to be your own husband. Just like my dog makes sure that I leave the house at least three times a day to walk her, I have to make sure I have a good writing schedule. But aside from the scheduling, I have so much more pain to draw from now, and if the mood strikes me, I can write through the night, and no one’s bothered. I’m still learning how to inhabit my new life, though.

We should all be lifting each other up, like Rose, it’s time to let Jack on the raft with you, bitch.

BOWIE: One of the last times we spoke, you were like, “I forgot that I have a whole fan base out here and that life is much easier than it is in LA.” What’s that been like?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Aside from being a bit of a local celebrity (laughs), it’s just more humane here. Not to mention the fact that I’ve already gone to the emergency room and had a bill of zero dollars. And aside from the fact that you can walk everywhere, and Los Angeles has one cafe [Figuero Cafe] that’s cosplaying European life, where you can sit down and watch the highway, and you have to walk down the block if you want to smoke your cigarette.

I moved into this apartment in June, and since then, all the places that I walk into where nobody knew me before, like the tabaccheria or my local bar where I go to use the wifi and steal the toilet paper, every single person that works at these places remembers my name. I see them do it with other people too. And I know for a fact that if my toilet exploded, I could run to the kebab place and one of the guys would help me. After seven years in LA, I never had that. And I feel like New York is the height of that level of people being in their own little moving silos.

BOWIE: This coterie of writers and writer-adjacent people that you portray in the book is so emblematic of a very particular corner of New York cool kid culture.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: There’s this mentality of you can only survive by making sure others don’t. Whereas here, you can only survive if everyone else does. Of course, I’m exaggerating and generalizing, and there are exceptions to everything. But being an outsider and never having been accepted into that particular group in New York has actually given me the freedom and obligation to share the truth about how unkind it is, and on no basis aside from the desire to maintain this arbitrary sense of I’m better than you-ness that usually comes from family lineage or private schooling or other forms of privilege. These seem like old-world traditions that should be outdated, considering how all of these industries are drowning. We should all be lifting each other up, like Rose, it’s time to let Jack on the raft with you, bitch.

BOWIE: You write from this very personal experience that sometimes problematizes your aspiration to be accepted in certain circles, which are known for a very controlled self-mythologizing and curation of identity, but you’re very steadfast in your honesty and self-deprecation. Most people’s approach to securing their place in those circles is one of hiding all that could be interpreted as unflattering.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: I try to be very fair with all of my characters. Val has this moment at the beginning of the book where she’s describing the feeling of coming from absence and having ascended to a certain level of wealth, and being embarrassed by it. Whenever she’s around the help, she wants the maids and the valet people to know that she’s still one of them at heart. I love the high and the low. I don’t like what’s in the middle as much, who does, you know? But there’s beauty and sadness in both, and I’m really lucky that I know both, because I can’t imagine coming from a purely privileged mentality. People who are less privileged are more generous with their money because they know what it’s like to be in need. Meanwhile, a lot of really wealthy people I know are so stingy, they make you Venmo them for a potato chip because they feel like money is all they have, so they don’t want to give it up.

BOWIE: It’s also worth mentioning that coming from outside of these worlds gives you a perspective that appeals to people outside of the shrinking, inbred readership that is desperately in need of new voices and ears.

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Exactly. If you’re already in the room and have been since you were a kid, you’re not going to notice the same things that someone who’s in that room for the first time would. Somebody did deliberately keep me out of the conversation. I will also say that it is in poor taste to be mean to people. It’s in poor taste to be mean to people who have never merited that behavior. It’s in poor taste to want to maintain the culture of bullying and exclusivity. If someone wants to say it’s in poor taste to write about Giancarlo’s legacy, I will say that his best friend, Catherine, and his husband, Giuseppe, are the ones who championed it and gave me the residency to do so.

BOWIE: What was it like at the residency?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: Oh my god. I didn’t have the residency with other artists. I was the first-ever director’s guest, as they called it, and they invited me to stay alone in the casetta where Giancarlo stayed. The main house was empty, and I would just go there to use the kitchen or connect to wifi. But it was in the middle of nowhere, in this old kind of castle.

Everyone warned me that it was haunted, and I kind of went out of my mind during that visit. Giuseppe would sometimes come for a day or two, or this construction guy would come and bring me croissants sometimes, but otherwise, I never saw anyone. I’d spend all day seeing weird, distorted faces in the mirrors while I was trying to work, and I’d drink a bottle of wine by myself just to get through it. I’d go to sleep as soon as it got dark at like 7 PM, and I’d wake up at dawn just to avoid the darkness.

I would open my Instagram—and my algorithm is gay as shit, it’s just beautiful girls doing makeup tutorials and animals—but while I was there, my algorithm got creepy. I would open my discover page, and it was all gory, weird fucking haunted shit. Maybe because my phone overheard me telling my friends and my mom how scared I was, but the book is way better because I was there to finish it.

BOWIE: What do you think Giancarlo saw in your work that wasn’t immediately apparent to his outer circle?

HAČIĆ-VLAHOVIĆ: He always rooted for the underdogs. At one point, he said he was only going to publish unsigned authors, and it made everyone go crazy. He just saw the beauty that other people overlooked and took what others considered lowbrow and turned it highbrow. That’s why there’s a rat in this book that potentially represents his spirit. A rat is overlooked because you have to look down to see it; it’s a powerful survivor. It’s the coolest animal there is, and Giancarlo would see the beauty in a rat. And I’ve always looked down. Like, I love the Duomo, but what about all the pigeons shitting around it? They’re the ones making it special.

Give Me Danger was published by Clash Books. All photographs were taken at the November 4 launch at LULLABY bar in New York

 
 

The Choreography of Posting Online: Read an Interview of Maya Man

 

Photo by Charlotte Ercoli

 

interview by Emma Grimes

Maya Man is a New York-based digital artist whose work probes the changing landscape of identity, femininity, and authenticity in online and offline culture. Through websites, code, and generative AI projects, she explores how we perform ourselves in digital environments.

One of her signature projects is Glance Back, a browser extension that randomly takes a photo of users on their computers every day. Created in 2018, the project archives what Man calls “the moments shared between you and your computer,” turning everyday encounters with our devices into a digital diary. She is also the creator of FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT, a coffee-table book that compiles her generative artworks styled after the glossy and aesthetically pleasing graphics and phrases commonly found on Instagram.

Central to her practice are questions of authenticity and performance: what does it mean to perform and post on the internet today? Is performance inherently corrosive or just another facet of human expression? For Man, she tackles these questions with thoughtful nuance.

Her latest project, StarQuest, is a solo-exhibition currently on view at Feral File. Drawing on her own childhood as a competitive dancer, Man uses generative AI to restage the choreography and interpersonal dramas of the cult reality series Dance Moms.

EMMA GRIMES: You’re interested in how we perform ourselves online. Where did that fascination begin?

MAYA MAN: I’ve been interested in self-presentation online for as long as I can remember. I have always felt uncomfortable about posting, but continued to post anyway. I started to realize when I was younger—in middle school and high school—how dramatically what I was consuming online affected my sense of self.

GRIMES: Which artists have most shaped your approach?

MAN: I’m really influenced by a few different movements. The first are artists who have used the computer as a tool, including Manfred Mohr and Vera Molnar. Also, the net.art movement in the ’90s and the early 2000s, when a lot of artists were creating websites as art objects and thinking about what it meant to be able to distribute work in a networked way. I am very moved by the work of Olia Lialina, JODI, and Auriea Harvey. One artist I really admire is Lynn Hershman Leeson, who was making work in the ’60s and ’70s about the performance of identity. And artists like Ann Hirsch or Molly Soda, who also were thinking about performing gender online. Cory Arcangel’s work has been important for me because he shares an interest in both pop culture and code. I’ve always felt that I exist between these two worlds. There are artists who write code and use software as a medium that I resonate with, but a lot of the work—these are generalizations—tends to be more abstract or geometric, or more formally driven. Then there’s artists who are really thinking about performance online that I feel conceptually tied to, but less often they’re writing custom code or as interested in using generative tools.

GRIMES: What does a typical day in your studio look like?

MAN: A realistic day in my life. (laughs) If I’m being really honest, I work best at night. If I’m really working on something, I’m likely making it between the hours of 8 PM and 3 AM. I always wish I was different, but that’s how I am. I come to the studio quite religiously, almost every day. I am very lucky to have this beautiful, large space in SoHo, but I spend most of my time in one corner on my computer with my monitor. It’s a lot of clicking around, and it’s different every day. I could be in the early days of researching a work, I’m asking myself, what’s the best way to build it or what tools make sense for this system, etc. More recently, I’ve been working on an AI-video-based work that required a lot of research before deciding on the right methodology. There’s a lot of research, there’s the studio work, and there’s a lot of administrative work too. And it almost all happens on my laptop. 

GRIMES: How do you think of authenticity? Do you think we’re ever not performing?

MAN: My philosophy of authenticity is that it doesn’t exist in the way people wish it did. I don’t believe it’s possible to perform in a way that’s authentic. People will say, I just post for myself, which is a lie. They say that because they feel it’s morally better to be that way, and I really disagree with that. It’s okay to feel like you’re performing and even want to perform a bit. That’s not evil. It’s a condition of living. I’ve adopted a [Erving] Goffman-esque philosophy of performance online. Everything is a performance. Goffman was writing before the internet, so he is talking about socializing in general, which I also think is true. It’s been kind of freeing for me to subscribe to this notion that authenticity does not exist.

GRIMES: How has your relationship with social media shifted over the years?

MAN: I’ve been thinking about this a lot in the past year. There’s a general sentiment that social media has gotten a lot worse. I call it the “LinkedIn-ification” of Instagram. My relationship with social media is really quite professional at this point. That wasn’t true when I was twelve. I was just posting whatever. Posting feels like such a large and weighted act now.

GRIMES: In your essay about the story behind your recent lecture and video performance on Dance Moms, you compared the choreography of competitive dance to posting on social media. Can you expand on that?

MAN: I’m very excited to talk about this. It feels like a strange homecoming for me, almost, because I grew up as a competition dancer. I grew up in central Pennsylvania. Dance Moms takes place in Pennsylvania. I realized that the mechanics of the competition dance ecosystem, training in the studio, performing at competitions, then being ranked and judged, are very quantified. You’re getting data as feedback. It’s such a perfect analogy for what it feels like to perform on social media. I’ve been thinking about Instagram etiquette as a type of choreography that you learn by being on the platform. There’s what to do and what not to do. Everyone accepts that and mostly operates within those boundaries. Those who are the best at it have the most followers and likes. They understand the system. They’re able to execute a certain choreography of posting that’s rewarded in that system. 

Man in her studio

GRIMES: I’m sure you came across the Harper’s piece a couple years ago by Barrett Swanson about the TikTok clubhouses—

MAN: Yes, that piece was so major for me. I remember reading it so vividly.

GRIMES: He wrote that we’re “cheerfully indentured” to posting online. Obviously, this was published a couple years ago because I thought, well, we’re definitely still indentured, but I don’t know if it’s so cheerful.

MAN: I think the sentiment has changed radically post-pandemic. I don’t feel like it’s very cheerful. It feels quite obligatory and business-oriented.

GRIMES: You’ve written about John Berger’s idea of the “surveyor” and the “surveyed,” which reminds me of a moment from The D’Amelio Show when Quen Blackwell, another creator, was discussing the camera and said, “It’s a third person that’s not existed to any other generation.”

MAN: I thought that moment was shocking in the show. The Berger quote is like “a woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself,” which implies this third person. And Quen, on The D’Amelio Show, just perfectly articulated that. That’s what social media platforms online create—this sense of a third person that isn’t anyone so specific, but it’s this implication of surveillance, that people are seeing you. I used to feel like there was something wrong with me because I felt like that all the time. Reading [Berger] and others has helped me figure out how to operate within that structure rather than try to escape it fully.

GRIMES: It’s a new condition to being online, but I also wonder if it’s also a new way of being human and of perceiving ourselves, of constantly being fragmented as a person.

MAN: Do you know the book series The Confessions of a Shopaholic? This has stuck with me since I read it when I was probably twelve. There’s a way the protagonist talks, like she’s shopping in a store and says things like, “Imagine, I get this red jacket and everyone will see me wearing my red jacket and will think, oh, there goes the woman with the red jacket.” This process of latching onto something and imagining others associating it with you, and that association strengthening your character or positive perception in other people’s eyes. Posting is all about that. It’s like, Oh, what if I posted this photo of a ribbon on the ground on the sidewalk? Then everyone’s gonna think, she’s the kind of person who would post this photo. I find it fascinating. It’s so much of what identity actually is. So much of what I would tell someone about my identity are things external to me, things that I have decided to attach to myself. For example, the artists I mentioned at the beginning of this interview. I want people to understand that I identify with them, and this will create this collage of me. But, it’s all very malleable. 

GRIMES: Do you think it’s possible to disrupt the self-surveillance that these systems—social media, competitive dance, even the experience of growing up as a girl—produce?

MAN: This has been an experience—a very feminine-coded experience—that young girls have known for a very long time. Social media exacerbates that feeling of being watched, but it’s not necessarily the source of it. The source is the way that gender is performed and conditioned in culture. I don’t have delusions about escaping it or ending it. But there’s a certain level of awareness of it that was freeing for me. Also, I think there’s a tendency for artists’ work to be read in a black-and-white way. I’m making work about competition dance culture because I have criticism of it. At the same time, being a competition dancer shaped me in a million positive ways. It taught me so much about friendship, discipline, and being in public and performing in a way that was valuable to me. It’s complicated. 

GRIMES: You recently debuted your piece and performance-lecture, StarQuest, in New York City. Can you talk about the project and that experience?

StarQuest, my new competition dance-focused series produced with generative AI, just had its first public premiere as a one-night installation and performance lecture co-presented by Triple Canopy and Feral File at Gibney, a dance studio downtown. It was my dream way to introduce this work, as both a site-specific installation and performance-lecture that walks through the piece’s many different elements: AI-generated video, competition dance, online performance, and the instability of “reality” today. The performance-lecture aspect was important to me because it requires the attention and presence of an audience which is difficult to capture sometimes when making browser-based work. It mixes a traditional lecture format, with choreographed slides, with staging and movement. I perform the TikTok dance renegade three times in it. 

GRIMES: Lastly, what keeps you inspired every day?

MAN: Every day, I walk to my studio in SoHo from my apartment in Chinatown. I walk past a lot of tourist shops, and they have all these keychains, colorful shirts, and snow globes. They’re all just about loving New York. They’re about someone visiting New York and thinking, Wow, it’s New York, and then buying that to take home with them. It’s a bunch of mass-produced, cheap objects that represent something very endearing to me, which is loving and being so happy to be in New York City, and wanting to express that through an object. I find it very moving.

A Place To Call Home: An Interview Of Gallerist & Editor Oyinkansola Dada

An image of Oyinkansola Dada at the launch of DADA gallery.

Sahara Longe: Deceit, 2025 | Green and purple nude, 2025

interview by Lola Titilayo
photography by Adedamola

Sitting at the intersection of art, culture and fashion, Oyinkansola Dada is a multidimensional creative force. Trained as a lawyer but driven by a deep commitment to storytelling and cultural awareness, she has become one of the most dynamic connectors of artists across the African diaspora. As the founder of Dada Gallery, DADA Magazine, and the style-driven cultural phenomenon Lagos Is Burning, she has built a community that uplifts emerging voices while redefining how contemporary African creativity is seen and celebrated. With the recent opening of her first permanent gallery space in Lagos, Dada continues to shape the continent’s cultural landscape; promoting authenticity and creating spaces where African art and identity can thrive globally.

LOLA TITILAYO: You began your journey as a corporate lawyer in London and later made the bold decision to transition into the art world by opening a physical gallery space in Lagos. Can you walk us through that journey? What inspired you to take this leap?

OYINKANSOLA DADA: I just felt like it was the right time to do so, and for the past couple of years, I've been essentially experimenting, trying to figure out how to position myself within the art world. A lot of galleries open so quickly, and they shut down quite quickly as well, and I think that’s because they haven’t really given themselves ample time to figure out what type of programming they want to represent: what type of works they want to show, what kind of artists, what their voice is. For me, the seven years of balancing both careers has given me the opportunity to really figure out where I want us to be, and it happened at the perfect time. It was just a gut instinct to make this leap now.

The conversation pit at DADA gallery, Lagos.

Yagazie Emezi: Homecoming 2024

TITILAYO: You’ve spoken about using art as a way to build community and connect people around the world. What does “community” mean to you in the context of your gallery, especially operating between London and Lagos? And how do you see your role as a connector?

DADA: For me, it’s really about creating a space where people can come in and not just engage with art, but also engage with like-minded people. This will be reflected in the quality of programming we put on and in the types of shows that we do. We’re going to have a library in the space as well; it’s not a huge one, but it’s something that encourages people to stay. Even in the way we’ve built the gallery, we have a conversation pit that really encourages people to sit down and take a minute.

Combining all of this, I really want to create a sense of home when people come into the space, because we don’t have many third spaces in Nigeria, and it’s nice to have somewhere where you’re seeing thought-provoking art that makes you feel excited to be there.

We have the gallery, and we also have the art club; these are ways in which we engage this idea of community. With the art club, we’re going to keep doing different events across the world, not just in Lagos; it’ll also be in London and New York, activating different spaces. For me, it’s about connecting people who are interested in artists from the Black diaspora and people who are interested in new ideas.

Artwork in the background by yagazi emezi

Yagazie Emezi: Homecoming 2024

TITILAYO: Many galleries focus purely on commercial activity, but yours places a strong emphasis on African art and diasporic creative practices. How do you balance the commercial realities of running a gallery with the mission-driven side of elevating underrepresented artists and stories.

DADA: They’re not separate things. We still primarily show a lot of paintings and sculptures; we show a lot of art that you can sell, so there’s still commercial viability. A good gallery has a balance of that, but also has space for things that are more experimental, things you can’t quite make money from but that add to the gallery’s reputation and still bring people into the space. You might not necessarily make any money from it, but there are other ways to make money as well, which I think galleries should explore. There are ways of working with brands or different partners that don’t always rely on the individual collector. How do we look at art outside of the individual collector? How do we capture mass audiences?

TITILAYO: What were some of the key challenges you faced when opening a physical space in Lagos, and conversely, what advantages do you see for artists and collectors in Nigeria that are unique?

DADA: As with everything that has to do with Nigeria, there’s a lot of chasing, a lot of back and forth; doing business here is not always straightforward. At the same time, there’s a lot of opportunity because we can focus on nurturing talent and bringing high-quality art into the ecosystem. It’s about centering Lagos as a place for convergence and community, bringing international artists to Lagos, which I think is important, while also creating a platform where they can exchange ideas with people in the city. I think that creates a nice synergy, because the city is not only learning, but it’s taking and giving at the same time. Being able to create that is really special.

That’s also what informed our inaugural exhibition, which brings together artists from the Black diaspora, Brazil, Austria, the United Kingdom, and America. Bringing all these artists together, artists who otherwise might not have met or who have never even been to Lagos, there’s something really powerful about that. We’re really activating the city in that way.

A painting of a black woman by Sahara Longe

Sahara Longe: Green and purple nude, 2025

TITILAYO: In July, DADA gallery collaborated with Gabriel Moses on his Saleh exhibition tour. Could you tell us how that project came about, what made it special, and how it reflects in your broader vision for art and culture?

DADA: So we did a tour with him that was called DADA. What we do with the club is, for artists that I like and that I know people are interested in, I reach out to them and ask them to host us. We create a space for people to not only meet each other but also to meet the artist. In terms of why I chose him for the art club, it was because Gabriel Moses is such an incredible artist, and he’s doing some of the most culturally relevant work. For such a young artist, the breadth of his work is huge, and I thought it would be great to have people experience that.

TITILAYO: Looking ahead, what are you most excited for and how do you see the gallery evolving in the coming years?

DADA: I’m most excited to just have the permanent physical space. It’s so powerful; there’s so much you can do. Although the pop-up model was freeing, it was also limiting at the same time. There’s nothing like having a place to call home, to continue doing your program, and to really contribute to the city. I’m very excited to host some incredible artists in Lagos and help nurture talent in the city as well. I’m also very excited about the kind of programming we can do; the vision is so broad that the sky is the limit for what we can do with the Lagos space. I’m very excited for new beginnings and the next chapter, ready to go headfirst and see what we can do. 

TITILAYO: For emerging artists or creative entrepreneurs who might be debating a big pivot like the one you took; from a stable profession into the art-world risk, what advice would you give them? What mindset, habits, or strategies helped you navigate that transition successfully?

DADA: Take your time. I think it’s very important to be practical in terms of money and your plan. For me, because I was able to experiment and test out ideas while I had a stable full-time job, it really gave me a lot of data that I could use. Not everyone can do that, but if you can start while you’re still working, that’s very good because then you know what you’re getting into.

Being patient and actually committing the time, everything takes sacrifices. You have to be ready to do that and be patient with yourself as well. There were times when I was working and I just felt like I was doing nothing or felt like I wasn’t doing enough, but that’s part of the process, really. When it’s time, you’ll know, but you really need to not be afraid. Listen to yourself, really.

TITILAYO: To wrap up, who are some artists you’re currently excited about or inspired by?

DADA: There are some really incredible artists, both in Africa and outside of Africa, that we’re excited to work with. The artist for the opening exhibition, Sahara Longe, is an incredible painter I’ve been following for years, so we’re really honored to have her. Silvanah Mendes, Larissa de Souza, these are artists we’ve announced for the exhibition. We’re looking forward to discovering new talent, as well as working with already established artists.

set of three artworks by Taylor Simmons

Taylor Simmons. | Holding, 2023 | Patron, 2023 | Black man fashion, 2023.

Rebirth on an Island: On Light, Time, and Space with Mariko Mori

Mariko Mori: Radiance at Sean Kelly, New York, October 31 – December 20, 2025, Photography: Jason Wyche, Courtesy: Sean Kelly, New York

interview by Alper Kurtul

Tokyo’s energy, New York’s boundless creativity, and Miyako Island’s quiet, almost womb-like protective nature. Japanese artist Mariko Mori redefines light, time, and space as she moves between these different worlds. Her latest project, Radiance, brings together ancient stone spirituality and advanced technology to make the invisible visible. Her self-designed home, Yuputira, which she dedicates to the sun god, is not merely a living space for her; it is the architecture of becoming one with nature. Ahead of her upcoming retrospective, Mori shares with us both the source of her creativity and the enduring meaning of silence in the contemporary world.

ALPER KURTUL: I’d love to begin with Radiance. It’s such a luminous project, both visually and conceptually. Radiance brings together ancient stone spirituality and advanced materials. What first drew you to connect the sacred and the scientific in one visual language?

MARIKO MORI: Yes, these ancient stones, which we can call divine stones, are believed to be landing stones of nature gods, or sometimes the gods themselves live within them. This tradition started during the Jōmon era, probably around 1500 BC, but it developed further during the Kofun period, between the 5th and 7th centuries. Even today, people still worship these divine stones.

Instead of focusing on the physicality of the stone, I wanted to interpret the existence of this divine stone, making the invisible visible. To do that, I used a medium that could project the feeling of the stone’s metaphysical aspect rather than its physical one.

Mariko Mori, Unity VIII, 2024

KURTUL: I was also reading about Yuputira. How does inhabiting a space you designed change your daily relationship with light and creation?

MORI: Yes, it was my dream for about fifteen years. It truly was a dream come true, something I had long envisioned. Producing it was such a joy because it was like bringing a wish into reality. I also enjoyed collaborating with different craftsmen. It was exciting to use technology to create forms that were not possible fifty years ago. It was worth the wait because now we have 3D printing and new tools. I probably made around 30 different models of the house. It was really fun to do.

At first, I felt a little pressure to produce truly great work from that studio, but I began to enjoy being there because it represented my vision of heaven on Earth, together with nature, a feeling of oneness with it. Every day, you witness the passage of time, moment to moment, as nature changes, the sea’s low tide and high tide, the sky’s shifting colors. It is endlessly changing, never the same.

The beauty of nature made a huge impact on me and really opened my mind toward it. I do feel quite isolated because it is remote, like living in my own bubble, but I also feel protected and nurtured by nature. I love it there and never want to leave, but I have to work, so I cannot stay for long periods. I go back and forth and try to spend as much time as I can. It is really like heaven on Earth for me.

KURTUL: It feels like an inspirational place for you, and also a very personal one. Is that feeling of being nurtured a source of inspiration? 

MORI: Yes, very much so. The village I belong to is quite far away, but still part of that community, and it has a beautiful sacred site that I often visit. It is very powerful. The island itself is deeply rooted in this culture, with around 500 sacred sites where about 70,000 people live. The rituals have been passed down since the 13th century and continue today.

 

Mariko Mori, Oshito Stone III, 2025

 

KURTUL: I also love how you ground your architectural works in mythology. Yuputira was inspired by the island’s sun god, and I’m curious about how that divine symbolism shapes the way you perceive time, solitude, and renewal in your life as an artist.

MORI: Yes, it is my way to honor the local culture. Unfortunately, even though some areas continue to perform these rituals, the village I belong to no longer practices them. I was afraid this important tradition might disappear, because those names are preserved in songs. During the rituals, people would pray and sing these songs, but since no one performs them anymore, they risk being lost.

Therefore, I wanted to honor the local sun god, which is why I named the house Yuputira. The meaning is also important: yupu means indulgence or richness, and tira means sun. So, it means “rich sun,” symbolizing the sun that gives harvest. People were wishing for abundance from the sun, which I believe is why they named it that way. I wanted this place to receive the energy of the sun and evoke a feeling of fulfillment.

I also designed the openings of the windows to directly respond to the sun’s path. I wanted this architecture to honor the sun.

 

Mariko Mori, Kamitate Stone I, 2025

 

KURTUL: The stones in Radiance feel alive. They seem to hold something ancient but almost futuristic as well. What kind of presence or silence do you think stones still carry in a world ruled by technology?

MORI: When you stand in front of these sacred stones, you feel a very heavy physical presence. But I imagined that these stones are full of light, perhaps connected to the world of light and receiving the light within. That was my imagination when I visited many sacred sites. It felt universal to all divine stones.

It was my way to visualize the metaphysical feeling of the stone. I was able to do that through new technology. Even though the material is physical, I try to transform something that you cannot see within the real stone.

KURTUL: You also have a major retrospective coming up. What excites you most about seeing your work interpreted through Alexandra Munroe and Mami Kataoka, through these two distinct curatorial lenses?

MORI: Alexandra Munroe has a very deep understanding of Japanese contemporary art history, and not only of the philosophical background of Japan, such as Buddhism and Shintoism, but also of the international art community through the Guggenheim. That balance is very exciting.

Mami, coming from Japan, has more insight from within and a deep knowledge of contemporary art from around the world, both Western and Eastern. They are in the same field but have different strengths. I feel very privileged to have these two strong curators bringing together this retrospective. I am very excited about it. Through them, I hope to reach not only the art world but also a broader audience.

KURTUL: The collaboration between the Mori Art Museum and the Guggenheim feels like a genuine dialogue between East and West. What do you hope this partnership communicates about Japanese spirituality in a global art context?

MORI: I cannot really speak for them, as we are still developing and collaborating. The structure of the exhibition is mostly complete, but we still have to work on the details. I am looking forward to having more conversations with them. It is truly joyful work.

 

Mariko Mori, Love II, 2025

 

KURTUL: Your trajectory from the futuristic to the spiritual is fascinating. What inner or creative shift led you from posthuman cyborg imagery to meditative installations?

MORI: When I was producing Esoteric Cosmos, I visited all the sites and photographed the backdrops myself. At that time, Photoshop did not exist; there was no AI or digital editing. I had to travel physically with a photographer to capture the backgrounds. I visited the Painted Desert in Arizona, the Dead Sea in Israel, and Turpan in China, seeking landscapes that matched my vision.

While visiting these places, I was confronted with vast, powerful, and overwhelming nature, especially in the Painted Desert. At the same time, Esoteric Cosmos was about the iconography of esoteric Buddhism, so I was studying Buddhism deeply. Both experiences—the philosophical study and the direct encounter with immense nature—happened in parallel and opened my mind. They led me to a deeper exploration of Buddhism and to the spiritual dimension that began to inform my later works.

KURTUL: The parallel between your study of Buddhism and your encounters with nature really opened my mind, too. Your installations also evoke strong emotional responses. What role does emptiness play in how you design these environments? I feel like your installations make people feel rather than just observe.

MORI: When you are full, you cannot conceive. But when you are empty, you have limitless space. When your mind is full of many things, it becomes a closed world. But when your mind is empty, you are suddenly connected to the whole world. You open up to limitless space and endless time. That is the symbolism of void and emptiness that I learned from Buddhist philosophy.

That is why, in Yuputira, I have quite empty rooms. They open up to unlimited possibilities.

KURTUL: You divide your time between such diverse energies, like Tokyo, New York, and Miyako Island. How do these environments feed or challenge your spiritual and creative practice?

MORI: I would say New York and Miyako Island are complete opposites. It is almost like going from hot to cold, two extremes. In New York, there is so much energy from people. The people are very engaging, and that creates an amazing kind of energy, intellectually and culturally, with people from all over the world. It is a very dynamic mix, and it is wonderful.

Since I first came to New York in 1992, I have always been encouraged to do what seems impossible. There is no other place in the world that inspires you to challenge yourself in that way. I love this attitude of pushing limits.

Meanwhile, in Miyako Island, I feel nurtured by nature, almost like being in a mother’s womb, very protected. In New York, it is like being whipped, and in Miyako Island, it is like being soothed with sugar. They are opposites, but for me, it is a necessary balance. New York expects you to give — to have energy, ideas, and creativity to share. Miyako Island gives that energy back. I feel completely recharged there and ready to return to New York.

KURTUL: Yes, and decharged here in New York as well.
MORI: Yes. I am also encouraged by the people in New York. I dream here, and then I go back to Miyako Island to execute those dreams.

KURTUL: Finally, Radiance feels like both a culmination and a new beginning. If Radiance marks a turning point before the retrospective, what do you feel you are radiating toward next, both personally and artistically?

MORI: I would like to project hope. We hear so much news about uncertainty in society, and people may develop fear, but we must always keep hope and project the future. I hope this exhibition encourages people to project light toward the future. I wish that when people come to see the exhibition, they find their own inner light to carry forward.

In Dialogue with the Present: Read an Interview of Designer Ying Gao

Mirrors collection menswear and womenswear

All Mirrors Collection. Photography by Malina Corpadean.

interview by Lola Titilayo

What happens when couture meets code? Montréal-based fashion designer Ying Gao is recognized for consistently pushing the boundaries of fashion through her exploration of fabric manipulation, interactivity, and technology. The use of unconventional materials to make wearable art is prominent in her work, as evidenced in her All Mirrors 2024 collection, made of soft mirrors and 18-karat gold finishing. In 2023, her In Camera collection experimented with reactivity in fashion design by coming to life when photographed. Even as early as 2017, she made waves with interactive fingerprint technology that only recognizes strangers in her Possible Tomorrows collection. The infusion of technology in her work adds a sense of movement and interaction that captivates audiences, and each collection has a special story to tell.

From fashion design to lecturing at the Université du Québec à Montréal, Ying Gao has had an incredibly extensive career already. She also served as head of the fashion, jewelry, and accessories design program at HEAD Genève from 2013 to 2015 and has presented her creative work in over 100 exhibitions around the world with 16 official collections.

LOLA TITILAYO: You’ve developed a unique practice at the intersection of fashion, technology, and philosophy. Could you share how your journey began; where you come from, and how your experiences and background have influenced your fascination with design and innovation?

YING GAO: My path has always been shaped by displacement, between countries, languages, and systems of thought. I grew up between Switzerland and China, between different structures and imagination, in places where order mattered as much as invention. When I discovered fashion, I didn’t see it as an industry, but as a medium for reflection—a way to question materiality and identity. Technology entered naturally, not as a tool of progress but as a means to disturb perception. Montréal, where I live and work now, offers the right distance from the fashion capitals and the freedom to think differently. Here, experimentation is not only tolerated; it is expected.

TITILAYO: Let’s dive into your new work, Charlotte and Everybody Else [2025]. This collection explores faces that don’t exist in the real world, yet seem real enough to deceive recognition systems. What draws you to this boundary between the real and the artificial?

GAO: This work began with a simple question: What if we could create a face that belongs to no one, yet seems entirely plausible? A face that could trick not only a machine, but our own empathy. We live surrounded by systems that authenticate, verify, and categorize. Charlotte and Everybody Else is a reversal of that process; it fabricates illusion until illusion becomes credible. What attracts me is the tension between intimacy and fiction. These faces are ghosts of data, assembled by an algorithm, yet they awaken something human. They are both mirror and mask. I am interested in that brief moment of uncertainty, when recognition collapses, when the image stops being someone and becomes everyone.

Collection exploring facial recognition systems

Charlotte and Everybody Else. Photography byVincent René Lortie

TITILAYO: This piece is both a critique and a product of algorithmic potential; is technology an ally to you? An adversary, or something in between?

GAO: Technology is neither an ally nor an adversary. It is a medium, a mirror of our collective anxieties and desires. I treat it as a collaborator that resists simplification. It amplifies fragility, exposes our need for control, and sometimes reveals the absurdity of our own systems. When it fails, it becomes poetic. I am interested in this instability, where the machine is not simply an extension of human intention, but an autonomous presence capable of contradiction and failures.

TITILAYO: Fashion often revolves around the idea of creativity and self-expression, while algorithms are more rigid. How do you reconcile these opposing impulses in your work?

GAO: I don’t see them as opposites. Both fashion and algorithms rely on structure, rules, and patterns. What differs is intention. In my work, I let the algorithm introduce resistance into the creative process. It becomes a partner that generates complexity rather than predictability. The garment, in turn, negotiates between intuition and logic. The result is rather a tension.

TITILAYO: Can you talk about the specific technologies used in this project? For example, how do the faces ripple in response to the authentication system?

GAO: The project combines an identification protocol with a responsive surface system. Actuators and translucent composites translate digital uncertainty into physical movement. When the authentication process detects an anomaly, the signal triggers a subtle ripple across the facial surface, a gesture both mechanical and algorithmic. The movement is minimal, but it reveals the system’s doubt, materializing the space between data and uncertainty. The faces do not imitate life; they render visible the fragility of verification itself.

TITILAYO: In your 2024 collection, All Mirrors, you reference Umberto Eco’s idea that “mirrors provide both an impression of virtuality and an impression of reality.” How did you interpret that duality in your work?

GAO: A mirror is always ambiguous; it confirms presence while creating distance. In All Mirrors, I wanted to design garments that behave like mirrors: reflective but porous, tangible yet elusive. They don’t simply return an image; they question it. What you see is never exactly what is there. For me, that duality echoes the way we navigate identity today, oscillating between visibility and erasure, reality and simulation.

 
Mirrors collection menswear

All Mirrors Collection. Photography by Malina Corpadean.

 

TITILAYO: Still on your All Mirrors collection, how do you balance texture, motion, and functionality in your designs?

GAO: These elements form an “ensemble” rather than a hierarchy. Texture is what seduces, motion introduces time, functionality brings everything back to the body. I work with materials that retain a memory of movement, such as soft robotics, as well as reflective and flexible composites. The challenge is to create garments that remain unstable; tactile yet unpredictable.

TITILAYO: To what extent does being based in Montréal shape your perspective on design and technology in your work?

GAO: Being based in Montréal matters deeply. It is not a neutral location; it’s a city between languages, between speeds. I live and think in French, then in English, and in Chinese. This gives a different rhythm to the way I approach design. The French language carries nuance and delay. To me, it resists immediacy. That affects how I build a project, how I let an idea unfold. Montréal is a bilingual city, but for me, it remains profoundly francophone in its sensibility: curious, critical, open, and slightly detached from global acceleration. It’s not a city of excess; it’s a city of negotiation, of hybrid systems. That context allows me to work in the pauses and the intervals. It keeps me alert, and perhaps a little out of step, which I value.

TITILAYO: You’re also a professor at the Université du Québec à Montréal. How has teaching influenced your creative practice, and what subjects do you focus on with your students?

GAO: Teaching keeps me in dialogue with the present. My students move through an excess of images and information, yet they search for meaning within it. Watching how they make sense of this noise forces me to question my own pace. It’s a reciprocal process; their way of seeing redefines mine, and that exchange keeps the work intellectually alive. I teach fashion design in a broad sense, less about trend or style, more about influence and context. We talk about literature, film, and politics as much as about garments, because fashion is always a reflection of its time, its fears, and its desires. What I try to transmit is curiosity and a certain freedom of thought. I want them to see beyond their screens, to connect form with meaning. Teaching reminds me that fashion design should be a social act before it becomes an aesthetic one.

TITILAYO: Do the students inform or challenge your creative process?

GAO: Absolutely. My students question a lot of things, influences, function, intention, meaning. Their curiosity obliges me to revisit my own assumptions. They bring a freshness and urgency that prevents the work from becoming complacent. Their intuition often points to what matters most: how a garment can provoke reflection rather than please.

TITILAYO: What do you envision the future of fashion and technology to look like?

GAO: I imagine a future that is less about spectacle and more about consciousness. Technology will continue to evolve, but the true innovation will come from our ability to use it with restraint. Fashion will not disappear; it will transform into a form of awareness. I see garments as quiet interfaces, capable of remembering, hesitating. The most radical gesture might be simplicity, the ability of a piece to reveal its intelligence without showing it.

In camera collection piece

In Camera collection. Photography by Maude Arsenault

2526 collection, tech wear

2526 collection. Photography by Maude Arsenault

Looking Would Create A Cord: An Interview of Abbey Meaker

A window into the redolent chambers of Abbey Meaker’s MOTHERHOUSE


interview by Summer Bowie

they pass through doors but do not leave
they see through the windows but do not look
looking would create a cord
and the outside would pull
— Abbey Meaker


In the summer of 2012, I visited the decommissioned St. Joseph’s Orphanage in Burlington, Vermont, with the polymathic visual artist and writer Abbey Meaker for the first and only time, to bear witness to her documenting the space. Upon entering, I knew nothing of the premises or its history, except that it was the former residence of her grandfather and great-uncle, whom she had never known. The air had an inexplicable weight to it, as though it were filled with lead particulates, and it felt like my heart was being held in a vice. I later read numerous violent testimonies from the children who lived there and about those who were disappeared, like Abbey’s great uncle. We also visited the nearby Mount Saint Mary’s Convent, which had a wholly inverse energy. Its private chapel bathed in natural light felt like an ebullient sanctuary. Still, what connected the two spaces, which had undergone minimal modifications since the late 1800s, were the former living quarters in each. A haunting chiaroscuro was created by the sunlight’s dauntless efforts to break through the shutters, curtains, and blinds that covered each window, all of which remained after the buildings had become inoperative and left in dire states of disrepair. Thirteen years later, Meaker has curated the resulting images into a book of photographs called MOTHERHOUSE that serves as an uncannily vivid portrait of what it felt like to occupy these illusory spaces.

SUMMER BOWIE: I’d like to start with your earliest memories of learning about the orphanage and the convent.

ABBEY MEAKER: I have a vague, nebulous memory of my mom telling me about her dad when I was about ten and we were living in the house she grew up in. We were driving by the orphanage where he grew up, so she pointed it out to me, and it had a really powerful presence. From there, I just became obsessed with it. For years, every time I drove by, I would stare at it. Or if I went to the beach, you could cut through the back of what was then the Catholic Diocese, and the orphanage part of the building was vacant. So, you could sneak through the backyard, but it sprawled across many acres directly to the lake. I even tried breaking into it a couple of times. 

BOWIE: So, you had never even heard about your grandfather until you were around ten years old?

MEAKER: My mom never talked about him much. The man I thought of as my grandfather was my step-grandfather. My biological grandfather, Arthur, I knew virtually nothing about because he died when my mom was seven. There’s this lore about his brother, Gilbert, who was sick, and my grandfather broke him out of the orphanage in the middle of the night and carried him on his back all the way to his dad’s house in Richmond—twenty miles maybe. But by the time he got there, Gilbert was dead. Over the years, though, there were changes in the story about whether he was already dead and Arthur wanted to bring his body home, or if he had died on the way. 

BOWIE: With that little known, it would almost seem like he just never even existed.

MEAKER: There’s no images of him. There’s no birth or death certificate. He exists only in these stories, in these memories. 

BOWIE: So, when did you finally manage to get into the orphanage?

MEAKER: In 2012, I heard that Burlington College [a small liberal arts school where Bernie Sanders’ wife, Jane, was president at the time] facilitated the purchase of the Catholic Diocese building. As soon as I heard that the school was there, I enrolled and gained access for the first time. 

BOWIE: How did the series evolve over time?

MEAKER: Firstly, the school was operating in a 1950s addition to the original structure. When the orphanage closed, a lot was removed, but a lot was left behind. Students weren’t allowed in there, but a photography professor would sneak me in a few times a week over the course of about three years. At first, I was just consuming the empty spaces and the light, and discovering this place that I had been yearning to see for so long. I was just running around haphazardly taking photos, which is why a lot of them are underexposed.

BOWIE: One of the things I immediately noticed about the work, once I saw it in print, is how counterintuitively they become more cinematic when you take them off the screen. Can you talk about that visceral quality of each room, the way you walk in a room and can immediately hear its score and imagine how people once occupied the space?

MEAKER: There’s a really pronounced absence. Paradoxically, that absence creates a sense of presence due to the large number of people who passed through there over the hundred years it was in operation. That presence still makes it feel full. I do remember vividly crossing the threshold from the ’50s addition into the original structure, and it felt like I was entering a portal—which is overused, but there was a distinct shift in feeling. The air felt really voluminous. It just felt extremely thick. 

BOWIE: It was thick. I’ve never felt anything like that before, where your lungs feel like they’re working a lot harder than they should be. I could actually feel my heart tightening. It was very, very strange.

MEAKER: I’ve had so many conversations with people who were staunchly convinced that my knowledge of the history and the abuse that took place there was informing my perception of the space. But then, people would go in with no knowledge and feel something. 

BOWIE: I didn’t know anything about it when I walked in, and I felt it immediately—and I’ve never been someone who felt particularly sensitive to things like that. What I love about the way you photographed the space is that you’re great at capturing those fleeting moments when the light is filtered through the windows in the most spectacular ways. How many hours were you spending there at a time to find those moments?

MEAKER: It’s interesting that you put it that way because that’s kind of how I describe my practice overall. Whether it’s an interior space with a history or in the natural environment, I find photos in a very intuitive way. I’ll walk around observing, and then I’m drawn to something. Initially, I was moving at such a fast pace because I could only be in there very briefly, so I would try to consume as much as possible. But then over time, I became more or less acclimated to it. I would spend two to four hours at a time there and just wander around. I would make sure I was there when the light was stronger to make sure that I had those moments. I’d walk into a room and it would just be like that.

BOWIE: Do you remember approximately when you wrote the poem about the windows, and can you describe the role that windows and mirrors play in these structures?

MEAKER: I wrote the poem about a year ago when I went to the convent. Eight or nine years had passed between my last visit to the orphanage and my time at the convent, and I was reminded of the feeling of being in this space with so many windows, yet the outside world felt so far away. When I thought of it in the context of the convent, I was considering the allure of the outside and the difficulty one might face in remaining committed to the inside. I was an outsider who’s not religious at all putting myself in the position of what I imagined the nuns there to be. I thought that they probably wouldn’t have been able to look deeply at the outside because they would be pulled.

BOWIE: I’m curious about the nun figure, who is wholly absent and yet deeply imbued in all of these images. What does she mean to you?

MEAKER: When I was at the orphanage, the nuns struck me as these uncanny figures because they were meant to be caregivers, but many of them were also monstrous and abusive. There are lists of nuns that were part of that order, the Sisters of Providence, but there’s no way of knowing who was abusive and who was kind. They were just very mysterious to me. So, I went digging in the University of Vermont Collections to find portraits of nuns that either lived there or at the convent and that wasn’t documented, so I found the portraits that I liked and projected them on the walls of the rooms where they lived, and they became these huge spectral images, and then I rephotographed them. I was so intrigued and repelled by their monstrous quality. I felt afraid.

BOWIE: As a specter within the space, it feels like everything but their image lives there. It makes sense to add that visual component to accompany the energy that’s left behind. 

MEAKER: In that context, knowing the history does inform the atmosphere. 

BOWIE: There’s something about these images where what initially seems almost too banal to draw your attention reveals itself to be layered with feelings and questions. Do these details reveal themselves to you slowly, or do you feel like they pull you in pretty immediately?

MEAKER: The atmosphere there was just so incredibly strong. Every corner was filled with it. I’m always curious if what I feel gets translated in the images, and in these, it clearly is, because everyone who’s looked at these seemingly banal, empty rooms feels they’re very full of something. 

 
 

BOWIE: Sometimes it’ll be a peculiar detail that feels out of place, like one curtain that is reaching for another in a very strange way. Other times, it’s the oddly perfect geometry of things. It speaks to the way that even the architecture mirrors the fastidiousness of the religion. These Catholic orphanages and convents became centralized institutions of both service and power to many cities and towns throughout New England, Canada, and the entire British Commonwealth in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. What do families like yours, who have been rooted in Burlington for multiple generations, share with others from around the world whose ancestors occupied similar spaces? 

MEAKER: The curious thing about this project is that I don’t know a lot about my history. There’s a lot of lore, but nothing concrete. Part of my attraction to the orphanage was a desire to feel a connection to this unknowable family and history. At the book release celebration, a friend asked me, “So how long has your family lived in Vermont?” and I’m like, “I don’t know.” It’s strange to say that because part of the story is that my mom’s father’s grandmother was an illegally adopted Abenaki child. [The Abenaki are an Indigenous people of the Northeastern Woodlands of Canada and the US.]

BOWIE: There are so many stories of displacement and disappearance. There’s a shared ambiguity amongst families from so many parts of the world, but even for those who know their stories, the epigenetic trauma remains.

MEAKER: If it’s true about my great, great-grandmother, then that really opened the door to all of it. My mom had a daughter when she was sixteen, whom I only learned about two years ago. My father also had a child taken away from him, whom I learned about when I was fourteen. 

BOWIE: Is it fair to say that even your family, which is not religious, was so culturally affected by the religion that major life decisions, major ruptures in the family, were still very much instigated by the shame that Christianity imposes?

MEAKER: I had never heard the word God until I was around six and a babysitter told me about this God figure. I had no idea what she was talking about. But it was because of religion and the shame of her teenage pregnancy that my mom was hidden away during her pregnancy, and then her daughter was adopted. She returned home as if nothing had happened, and no one knew. Her mom, who died ten years ago, knew. And when she had told me, I was then the only person who knew. 

BOWIE: It’s an interesting juxtaposition to the way we live now. There is such an extensive digital footprint of everyone and every tiny thing that they’ve done in their life. Every mundane little detail is recorded. 

MEAKER: There’s a real absence of records. My mom throws everything away. She doesn’t keep anything. 

BOWIE: Sounds liberating to a certain degree. 

MEAKER: Yeah, but in the absence of things, there’s also an absence of empathy and curiosity and passion.

BOWIE: That’s so fascinating. There’s an austerity to that, which has its own connection to Catholicism.

MEAKER: You think of a monastic little bedroom with one chair.

 
 

BOWIE: You’ve talked about the connection between this series and many others that you’ve taken in nature, sharing the capacity of making you feel transported in some way. Where are you currently going to find that feeling?

MEAKER: The woods. It’s the fifth year that every fall and winter, I go to the floodplains when the trees are bare, and I’m still not finished with that. There’s something about the floodplains that feels different from other forests. The river comes in, takes things away, and provides nutrients. There’s a real alive quality there that I’m engaging with. 

MOTHERHOUSE was published by Another Earth an independent publisher of artist books, tapes, and ephemera.

Masterpieces Everywhere: What to Expect From Clément Delépine’s Third & Final Act As Director of Art Basel Paris

Clément Delépine
Director, Art Basel Paris
Photography by Inès Manai for Art Basel. Courtesy of Art Basel.

interview by Summer Bowie

For those of us who are insatiable art enthusiasts, arranging one’s art fair agenda is an art unto itself. It not only requires a close study of all that is on offer throughout the week and the precise timing of transport in between, but a realistic expectation of energetic reserves and proper meal planning. With that in mind, it’s difficult to imagine how one might ever go about organizing an annual program of this magnitude. Art Basel Paris Director Clément Delépine is a master architect of the art fair if there ever were one. Having cut his teeth as co-director of Paris Internationale starting in 2016, he has spent the past decade refining this rarefied practice that is a perplexing combination of curation, commerce, civic diplomacy, and social design. Aside from the 206 exhibitors at the Grand Palais, this year’s fair includes 67 events comprising performances, talks, satellite exhibitions, and guided tours in collaboration with 9 official institutional partners within the City of Light. As the drone of chatter about the declining global economy beats like a rolling snare drum, attracting a broad and diverse audience while striking the right balance of education, entertainment, and alimentation seems an impossible feat. And yet, Art Basel Paris is once again one of the most anticipated events of the art world calendar. 

BOWIE: I want to start all the way at the beginning of your art career because you truly worked your way from the bottom. You started as an intern at the Swiss Institute, then moved up the ladder to eventually become the artistic director. And then, you became co-director of Paris Internationale before your current position as director of Art Basel Paris. Have you always had this blind ambition, or did it all happen more organically?

DELEPINE: Ever since I was a child I knew that I was destined for this. (laughs) No, I’ve been very lucky because I didn’t study art history—I was just responding to different opportunities. I moved to New York to escape a PhD program that I wasn’t disciplined enough to carry through. And then, I was offered an internship at the Swiss Institute. Eventually, the gallery manager was fired and I was asked to replace him, so my mom helped me with 5,000 euros to pay for a visa. From there, it all just accumulated. I met the right people, and back then in New York, you could invent yourself completely, and chances were given.

BOWIE: Was it the opportunity to direct Paris Internationale that brought you back to Paris?

DELEPINE: Well, not really. The real reason I moved back to Paris was because my wife and I wanted to have a child. I was born and raised in Paris, and I spent a lot of time in Zurich, but nonetheless, Paris was my hometown. When I was growing up it was a very hostile city, but since then it changed a lot. I came back to Paris from New York in 2016. And just by chance, I met a couple of gallerist friends from Galerie Gregor Staiger in Zurich. They had founded Paris Internationale the year before with Silvia Ammon who needed an accomplice, so to speak, and they offered me the job as co-director of the fair. At that point, I had been a curator of a non-profit and I had been an artistic director of a commercial gallery, but I was slightly afraid that working for a fair would be confusing—that it would give the impression that I didn’t know what I wanted to do, which in fact was the case. However, I decided to embrace the opportunity and it was very satisfying. So, I ended up doing that for five years, and ever since, the city started to feel very open and international and cosmopolitan again, so it felt like the right context.

Installation view of Alex Da Corte’s performance Kermit The Frog, Even, Fridericianum, Kassel, 2024.
Courtesy of the artist and Fridericianum, Kassel
The project will take place at Place Vendôme in Paris

BOWIE: The timing of that is very interesting too because it marks the beginning of the first Trump administration and also of Brexit. You got out of this mess that I’m in at just the right time. (laughs) But also since Brexit, there’s been this major surge in international galleries opening outposts in Paris. How would you characterize the current art scene there now?

DELEPINE: It’s a very vibrant dynamic, I have to say. Brexit was really the entry point for the European Union asserting its own art economy. Italy just passed a lower VAT rate [Italy’s value added tax was at 22% before Brexit]. It just went down to 5.5%. It has been 5% in France for some time now, so it was very helpful for the French market. Acquisitions were always the most important market within the EU and for the art market globally, so it’s very active. There is a much bigger community of galleries, and an unparalleled institutional landscape of public museums and private foundations. When I was in New York, the Paris scene was perceived as very dusty, but since 2016, there’s been a lot of new dynamics. These things work in cycles, of course, but back then, London was the economic center and the epicenter was Berlin. Now it seems like Paris combines those things, which is a good alignment of the stars for us. The gallery scene in Paris has many heavy hitters now like David Zwirner and Hauser & Wirth, who opened at great scale, and they wouldn’t do that if they didn’t trust that the French model could sustain it. So, It’s good energy at the moment.

BOWIE: Has the increase in art galleries led to a rise in artists working in Paris?

DELEPINE: I would say yes, but it’s a perfectly subjective question. What I can say is that my Instagram feed is full of young artists in search of sublets or apartments, and it really gives me Berlin vibes from the mid aughts, which is quite encouraging. Real estate is expensive, though. Paris is not extremely affordable, but it seems cheaper than other European capitals—London and Zurich, for instance. You can still find studio apartments, and it’s a very small, dense city. Plus, it’s very central. From here you can reach pretty much anywhere in the world.

BOWIE: Can you describe one recent artwork that made a profound impression on you?

DELEPINE: I just came back from Uzbekistan, where I went to attend the Bukhara Biennial that Diana Campbell curated, and her curatorial premise was to bring artists and artisans from Uzbekistan who emphasize the healing and transformational power of art. I attended a performance called the Bukhara Peace Agency Sozandas conceived by Anna Lublina, who’s a theater director. It was storytelling coupled with traditional Uzbek dance and song. This was in the context of an art biennial, which is meant to bring the work of these artists and artisans into the global art dialogue, but it was equally made for an audience of locals. There were many families and kids running everywhere next to a 13th century mosque. It was profoundly beautiful.

BOWIE: I want to turn now to Art Basel Paris to ask you about some of the successes of the inaugural edition that visitors can expect again and what will be different?

Art Basel Paris
Courtesy of Art Basel

DELEPINE: The inaugural edition at the Grand Palais was a success in the sense that it was one of the most anticipated events on the art fair calendar last year. We were also the first event to follow the Olympics, so the Grand Palais had been closed for five years. This meant that we had to plan for it while essentially blindfolded, because the renovation got delayed and we couldn’t access the building—first due to the Olympics, and then because of Chanel. So, it was a real leap of faith. The day before the opening while standing from the balcony to see what came together with the team was a very moving moment, and all of that is coming back.

There are slight changes on the floor plan because we mapped out the directory more precisely. Some galleries have moved, we’ve reinforced the signage and the experience in terms of food and beverage, the restaurant au Grand Palais is open, so there are more quality options to choose from, and we’ve created a new reception to welcome guests in a more fluid and breathable fashion. We’ve also reinforced the partner program, which is the institutional component of the fair. That takes place across nine sites throughout the city, and we’ve turned Avenue Winston Churchill, which separates the Grand Palais from the Petit Palais into a pedestrian space. Then, there is the conversations program, which will feature a full day of conversations curated by Edward Enninful, among many others. It's extremely abundant and, I hope, generous.

BOWIE: Nearly a third of this year’s exhibitors are either French or operate within the country. Why was it so important to maintain such a high ratio of French representation?

DELEPINE: Because it’s important to be anchored within the French scene. In terms of narrative, it needs to say something different than Art Basel or Art Basel Miami or Hong Kong or Doha, and it needs to serve a different purpose. When you cater to the same audience five times a year, you have to offer something different. Besides the Grand Palais, which is highly recognizable, I want the visitors to look at the floor plan and immediately know that they’re not in Basel. On the one hand, it’s a commitment to the city, and on the other hand, it’s a promise made to our visitors that it’s worth coming to Paris.

BOWIE: The art fair fatigue is a very real thing, so there’s a lot to be said for a site-specific offering. The fair also brings together galleries from forty-one different countries. Last year, we saw work from Lambda Lambda Lambda, which is the only contemporary art gallery from Kosovo with international recognition. Can you talk about your approach to diversity and balance when curating the exhibitors list?

DELEPINE: Absolutely. The fair aims to celebrate excellence within each segment of the market. It’s important to identify the leading voices within each community and to serve wide and emerging audiences. I want the visitors of Art Basel Paris to be confronted with galleries that frame the conversations, whether they take place at the very forefront of the avant-garde or in the most well-known art galleries. The last Venice Biennale theme was Foreigners Everywhere, and if the fair had a theme I would want it to be titled Masterpieces Everywhere. Whether that be a masterpiece from an emerging artist or Pablo Picasso, we have to look beyond any specific geography or market. Earlier this year, I visited the Islamic Arts Biennial in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, which was all about challenging the notion that the West is the art world’s center of gravity. The canon should not be exempt from Western influence, but the rest of the world should not be belittled by it either. Ultimately, you serve the French scene when you position it on the same foothold as the excellency of the international scene; you create context.

BOWIE: You’ve always championed multidisciplinary dialogues as well. This fair in particular, embraces the blurring of lines between art and fashion. What do these disciplines gain from one another?

DELEPINE: These disciplines have often flirted with one another without always holding hands in public. But clearly, the inter-penetration, so to speak, has been made more obvious. I’m thinking of several fashion designers who are important art collectors, like Hedi Slimane, Jonathan Anderson, Raf Simons, Rick Owens, Pieter Mulier, Jacqemus. All of these designers collect art, their collections are inspired by art, and they collaborate actively with artists. Of course, Miu Miu is a partner of the public program, and Mrs. Prada has been known for championing artists and commissioning films by woman filmmakers.

Then, of course, there’s people like Helmut Lang or Martin Margiela, who transitioned from being fashion designers to visual artists and weren’t initially taken seriously as visual, conceptual artists. I never understood why a creative genius should have to be segmented, but I think those times are over, and these creative fields are much more porous. This is something we have to be attuned to because the people buying art also buy fashion, and are interested in things like sneakers or Labubus and other cultural signifiers. With an event of our caliber, we always have to question how we can continue to make the fair desirable for a younger generation of collectors.

BOWIE: Those Helmut Lang mattress sculptures are just incredible. And they’re actually a very logical continuation of his practice, considering that the mattress is a textile, and they’re often punctured, or perhaps impaled, by metal poles. So, it wasn’t a huge leap from threading a needle through fabric.

DELEPINE: I agree. If you consider Eckhaus Latta, for instance, they have been shown at MoMA PS1 and the Whitney Museum in what are considered very art-sanctioned exhibitions, so it means something.

BOWIE: And this will be the second year that the fair is officially partnering with Miu Miu. How did that come about and why not a French brand?

DELEPINE: I’m quite stacked, you know, with French brands. No, I’m joking. You know, Vuitton is an important partner inside the Grand Palais, so is Guerlain, but it’s not necessarily about France in this case. The commitment of Mrs. Prada and Miu Miu is unquestionable. They are, in my opinion equally credible interlocutors in fashion and in the visual arts. We’ve organized something at Palais d'Iéna, which is the location that they’ve used for their Paris runway show for a long time, and with fashion week taking place just three weeks before, it felt like a natural dialogue because it makes Art Basel visible to the Miu Miu audience, many of whom probably would not have set foot in the Grand Palais had it not been for this collaboration. It’s also an acknowledgement of the work that Miu Miu and Mrs. Prada are doing for the arts, so it’s a match made in heaven for us.

Art Basel Paris - Public Program
Courtesy of Art Basel

BOWIE: When discussing markets within just about any industry lately, the word uncertainty rings like a mantra. In the US, we’re seeing many emerging and mid-size galleries closing their doors. How are you feeling about the global art market these days?

DELEPINE: I mean, the numbers are low for everyone, and the art market, just like any asset, is not immune to the situation. The uncertainty is being fueled by the tariffs and the wars raging on, which leads to the rising cost of transporting premium goods. Certainly, things have been much better, but things have been way worse as well. It’s not the nineties, it’s not 2008, and it’s different from 2014. It’s a new cycle and a definitive generational shift. Some big names, like Tim Blum are sunsetting their galleries, and some are questioning how to reconfigure. There are also very young, energetic, and ambitious galleries that are seizing opportunities to establish themselves as new players. One could say the market is in crisis, but one has to remember that the etymology of the word ‘crisis’ is decision. So, now is the time to make important decisions. We’re definitely moving past the COVID phase and the fruits that it bore, and some of the galleries didn’t make investments following COVID, which proved unwise. It seems to me like the market is now finding a new temple. So, I’m not pessimistic, which is rare considering that I’m French. (laughs) This should be acknowledged. When I was in Bukhara, when I was in Saudi Arabia, wherever I travel, people are so excited about the Paris show. The feedback from the VIP reps is really important, and all the art advisors tell me that their biggest clients are coming and that everyone wants to be there. As a fair, it’s important that we craft a platform for commerce and transaction, but the galleries are equally, if not more interested in the new audiences we can bring to the event and in that respect, I think we are prepared to fulfill their expectations.

BOWIE: I was speaking to a young art advisor who used to intern for me, and she was saying that the one thing she’s seeing is that there are new opportunities for young collectors who normally wouldn’t have access to certain artists or works. So, this transitional period is providing new opportunities for people who are just starting their collections.

DELEPINE: It’s true. Sometimes the polar dynamics shift. Sometimes, a gallery is sufficiently empowered to prioritize its collectors because they have thirty people on the waitlist, so they can tell a collector to buy two and give one to a museum. These are tactics that have been well documented. And sometimes, the collectors take power back. It’s an important balance. Some collectors feel like they’ve been barred from accessing a certain caliber of works, but they shouldn’t be resentful. That’s the way market goes—offer and demand. Au contraire, they should take the opportunity to get their hands on works that were inaccessible to them only a few months ago.

BOWIE: I’m curious about the Premise sector, which is less about the commercial core of the fair and more about unusual, unexpected juxtapositions, or neglected histories. What can we expect to see there?

DELEPINE: The Premise sector is all about storytelling. In French we have a term called passeur, which doesn’t have an English equivalent, but it has to do with the dissemination of knowledge. So, this sector is configured in a way that encourages you to slow down. The booths are smaller and you can really focus on what you are looking at. You can expect to see the works of Hector Hyppolite, for instance. He’s a Haitian painter who has been overlooked and rediscovered as one of the very first heroes of Black portraiture. The Gallery of Everything is going to present a solo of his works with all the paintings that once belonged to André Breton and some of the works that were shown at the Centre Pompidou in the context of corps noir earlier this year. On the other end of the sector, we have a Robert Barry presentation staged by Martine Aboucaya that includes some of his rare immaterial works from 1969 and refers to his performance in the ’70s when he buried radioactive waste in Central Park. I find this quite interesting in an age when we’ve long felt like the nuclear threat is far behind us, and yet, it’s sadly relevant. Pauline Pavec will show the work of Marie Bracquemond, an impressionist painter whose career was interrupted because her husband who was also a painter forbade her from painting because he felt threatened by her success.

BOWIE: What is your best advice for navigating the Grand Palais so that you can see it all and pace yourself?

DELEPINE: Come at the very first minute, stay until the security kicks you out, hydrate yourself and not only with champagne. The fair is a very nice scale. It’s 206 exhibitors, but it’s 195 booths. You can do the booths without rushing or leaving the fair with a headache. Enjoy the setting, pause every now and then to remember where you are, look up at the sky through the glass ceiling. It’s a great experience. Last year on opening day, it was such a bright blue sky, beautiful sun, the energy was buzzing, you know, it was wonderful. A fair can be intimidating, but one should never feel embarrassed to ask questions. Because ultimately, even though gallerists can be tired after eight hours standing in high heels having had little to eat, if you show interest in the work, there’s nothing more exciting for an art dealer than to celebrate the work of the artist that they represent.

BOWIE: My last question for you has to do with your current career transition. Your new appointment at Lafayette Anticipations will be your first time directing a museum. How are you preparing for yet another new role in the art world?

DELEPINE: Well, I’ve dreamed for a long time of running an institution and everything is moving so fast, I really haven’t had much time to prepare. (laughs) I want to be respectful of the history, the legacy, and to bring my vision and my new ideas. But honestly, it’s still a little too early to prepare. I mean, I still have so much to do with the fair that this is a question for October 31st. Right now, I’m fully dedicated and committed to the show at Grand Palais.

Art Basel Paris takes place October 22-26 @ Grand Palais Avenue Winston Churchill 75008, Paris

Ugo Rondinone
The project will take place at Parvis de l’Institut de France in Paris

Lullabies During Office Hours: An Interview of Jenny Fax

 
 

interview by Kim Shveka
photographs by Jasmin Avner

In this SS26 collection, ten models exist together in a small office space, engaging in mundane actions, terrestrial to their own little planet, all marooned in their own thoughts. We are invited in as foreigners to the scene, drifting among the models yet sensing an unmistakable barrier between us and them. The experience is filled with dissonances, but the biggest anomaly is the clothing, which portrays a colorful childhood within the somber, 9-to-5, depressing atmosphere. This is the tableau of Taiwanese designer Jen-Fang Shueh’s fashion brand, Jenny Fax. Surrounded by smoke and the sound of Taiwanese lullabies, I met Jen for an interview.

 
 

KIM SHVEKA: From the soft lullaby-like music, the smoke, and of course the outfits—this presentation paints a clear picture of childhood. How does this correlate with the office setting?

JEN-FANG SHUEH: I’m very difficult. There’s always chaos in my mind. I don’t know how I decided to finally mix those up together. I always mix my memories with new things I see.

SHVEKA: Can you let us into your childhood memories?

SHUEH: I grew up with three siblings, so we didn’t have a lot of clothes. There were so many limits when I was younger, but now I can become free.  

 
 

SHVEKA: What value did you want to add by us walking amongst the models, and being a part of the installation?


SHUEH: Maybe it's kind of sneaking around, getting to have a peek. I think people always love to do that. The feeling of getting to travel is someone’s private space, in their daily life—it gives an exciting feeling.

SHVEKA: How has being Taiwanese living in Europe affected your creation?

SHUEH: I left Taiwan when I was nineteen, so I’ve been a foreigner for most of my life actually. Even when I go back there, I still feel like a stranger, I’m a stranger everywhere. I often don’t know where my creations come from, it’s all the chaos of living in so many different places.  

SHVEKA: How do you decide what parts of your own life you want to expose through your fashion?

SHUEH: I’m trying not to decide— I prefer it to come naturally.

Making Things You Can Feel: An Interview of Larry Bell

Larry Bell with Pacific Red II. Photography by Matthew Millman, San Francisco 

introduction by Isabella Bernabeo
interview by Bill Powers

For over six decades, Larry Bell has skillfully molded contemporary art in America. Born in Chicago in 1939, Bell moved to the West Coast to study at the Chouinard Art Institute in Los Angeles, the historic precursor to CalArts. 

There, Bell became a member of Los Angeles’s Cool School, a rebellious group of artists, largely represented by Walter Hopps and Irving Blum of Ferus Gallery in the 1950s and ’60s, who brought modern-day avant-garde to the West Coast. Alongside Ed Ruscha and Robert Irwin, Bell is one of the last living members of the School. As a foundational figure in the Light and Space movement, Southern California’s take on Minimalism, which often employed industrial materials and aerospace technology to explore the ways that volume, light and scale play with our sense of perception, Bell made innovative work that experimented with the interconnections of glass and light and their relations to reflection and illusion. 

His most notable works involve his creation of semi-transparent cubes made out of vacuum-coated glass to form an immersive experience as the art melts into space. Recently, six of Bell’s cubes have been installed in Madison Square Park, where they will be on view until March 15, 2026. Improvisations in the Park carries on Bell’s legacy, but with a twist. Instead of their typical white cube environment, they have been placed outside to interact with the constantly changing elements, causing a new perception almost every hour. 

This idea, related to the flexibility of perception, is also highlighted in Bell’s recent series of collage works, Irresponsible Iridescence, on view now at the Judd Foundation in New York. These collages poured out of Bell after the passing of his wife two years ago, sharing a more emotional side of his work with audiences. They also subtly allude to the close friendship between Bell and the late Donald Judd. It was Bell who convinced Judd to build this now-historic organization in Marfa, Texas, rather than El Rosario, Mexico, impacting American art history forever.  

Blues from Aspen, 2018 
Lagoon and true fog laminated glass 
Each pane: 72 x 92 x 92 inches (182.9 x 233.7 x 233.7 cm) 
Courtesy the artist, Hauser & Wirth, and Anthony Meier Fine Arts. Commissioned by Madison Square Park Conservancy. Photo: Timothy Schenck. 

BILL POWERS: How does your work operate differently when it’s outside?

LARRY BELL: I’m just finding out for myself because the Madison Square Park project is the first installation I’ve done with rocks and trees and grass around. I’ve had work outside in courtyards and walled-in areas and next to swimming pools, but never in a jungle like this with squirrels hopping along and birds shitting on them.

POWERS: In Rose Macaulay’s book, The Pleasure of Ruins (1953), she says that a man-made object only knows its worth when it is left to battle it out in the elements without custodianship.

BELL: Everything has its time of being and a right to patina. Some people don’t like to see a patina on a sculpture because they think it alters the work somehow. I’m from a different point of view.

POWERS: In the same vein, I don’t think I’ve seen a Marcel Duchamp where the glass hasn’t cracked by now. That doesn't mean MoMA is throwing them away.

BELL: You know Marcel Duchamp came to visit my studio in 1962. He came with Richard Hamilton and the surrealist painter William Copley.

POWERS: William Copley also had a short-lived gallery in Beverly Hills where he exhibited Man Ray and Joseph Cornell. I believe Duchamp was an unofficial advisor for the gallery.

BELL: I was maybe twenty-two years old and there was a knock on my front door in Venice. Now, I ignored it because only building inspectors would try that entrance. All my friends knew to come through the back. So, after twenty minutes of this gentle rapping on my front door, I look out through this peephole and see three guys outside who don’t look like building inspectors. I open up and instantly Copley puts his hand out and says, “Walter Hopps sent us to see you.” Now Walter was a dear friend of mine so I invited them inside.

Blues from Aspen, 2018 
Lagoon and true fog laminated glass 
Each pane: 72 x 92 x 92 inches (182.9 x 233.7 x 233.7 cm) 
Courtesy the artist, Hauser & Wirth, and Anthony Meier Fine Arts. Commissioned by Madison Square Park Conservancy. Photo: Timothy Schenck. 

POWERS: And did you recognize Marcel Duchamp?

BELL: See, the thing is, I was a bit deaf even back then. When Copley introduced the other guests I didn’t really catch the name and just figured they were rich collectors or something.

POWERS: Probably better not to know you had living legends visiting you.

BELL: So, I’m giving them a tour of my studio and Hamilton is explaining to the other two men how something was made.

POWERS: The fabrication of it?

BELL: Yes, but in fact he was incorrect in his assumption so I jumped in the conversation to clarify when Copley says, “Now Marcel didn’t you do this in a certain way,” I heard the name Marcel and finally put two and two together. I must have completely frozen up because they left a minute later. The studio visit was over. I couldn’t talk anymore. Duchamp was in town, I found out later, to discuss his Pasadena Museum show with Walter Hopps.

POWERS: And that was your last encounter?

BELL: No, a couple of years later, I did a show in New York at Sydney Janis—a group exhibition on 57th Street—and Duchamp invited me over for tea. His wife, Teeny, answered the door and said, “Marcel is waiting for you in the parlor.” I walked into this incredible little room and there he was: a Brancusi to my right, a Man Ray to my left, a Max Ernst over here. He greeted me warmly and then Teeny brought out a tray of milk and cookies.

POWERS: Wow, a couple of real bad boy artists, huh?

BELL: We chatted a while and then I asked him if he was doing any shows and when he had made the work. And Marcel said, “Ooh, when I was six or seven.” He was saying he started the work when he was six or seven years old.

POWERS: A joke about how all creativity springs from childhood.

BELL: I remember he smoked these little cigars, which he held between his ring finger and his middle finger. I smoked cigars back then too but I never saw anyone hold them like that.

Installation view Irresponsible Iridescence, September 29, 2025–January 31, 2026, Judd Foundation, 101 Spring Street, New York. Photo Timothy Doyon ©️Judd Foundation. Art ©️Larry Bell. Donald Judd Art © Judd Foundation / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. 

POWERS: Was the Venice Beach Mafia a term you accepted being grouped into? Meaning the group of artists working in that area in the 1960s: you, Ken Price, Billy Al Bangston, Charles Arnoldi, Ed Ruscha.

BELL: I’ve actually never heard that term before but it sounds like the type of thing Judy Chicago might have called us.

POWERS: What is the rarest kind of light? Some might argue it’s the Northern Lights but I would say it’s the green flash at sunset.

BELL: I’ve seen that in Venice. More than once. At first I thought something was wrong with my eyes. I believe it’s related to the sunlight going through the water at eye level for a split second.

POWERS: Are there any colors you gravitate towards?

BELL: I like reds and blues. They do things to your eye. The blues are close to ultraviolet and the reds are close to infrared. You can’t see ultraviolet and you can’t see infrared either, but there are energies at work with those colors you can feel. I like the idea of making things that you can feel.

POWERS: Ellsworth Kelly has some color combinations like that, which dance in your eye and are almost impossible to photograph.

BELL: He was a friend of mine, Ellsworth. a gentleman.

Blues from Aspen, 2018 
Lagoon and true fog laminated glass 
Each pane: 72 x 92 x 92 inches (182.9 x 233.7 x 233.7 cm) 
Courtesy the artist, Hauser & Wirth, and Anthony Meier Fine Arts. Commissioned by Madison Square Park Conservancy. Photo: Timothy Schenck. 

POWERS: One of your art catalogues is named Time Machines. Is that after the book?

BELL: Have you ever read “The Invisible Man” by HG Wells? There’s a scientist named Griffin whom I feel a certain kinship with. In the story he develops a potion, which makes tissue invisible. The effect is that the body no longer absorbs light. It will pass through it. But no one from the establishment believes in his invention. He was met with ridicule and I empathize with the character. Anyway, before he tries out the potion on a person he feeds some to his landlady’s cat, which makes the animal invisible except for the pupils of its eyes. I had a large sculpture at my studio I’d just made and my daughter who was six years old walked into the center of it, and all I could see through the glass were the pupils of her eyes. So, I named the sculpture “The Dilemma of Griffin’s Cat.”

POWERS: You have said that glass does three things with light: absorb, transmit, and reflect. Which is most essential to activating your work?

BELL: I can say that the most tenuous of the three is absorbed light—that which penetrates and sticks with you.

POWERS: How did you come up with that pink carpet for your Dia Beacon piece?

BELL: It started because the building is an old factory. The room where my sculpture is situated is where they used to print the boxes for animal crackers. When they removed all the heavy machinery, there were big holes in the floor. So, I said, “We can’t do this project unless we have a pedestal or carpet underneath to level out the surface. Finally the curator agreed, and while we were sitting there she asks me, “What color are you going to make the carpet?” At that moment, her assistant was walking by wearing a pink sweater. I pointed at it and said, “THAT color!”

POWERS: Thank god the woman didn’t wear a gray turtleneck to work that day.

BELL: It was intuition and spontaneity and happenstance all rolled into one. I learned that from my teacher Robert Irwin: as an artist you have to trust yourself.

POWERS: You have a show opening at Judd Foundation in SoHo.

BELL: Don [Judd] was the first artist in New York to buy a work from me out of the studio.

Irresponsible Iridescense is on view through January 31 @ Judd Foundation 101 Spring St, New York

Improvisations in the Park is on view through March 15 @ Madison Square Park

Installation view Irresponsible Iridescence, September 29, 2025–January 31, 2026, Judd Foundation, 101 Spring Street, New York. Photo Timothy Doyon ©️Judd Foundation. Art ©️Larry Bell. Donald Judd Art © Judd Foundation / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York. 

Vicariously Living Through Paintings: An Interview of Alison Blickle

 

Alison Blickle
Night Fate, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

 

interview by Charlie Kolbrener

In Alison Blickle’s work, viewers are invited to witness a glimpse of a world just as realized off the canvas as it is on it. The figures at the heart of her painting—sometimes based on elaborate photoshoots, sometimes an amalgam of disparate body parts from various sources—are characters who signal larger narratives reflecting our modern world, or concocted visions that live outside of time. Her latest collection, Future Ruins, on view at the Kravets Wehby Gallery, invites attendees to inspect a future that infuses a nostalgic melancholy for nature with a glimmer of the beauty still accessible in her perhaps pessimistic view of what lies ahead. 

Blickle has effectively been painting her whole life, but went on to study Political Economy when plagued with the feeling that “it felt too impractical to pursue as a career.” After working for Diane Feinstein for six months, her realization that “whatever your job is is what your life is” would send her back to get her MFA at Hunter College and embark on the creative path that sees her work on display in New York City now, over a decade later. As we prepare to discuss her new collection, she reflects to me how she first made the leap into pursuing painting: “I have to pursue what I know fulfills me and what I love.”

CHARLIE KOLBRENER: The process for creating this collection differed a bit from your work over the past few years. Can you tell me a bit about how you were producing work previously?

ALISON BLICKLE: I didn’t do it for this body of work, but for the past five or six years, I would put on big photoshoots to get reference images for the paintings. And they ended up getting pretty elaborate. I did a shoot at Jeffrey Deitch’s house in LA, in the Hollywood Hills. I would find interesting locations and have mostly art world friends helping set up lights, build sets, and everything. And that was something I’d never done before. I’d been painting for so long, and I found ways to challenge myself with it and to evolve with it. So, it was fun while I was doing these shoots to push myself into a totally different thing. And painting is totally solo, so having to collaborate and direct people and everything, it was fun.

Alison Blickle
Snow Hike, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

Alison Blickle
Hilltop Meadow Experience, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

KOLBRENER: And then what was the process of taking these images and converting them to painting?

BLICKLE: There was never one photo where it’s like, I’m gonna paint this. It was always chopped up and combined from other ones. I would collage in architectural elements or fake nature elements or weird objects or neons hovering around. You can recognize the people for sure. It’s true to what they look like, but I did a lot of manipulation from the photo that I took to what I ended up using as the reference for the painting.

KOLBRENER: How did the process differ as you approached this collection?

BLICKLE: I’m an art history nerd and I love classical painting, where they’re painting myths with very dynamic groups of figures. I love that tradition so much that I wanted to carry it through to the present day reflecting modern life. I was making a lot of these group paintings with life-size people that were very detailed and maximalist, but I think I’d sort of maxed out on the maximalism. This time, I wanted to make a body of work completely on my own.

Every body of work basically has a narrative underpinning and when I was doing those big group paintings, I would choose an ancient myth that has a powerful female archetype, or goddess in it. Then I would set that character or story in the modern day and connect it to things that are happening now. I love how mythologies have a universality and timeless wisdom that feels comforting, like a guide for modern life.

This time, I wanted to simplify the paintings and try something different. Instead of using the past to help understand the present day, I did more of a sci-fi vibe. The story behind these is that they’re set in a dystopian future where nature doesn’t exist anymore the way it does today, but people still have that longing to connect with something larger than themselves in a spiritual way. The only way that people can do that in this world is in a virtual reality experience, and they go into that as an avatar of themselves. So these paintings are of avatars in these artificial digital environments, hoping to have some sort of feeling of transcendence or connection to something larger than themselves. But it’s falling short and that’s why some of the figures are crying. I’m trying to blur the line between, are they feeling sad because it’s not what they were hoping would happen? or are they partly overcome by actually seeing a space like this for the first time?

KOLBRENER: How are the subjects produced for this series where you’re not relying on actual models and shoots?

BLICKLE: They’re almost like Franken-people, where none of them are an image of a single person. The heads are from different places, they’re all just cobbled together from different sources. And same thing with the environments that they’re in. 

I also think about AI a lot. My previous show was a sort of prayer to this particular Roman deity who oversees periods of transformation to guide humanity into this transition with AI, not knowing what direction it’s going to go for us. I’ve been really into AI for years now, from a place of fear. I mean, you can already buy AI robots that look really human, you can buy an AI robot girlfriend. So, assuming that trajectory continues, at some point, there’s going to be AI robots that are living amongst us. And if they do develop some level of consciousness, something that they might be interested in is what it would have felt like to experience nature in this way. So, these could be human avatars, or they could be robots going through this experience.

 

Alison Blickle
Mask, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

 

There are moments in all of the paintings where I used an AI prompt to create a little section. For example, I wanted to put a weird sun in the sky. That was generated by AI. All of the paintings have a little section that was generated by AI, and I think it sort of conceptually works with the paintings. There’s still a weird awkwardness of AI that made sense with these figures being in a curated digital world.

KOLBRENER: In this collection—or in your work more broadly—what do you look to outside of art to take inspiration?

BLICKLE: Definitely movies, David Lynch is a big inspiration. The paintings in this show that have the duos in them, I was thinking about Mulholland Drive and the doppelganger, or the alter ego. In this piece, where the arms are crossing, the fabric is sort of blending into each other, and it's hard to tell where one starts and the other ends. I love David Lynch's dark surrealism, but his colors are so beautiful. 

 

Alison Blickle
Day Trip, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

 

KOLBRENER: How do you feel your art and the themes within it more generally have evolved since you started?

BLICKLE: It’s a good question. One through line has been that I always—on some level—feel like the figures are a stand in for myself to get to do certain things that I don’t do in my regular life. So, it’s a way of living vicariously through my paintings. 

In terms of evolving, this is my favorite work that I’ve ever made. I’ve been making paintings for so long now, and this is starting to circle back to older work that I made, where these figures are having more of an internal experience. They feel quieter, more contemplative, and a little bit isolated. There’s a melancholy and beauty to them, which reflects modern life. When I started doing these elaborate photoshoots, the figures in them were very performative. I was working with ideas about social media a lot, and how that changes how we think about ourselves. So, the characters looked like they were on stage, and they wanted to be looked at. I explored those externalized, ‘look-at-me’ performative scenes long enough. And now, I’ve been doing a lot more introspection, so I wanted the paintings to circle back. They don’t visually look the same, but they have that same similar quietness. The characters are having an internal experience that you just happen to witness.

Future Ruins is on view through October 4 at the Kravets Wehby Gallery 521 West 21st Street, Ground floor, New York

 

Alison Blickle
Ladies Night, 2025
courtesy the artist and Kravets Wehby Gallery

 

Atlanta As A Nexus Point: An Interview Of Kevin "Coach K" Lee and Ami Sueki

Atlanta has long been a cultural capital, and few figures have been more central to that rise than Kevin “Coach K” Lee. As co-founder of Quality Control Music, he helped launch the careers of Migos, Lil Yachty, City Girls, and Lil Baby, building one of the most influential music rosters of the past decade. Designer Ami Sueki, through her studio Zoo as Zoo, has worked at the intersection of fashion, art, and design with collaborators ranging from Nike to Coca-Cola.

Together, the two have future plans for EXIT, a new 5,000-square-foot space at Atlanta’s Goat Farm arts campus. Set to be designed by Berlin-based architect Daryan Knoblauch, EXIT will be a flexible, multi-use hub—part gallery, studio, concept shop, and event space—intended to address Atlanta’s lack of artist-first “third spaces.” Programming in its first year will include capsule fashion collections, installations, a twelve-track album released monthly with accompanying films, and an inaugural Nike collaboration sneaker.

Earlier this year, EXIT hosted a residency with London-based Nigerian artist Slawn and Lil Yachty, who produced a full body of work in just two days. That collaboration now extends to New York with an exhibition pop up at The Hole, underscoring the project’s mission: to give Atlanta’s creative community the resources to stay rooted locally while connecting to global networks.

OLIVER KUPPER: Atlanta is this really interesting nexus point in the Venn diagram between New York and Los Angeles. Maybe we could start with Atlanta—what it is, where it is, what the cultural scene is.

KEVIN “COACH K” LEE: I’m from Indianapolis, Indiana, and growing up, sports were my refuge. I was raised in a single-parent household in what you could call the ghetto, and basketball became my escape. I played all through school, and when it came time for college, it was my first love. I went to an HBCU in Raleigh, North Carolina, but the first offer I ever got was from Clark Atlanta University.

I remember visiting Atlanta right after high school, and I was honestly a little nervous. The Atlanta child murders in the early 1980s were still a lingering memory for me—35 kids disappeared over a three-year period—and that always frightened me as a kid. So, I ended up going to school in North Carolina, but I had friends at Morehouse and Clark Atlanta, and I would drive down from Raleigh to visit. It was about a five-hour drive, but whenever I went, I could see the city thriving in a way I’d never experienced before.

This was around the time LA Reid moved to Atlanta and started shaping the music scene with his label, LaFace Records. Freaknik was happening, the culture was vibrant, and it felt like a pot of gumbo—you had locals, “Atlantonians,” who were born and raised there, and then you had students coming from all over the country to the city’s four major HBCUs, bringing with them their subcultures. Every time I came back and forth, I remember thinking, I’ve never seen Black people in this kind of position before.

I remember visiting a friend in West Atlanta—he grew up in Cascade—and the neighborhood was just mansions. And it was almost entirely Black families. I’d never seen anything like it. That’s when I realized Atlanta was special, not just because of its music or culture, but because it had sustained African American leadership for decades, and the city’s infrastructure allowed Black culture to flourish. After the ’96 Olympics, Atlanta became a global city in a real way. Traveling for work now, people ask if I’ll move to LA or New York, but there’s nothing like coming home here. The southern hospitality, the warmth—it’s incomparable. And beyond music, the art scene has really started to bloom over the past twenty years. 

OLIVER KUPPER: But in the past decade, especially with social media and TikTok, Atlanta’s influence has gone global—it’s supercharged.

AMI SUEKI: Absolutely. Even when I traveled a few years ago—I was in Amsterdam at a hotel bar—people asked where I was from. I said Atlanta, and immediately they said, “Oh, that’s where Migos are from!” A few years prior, people didn’t even know where Atlanta was. Trap music from Atlanta now has a global audience, and it really connected with the younger generation.

OLIVER KUPPER: Ami, what brought you to Atlanta originally?

AMI SUEKI: I’m Japanese American. I was born in Knoxville, Tennessee, and grew up in a military town in North Carolina near an Air Force base. 9/11 happened during my formative years, and my everyday life was shaped by conversations about war—my friends and family were serving overseas. I grew up around a very American, very Southern environment. People hunted, drank beer, shopped at Walmart when they still had guns. 

I studied neuroscience and industrial design in Raleigh and Durham, and my first job out of college was at Coca-Cola as an industrial designer. I stayed in Atlanta after three years because I realized how deeply my upbringing connected to Southern culture. People often assume I’m from Tokyo because of how I dress or my interests in art, music, and fashion, but I feel a deep resonance with Atlanta—the language, the slang, the food, the community.

OLIVER KUPPER: And what was your role at Coca-Cola?

AMI SUEKI: I was an industrial designer—working on packaging, vending machines, merchandising, and retail. 

OLIVER KUPPER: And what was it about neuroscience that drew you in?

AMI SUEKI: I was a total math and science nerd growing up. I loved biology and the complexity of the brain—how it shapes movement, perception, and experience. I even worked in a Duke lab studying Alzheimer’s. But lab life wasn’t for me; it was too rigid. Then I discovered design through Surface Magazine at an airport, and that completely shifted my trajectory. I ended up at NC State for industrial design, and from there, I stayed in Atlanta.

OLIVER KUPPER: Kevin, tell me about the start of Quality Control Music.

COACH K: I’d been in the music business for fifteen years before starting QC. At the time, I managed Gucci Mane, and Pierre Thomas, my business partner now, used to travel with us and observe. In 2013, I was ready to start my own label because I realized I had been building brands for other artists but not for myself. Pierre had a studio and wanted out of the business. I convinced him to partner, saying I’d bring talent. A week later, we signed Migos, and that was the beginning.

OLIVER KUPPER: What was the pitch?

COACH K: Honestly, Gucci was about to go to prison, so he passed on signing them. Pierre and I said, “We’ll do it,” and that was it. We didn’t look back.

OLIVER KUPPER: And your focus has always been authenticity, right?

COACH K: Yes. Authenticity and originality. I’m a storyteller at heart, and I need to feel the artist’s story. Voices move me, but authenticity drives me. That’s why when I saw Lil Yachty, I knew he had a lane no one else had—his confidence, his voice, his identity—all authentic. That’s how we brought him to brands like Target, Reebok, and Nike.

OLIVER KUPPER: Ami, how did you and Kevin meet?

AMI SUEKI: At a dinner. I wasn’t in the scene, but my team was doing creative work around the city.

COACH K: We knew of each other but hadn’t met. A mutual friend set up a dinner, and we clicked immediately. The connections were crazy—shared birthdays, hometowns, kids, even shoes. Eventually, we decided to start a company together.

OLIVER KUPPER: Can you talk about Zoo as Zoo?

AMI SUEKI: The name comes from the old idea of a zoo—a place where lions, polar bears, goats, all coexist. We take that approach to creativity: diverse people, diverse disciplines. We focus on people first and let the outcomes emerge naturally. Our team has stayed together for ten years, which is rare, and we invest in curiosity-driven projects, like our Glow-in-the-Dark Ramen pop-up.

OLIVER KUPPER: How does Exit fit into all of this?

AMI SUEKI: Exit is a space for creatives to connect, experiment, and explore. Atlanta loses talent because people leave for global opportunities. Exit allows them to stay, collaborate, and thrive here without leaving.

COACH K: Exactly. From a music perspective, I was tired of artists having to go to LA or New York to be seen. Exit gives creatives a home in Atlanta.

OLIVER KUPPER: The pop-up this Friday—how did it come together?

COACH K: Lil Yachty’s friend SLAWN is a rising artist. We wanted to bring him here for a residency. Slawn created a huge body of work in 48 hours. I called Ami, and we realized it was perfect for Exit. The first Exit event was on her birthday, the second on mine—this one is another milestone.

OLIVER KUPPER: It sounds like you’re merging worlds—music, art, design—outside traditional gallery systems.

SUEKI: Yes. We’re fluid, holistic, and adaptive. Creative industries are in flux, and we embrace that.

COACH K: Physical presence matters. Experiencing art, culture, and people firsthand gives us the insight to tell authentic stories. Social media is fine, but it’s limited.

OLIVER KUPPER: It seems like Atlanta is a laboratory for culture, with both of you as the researchers.

SUEKI: Exactly. Physical interaction is crucial for real cultural development.

COACH K: Whether it’s music, fashion, or art, I need to be there to feel it—to understand the context, the energy, the story.

OLIVER KUPPER: The way you’re approaching this—it feels like you’re building infrastructure for creativity in a city that deserves it.

SUEKI: That’s the goal. To create platforms for collaboration, experimentation, and growth. Atlanta has incredible talent—it just needs the space and support.

COACH K: And it’s happening now. We’re seeing artists, designers, and creators staying here and building globally from Atlanta. That’s what makes this city special.

 Friday, September 12 & Saturday, September 13, 2025. 12PM - 8PM. The Hole Gallery,  312 Bowery, New York

Rich In Your Ways: An Interview of Polite Society Designer Surmai Jain

 

Surmai Jain founder of Polite Society

 


interview by Parrie Chhajed


In the bustling streets of Bandra, nestled in a quiet corner, sits Polite Society Shop No.1. With an innovative approach to sustainable design, the label doesn’t just sell clothes; it facilitates an honest and respectful dialogue between its customers and the environment. Surmai Jain, founder and creative director, spent her formative years living between India, New York, and Armenia. This uniquely diverse life experience afforded her an aesthetic sensibility that is both coyly dramatic and delicately balanced. In just five years, she has built a brand whose concerted approach to responsible sourcing and scaling has bolstered her creative outcomes and earned her a loyal and steadily growing clientele.

PARRIE CHHAJED: I’d love to start with the story behind the name Polite Society. Where did it come from?

SURMAI JAIN: When I was naming the brand, I had my name, Surmai Jain, as an option. But I wanted it to feel more like a community, more like a society. While conducting research, the name 'Polite Society’ came to mind. It’s an old literary term referring to people with really good manners and a high standard of wealth. I thought it would be ironic for us to take that because money isn’t all that makes you rich. We have a tagline that says, “You can be rich in your ways,” which sums it all up.

CHHAJED: Your approach to modernity and individuality is very unique. What is the guiding philosophy behind the brand?

JAIN: I started from Rajasthan, went to Armenia, later Bombay, and then to New York. By the time I was twenty-five years old, when I started the label, I felt like I had already seen so many cultures and met so many different people who inspired me through life. Each place has made a very different impact on me, and it has shaped my understanding of the world. All of that helps me design for everyone: a woman, a man, or whoever. When we’re closing in on a design, I imagine myself or someone else wearing it. Do they feel good wearing it?

CHHAJED: How have your experiences in Mumbai, New York, and Armenia—places with wildly different perspectives on fashion—shaped your design sensibility?

JAIN: Fashion practices are different all over. In India, art is synonymous with what artisans are doing. It’s all about their legacies and heritage. In New York, it’s about individuality and self-expression. So, I take a little bit of everything. I also grew up painting and designing, and over time, I found my method of expression.

CHHAJED: Do you feel the way those traits translate specifically in your designs?

JAIN: I go through phases. Right now, I’m feeling more connected to my roots. Maybe it’s just being thirty-two. For this collection, and then the next one, we took inspiration from Rajasthan and used more techniques like Leheriya. Initially, I felt more like a modern designer, but as you search for more inspiration, it comes from your own stories. When you go deeper, being from a certain place makes those things feel valuable. Tomorrow, it could be something else. I might travel to some place and find inspiration there. We did handwork this time, and that’s been incredible. We did a banana leather appliqué with studs. Which is exciting because we are taking the handloom as a base, but doing it differently. 

Banana Leather Keychains

CHHAJED: I think that’s what translating our culture into the language of modernity is all about at the end of the day. Your career path took you from painting to graphic design, and ultimately, to fashion. Do those varying disciplines inform one another? 

JAIN: A hundred percent. It’s all because of that. For example, if you look at the space. We took a lot of time designing it and attending to the smallest details. When you do graphics, you see the same thing in a different light. So, whether you’re designing clothes or a space, you have to have your aesthetics and philosophy in place. Because I learned graphics as a medium, I did our initial branding myself. It was important to make my own universe first and then bring people in and expand it. Right now, we are doing a little rebrand, so I went to someone else and asked for help, but I wasn’t able to outsource in the beginning.

With painting, one of the key pieces that we started with was a few shirts that had illustrations on them. Those were hand-done by me. So initially,  there was a lot of work that I would do myself to set the tone.

CHHAJED: What are the key elements of Polite Society’s design language?

JAIN: One major thing that I like to do is blend the highs and the lows. It’s interesting to create an odd contrast that looks beautiful with elements like finished and unfinished hems. Or in the store, you can see how the glass meets the concrete. One of the earlier key pieces we had at the store was a half-and-half pant that started as a pair of trousers and then transitioned to denim. I like to play with contrast and then balance the femininity with a little bit of masculinity. If we design a dress, I like to add an element to make it a little masculine. It always has to be balanced.

CHHAJED: Can you talk about the brand’s approach to sustainability and if there have been any hurdles that you’ve faced in pursuit of it?

JAIN:  Many companies don’t talk about it, but sometimes you have a bad lot. Once, we sent our denim for a wash, and it came back spoiled. What do you do with it? It hurts because of the work that has already been put in. So, we used that fabric and made corsets. That piece is completely made from deadstock that we couldn’t use. Everyone loved it, and we even considered trying to wash our denim like this.

AAdditionally we've tried some new accessories. These key chains are made from banana leather. Because why not? I met someone who was doing that, and I think it’s better than using animal products.

CHHAJED: What are some of the other non-fashion influences that shape your work in general?

JAIN: Music culture influences me because I grew up listening to a lot of R&B. Often, when you’re designing, you think, If she wore it, that would be nice. For me, it’s always powerful women who are in music and owning it. You can see that being translated into the designs. It wasn’t just about being objectified. It was the overall aura and personality.

CHHAJED: Are there any musicians whose work you’ve translated in any of your collections?

JAIN: Georgia Smith. During one of the earlier collections, I would listen to her the whole time. There are now these women like Sabrina, but back when I was in school, we had Rihanna. I feel like no matter what, the world always comes back to her. 

CHHAJED: Polite Society has a unique niche. How do you approach marketing and building your audience?

JAIN: I just try to stay true to myself. A lot is going on in the industry, and everyone’s just trying to make space for themselves. As designers in this competitive space, if you let that get to you, it will not go well for your mental health. Early on, I felt like I could connect with my consumers. We had experiences that fortified the idea that if I had a store tomorrow, they would show up. We did pop-ups in our studio in Marol, and people were willing to come all the way there to try on pieces. When we saw them try it on and immediately get convinced, that’s when we knew we were doing something right. Those small moments shaped it all.

Being in touch with the consumer has helped. We don’t work in isolation. We opened a studio so people could come in and talk. I always ask, “Which one do you like? What do you not like? What would you want?” People are pretty honest. We have also been working with cool singers and artists from the start, like Kavya Trehan and Liza Mishra, who’ve grown alongside us and fostered a sense of community. They still want to wear Polite.

For the marketing aspect, you need clarity of vision. You need to know where you want to go and make choices on how to grow.

CHHAJED: Sticking to your brand value is difficult in such a saturated world. What have been some of the biggest challenges of running an independent label in India?

JAIN: One massive challenge is producing things. In this space, you either know how to get it done or figure it out doing your own. It’s not organized; you can’t just say, “I want this done this way” and expect someone to do it for you. It comes through experience and team building. As you grow, people’s expectations increase daily. We want to meet those expectations, but it takes a lot of effort. While it’s challenging to grow, maintaining what you’ve done at a smaller scale is equally important.

I learned pattern making because I had to. Otherwise, I would just be imagining random things. You should be able to tell someone, even if not to the letter, how you want it constructed. If you can’t let go and communicate that to someone else, it’s over.

And also the team. I tend to have designers who aren’t afraid to try things, do trials, and drape it themselves. It’s not just about drawing on a piece of paper; it’s a lot of hands-on work.

 
 

CHHAJED: What does the future hold for Polite Society?

JAIN: We’re just trying to take it where it can go. We want to start with India properly and place ourselves in the major cities. Polite Society does have online purchases, but I know that our audience likes to try things on before they buy. I’m traveling and working simultaneously, but these are the steps required for placing yourself on the map. And I also love meeting other creators. I’m traveling to London for work soon. I haven’t done this since New York, which was a while ago, so now, of course, I want to do things outside; outside of studios, and the city, and get ourselves as far out there.

CHHAJED: What piece of advice would you give to aspiring designers who want to have their own space in the industry?

JAIN: Be true to yourself. Your brand vision has to come from within. If you’re looking up to other designers, don’t look to copy or recreate it. You don’t want that. You just want to be you. Business-wise, everything has to make you money. Designers often forget this because they think some angel is going to come and things will suddenly work out commercially.

If you’re building a business, then you have to get your numbers right. Are you making sure that this is something you can replicate at least ten times to make some money? Is it something that can sustain in the industry, or is it just uplifting? 

Rooted, Relevant, and Evolving: Rajiv Menon on Redefining South Asian Diasporic Art

 
 


interview by Parrie Chhajed

With each new generation of immigrants from South Asia making their way to the various corners of the world, so too does their culture and unique interpretation thereof. With the context of comparison, they offer perspectives on their homeland that challenge the idea of authenticity deriving from one’s geographic placement. Thus is the crux of Non-Residency, a group show that comprises sixteen artists of South Asian diasporic identity curated by Rajiv Menon. Bringing the work of non-resident South Asian artists directly to Jaipur is a first for the young gallerist and curator who opened Rajiv Menon Contemporary in Hollywood, California, in his quest to bolster representation of the Indian diaspora within the United States. He refers to these artists as the Non-Resident School, effectively defining a voice of Non-Resident Indian (NRI) taste that is both united and richly diverse by way of its orientation.

Sahana Ramakrishnan
The People Under The Sea

PARRIE CHHAJED: First off, congratulations on the exhibition. The work and the scale of the gallery is quite remarkable.

RAJIV MENON: Thank you so much. It’s really been a mission of mine to bring South Asian art to the U.S. and build a new audience for what I believe is some of the most important work happening globally. Seeing such a meaningful response has been incredibly rewarding.

CHHAJED: Let’s start with Non-Residency. It’s a cleverly charged title. How did it come about, and what does it mean to you personally?

MENON: One of the early inspirations was the ongoing cultural debate around “NRI taste.” I was very attuned to the perception of this gap in sensibility between India and its diaspora. While that gap is real, I wanted to understand its emotional and social underpinnings—and more importantly, how those conditions can be fertile grounds for art-making. I didn’t want this to be just an art exhibition. I wanted Non-Residency to act as an intervention in the culture itself—to challenge how we think about the relationship between the motherland and its diaspora, and to elevate diasporic voices as central, not peripheral, to the narrative of Indian art.

CHHAJED: This is also your first professional project in India and the first time a singular gallery is showcasing at the Jaipur Centre for Art. How does that feel both personally and professionally?

MENON: Immense. I’ve always been in awe of Indian galleries—their coherence, their mission, the way they’re contributing to defining India’s national visual identity. That spirit is what I wanted to engage with. As a diasporic gallery, we don’t operate within India’s territorial boundaries, but we are equally invested in its cultural perception globally. This exhibition is my way of asserting that the diaspora isn’t just looking in from the outside—we’re in dialogue. We’re translating, challenging, and innovating alongside what’s happening in India.

CHHAJED: The exhibition is set in Jaipur’s historic City Palace, yet it tackles themes like migration, displacement, and otherness. How did the palace’s context influence your curatorial choices?

MENON: I really wanted to play with that irony—the grandeur of a heritage space colliding with deeply contemporary diasporic narratives. Jaipur, in the Western and diasporic imagination, often represents fantasy and opulence. By placing diasporic work in that setting, it creates a tension. The goal was to force the viewer to confront that gap and start a dialogue between heritage and the now. The Jaipur Centre’s mission aligns with this—to open up heritage spaces to contemporary voices, and that made it the perfect partner.

CHHAJED: What was the initial spark for this exhibition—what made you feel that Non-residency was needed now?

MENON: Over the past few years, I’ve seen a distinct shift in diasporic art—a cohort of artists in conversation with each other, building something that felt like a movement. I’m calling them the Non-resident School—artists working through similar themes and aesthetics, but with singular visions. Many are already in major museum and private collections, but the world wasn’t seeing it as a movement yet. Non-residency is my way of announcing that. It’s a statement: This is not isolated brilliance—it’s a cultural wave that’s reshaping how South Asian identity is viewed globally.

Kelly Sinnapah
Mary Violette’s Book The Girl with 3 Eyes, 2025
JCG18987
photograph by Christopher Burke Studio

As if Hoque Up Up And Away

CHHAJED: And that wave is definitely visible—not just in art, but across music, fashion, and literature as well.

MENON: Absolutely. Indian fashion, in particular, has had such an incredible global presence lately. When I meet young designers and creatives from India, there’s this shared vision—to show that Indian aesthetics are not just relevant, but leading on the world stage. Whether it’s garments or fine art, we’re participating in the same cultural project. That’s why it’s so important to me that my gallery also acts as a platform to showcase fashion and other creative expressions from India.

CHHAJED: Diasporic identity is often framed through nostalgia. But this exhibition feels like a break from that. Was that intentional?

MENON: Very much so. One of my biggest critiques of diasporic work is its frequent fixation on the past. I wanted this show to be about the future—about innovation. The artists featured are using their identities not to look back longingly, but to create something new. This is about possibility, not just memory. I wanted to challenge the idea that diasporic work is a diluted echo of Indian culture. It’s not. It’s its own form—rooted, relevant, and evolving.

Installation view. Non-Residency. Jaipur Centre for Art 2025

CHHAJED: That’s a powerful shift. You’ve also spoken about moving away from “authenticity” as a standard for Indian art. Can you elaborate?

MENON: The notion that work must be created in India to be authentically Indian is limiting—and frankly outdated. Authenticity is not fixed. It evolves. What we think of as “authentic Indian culture” today is different from fifty or a hundred years ago. Diasporic art is no less authentic just because it’s created elsewhere. It reflects the lived experiences and social contexts of the artists. If we continue to gatekeep Indian culture through rigid authenticity, we miss out on incredible new voices and visions.

CHHAJED: The artist list for Non-Residency includes a rich mix of intersectional identities. Was that intentional?

MENON: I don’t believe curation should be a box-ticking exercise. But if you’re genuinely tuned into the landscape, diversity happens naturally. I wanted to present a wide spectrum of diasporic experience—not just the dominant post-1965 immigration narrative. That’s why including Indo-Caribbean artists was essential. Their work speaks to layered displacements and complex racial and cultural identities. This isn’t just about representing different experiences—it’s about expanding the aesthetic language of the diaspora.

Installation view. Non-Residency. Jaipur Centre for Art 2025

CHHAJED: What was the process like of choosing the artists and curating the show?

MENON: A joy. The majority of the works were created specifically for this show. Many artists responded to the location of Jaipur itself. Anoushka Mirchandani, for example, created a painting in response to Jackie Kennedy’s iconic shoot in Jaipur. Nibha Akireddy, who’s currently in residency at JCA, explored the history of women polo players in the region. The curatorial framework—non-residency as both a social and aesthetic concept—also led me to explore the uncanny. There’s a distortion, a doubling that diasporic artists often experience when engaging with the homeland. That tension became an aesthetic throughline across the works.

CHHAJED: Earlier this year, you also launched a permanent space in Hollywood. How has the journey been of creating a gallery focused on South Asian art in the U.S.?

MENON: There was a huge gap on the West Coast for South Asian art, and the response has been incredible. Not just from the diaspora but from the broader art community. Museums have been especially supportive, and that’s a major signifier of cultural impact. But yes, one of the challenges is the lack of cultural literacy—many Americans don’t have a deep understanding of India. That’s why our gallery isn’t just commercial—it’s educational. I want people to understand the context, the complexity, and the multiplicity of Indian art.

CHHAJED: How did the collaboration with the Jaipur Centre come about?

MENON: I attended their opening last year and was deeply moved. Noelle Kadar and HRH Sawai Padmanabh Singh have a truly global vision for Indian art. It felt like the perfect place to make a cultural statement, to bridge the diaspora and the homeland. Their level of ambition and taste matched the gallery’s, and the collaboration just made sense.

CHHAJED: Were there any surprises along the way?

MENON: The journey is still unfolding—the show installs next week! While I visit India often and it feels like home, bringing art here as a business is a new experience. There’s been a learning curve, but this is only the beginning. We’ll also be showing at the India Art Fair in February and plan to keep India as a consistent part of our programming.

CHHAJED: If Non-residency is a homecoming, what’s next?

MENON: In September, we take on a different kind of homecoming—I’ll be curating a show in my hometown of Houston, Texas, at the Untitled Art Fair. The theme will also be homecoming, and like all my curatorial work, it’s deeply personal. I think this pair of shows—India and Houston—reflects the scope of my own identity and vision. After that, we’ll show at Untitled Miami during Art Basel and continue regular programming in our Los Angeles gallery.

Non-Residency is on view through October 5 @ Jaipur Centre for Art Gate No. 1, City Palace, Pink City, Jaipur, Rajasthan 302002

 

Rajiv Menon at the opening of Non-Residency at Jaipur Centre for Art

 

A World With No Safe Word: An Interview of Nicolette Mishkan

Nicolette Mishkan
Lethe’s Harem, 2024-2025
Oil on linen
48 x 60 in121.9 x 152.4 cm

interview by Summer Bowie

What if death were just a blackout between this life and the next? With its memories wiped clean in a cycle of spiritual cleansing, your soul might carry only faint notions of who you once were, like a SIM card with a brand new hippocampus. Such is the gist of the River Lethe, an underworld tributary from ancient Greek mythology whose waters wash away all remembrance of one’s existence. In Lethe’s Tavern, the fabled Greek river becomes a watering hole where painter Nicolette Mishkan’s ego goes to slosh around, bifurcate, and eventually sing its swan song. Informed equally by Sufi mysticism wherein wine is used to symbolize the intoxicating effects of divine love, she annihilates her sense of individuality by eliminating any distinction between herself and others. Together, these figures revel in the ultimate surrender to their fate, a resplendent transcendence into the unknown where who she once was lies buried without even an epitaph. The following interview took place at Megan Mulrooney on the occasion of the exhibition’s closing and has been edited for length.

SUMMER BOWIE: I want to start by talking about the River Lethe—what it is and how it came to be the crux of this body of work. 

NICOLETTE MISHKAN: I came across an essay on the River Lethe in Greek mythology one day, and I was really intrigued by this image of a river in the underworld where if you drink from it, it wipes your memory clean. You want to avoid drinking the water so that you can keep the memories from your previous existences and carry them into the next life. So, it feeds into this imagery of an eternal cycle—the forgetting and redoing and forgetting again.

Before that, I had been thinking about wine from a Sufi perspective and the belief that it brings you closer to the divine. I like the mixture of that imagery in terms of divine intoxication as a form of spiritual love and also the idea of dispersing your ego and memories and thoughts. Depending on the level of consciousness you bring into it, it'll either connect you with something higher or return you to the cycle of renewal.

BOWIE: It’s interesting in this way that you’re discouraged from drinking the water, but of course, we all come into the world with a fresh slate. So, these works propose a wonderful embrace of that surrender. I love the way these figures are experiencing moments of everything from folly to ecstasy to utter exhaustion. There’s an aspect of labor you can see that really speaks to the more challenging aspects of submission. 

The show also makes reference to the Sufi concept of ‘fana,’ which has to do with ego death and connection to the divine. And it’s also the first show you’ve done where you appear as each and every figure. I like how you approach this idea of ego death in a very counterintuitive way, because you’ve lost all that makes you unique.

MISHKAN: Yeah, I mean from a practical standpoint, I wanted it to be consistent. And I like the idea of multiple selves that represent either your multiple potential realities or different timelines merging, or even just the idea that everyone is a reflection of you. Every work an artist makes is inevitably going to be a self-portrait. Plus, it’s easier because I’m always available..

BOWIE: Are you photographing yourself from multiple angles and then placing those in, or are you finding that you need certain angles as you’re in the process of creating the painting, and then going back and re-photographing? 

MISHKAN: It’s both. It’s like, oh, I know what I want, so let me just…. It’s embarrassing. I set up the camera and I’m like, [assumes a few different poses] you know. And then I took videos and grabbed stills from those as well. 

BOWIE: The movement aspect is really clear, so I can see the way that film stills would lend themselves well to these figures. One major recurrent theme across all of your works is the way that they empower people to connect to the divine feminine. Can you define what the divine feminine is for you? 

MISHKAN: When I started the series, I was thinking of the role of wine according to the Sufis and then it branched out into other cultures and their relationships with wine. And then, I was thinking about this river as a trance into the subconscious, in this moon-like place. As I kept going, I got into more of this story of the feminine descent. Part of that is this cyclical period in everyone’s life, it happens a million times, where she’s forced to start over. Part of that is releasing all the attachments to who she is: I’m a mother, a daughter, a businesswoman, an artist—letting go of all those identity markers. It’s also about letting go of her attachment to a very patriarchal society. We’re raised in this logical, mathematical world that forces us to let go of what makes us feminine: our intuition, connection to our body, emotionality. These are the things that make women strong. Sometimes it just catches up with you and you have to evolve. And part of that evolution is the descent into your subconscious, facing certain things, letting go, coming back.

Nicolette Mishkan
Lethe's Tavern, 2024-2025
Oil on linen
48 x 60 in121.9 x 152.4 cm

BOWIE: The subject of female empowerment comes up a lot in your work, but I feel like your take on it is a direct reflection of not just being a woman, but being an Iranian-American woman.

MISHKAN: It’s just so ingrained. I grew up in America and I was never forced to cover up the way they are, but I still see instances where I’m doing that dance. They’re treated as second-class citizens, essentially, and it’s terrifying to see how a country can go so far backwards so quickly. We see the women over there fighting for rights that we have here, but we take it for granted because we don’t realize how fragile it is. 

BOWIE: Right. The Woman, Life, Freedom movement is asking for something that we currently have in America. But, the far-right has already dismantled Roe v. Wade and defunded family planning clinics that provide everything from birth control to STD screening and pap smears. So, we may be allowed to expose more of our bodies, but the misogynistic foundation of Western society is always pulling back on the liberties that we assume are fixed because our grandmothers already fought for them and won.

MISHKAN: A lot of it comes from this religious mentality. You’ll see people who leave one extreme religion only to find another one with equally extreme practices. Coming back to the series, I want to appreciate the feminine and embrace her because I think that without that, we’re imbalanced, and you can see it all over the place. It’s very imbalanced; women are so repressed. And it has to get so extreme. Women have to go out there and cut their hair off. In Iran, they’re getting their eyes shot out and it’s all because of their hair.

BOWIE: The young women of Iran are fighting back in this way that is just unbelievably intrepid. It’s extremely humbling. But speaking of extremes, a lot of people don’t know about your previous practice as a performance artist and the character you called Permaid. Was that the genesis of this avatar that you found in the siren?

MISHKAN: Permaid was a project I did with my friend and it was just purely out of love. We didn’t really understand what we were doing. We would put this faceless latex mermaid out in the world and take photos and it was candid. But in the end, I realized it was a lot about learning to embrace yourself and all your differences and loving every part of yourself.

After that project ended, I really wanted to continue exploring the siren theme. And part of Permaid was this inherent S&M thing, which is just always in the back of my mind. It’s about sexuality whether I want it to be or not. But, it’s more this idea of what you consent to in your day-to-day life and how we live in a world where there’s no safe word. So, if you are aware of what you’re consenting to, you’re far more empowered. The mermaid is such a feminine symbol. She mirrors women in today’s society very well and the way that our strengths are held against us. 

BOWIE: There’s an extremism about her in the sense that she’s faceless, and already, the mermaid is basically sexless. Yet, she is this symbol of sensuality and in many European seafaring mythologies she is a temptress who lures sailors to inclement, stormy waters. So, if you saw her it was a sign that you were going to die. Yet, Permaid’s facelessness really impedes her ability to beguile. There’s not an inch of skin exposed—it’s almost like a sexy burka. I imagine it was incredibly difficult to breathe in this costume. 

MISHKAN: Oh yeah, it’s very psychological. You freak out while your face is covered and your breath gets short. It suffocates a little bit, but you just kind of breathe into it. It’s very weird. I’d be in that suit sometimes for a very long time. I imagine it’s similar to a burka, where you can see them, but they can’t see you. It's very dehumanizing and weird from a sensory perspective. It’s like a sensory deprivation tank. You can get zen with it and eventually you get used to it, but I didn’t really enjoy it.

BOWIE: There’s a compelling paradox with your body on full display and your complete anonymity. There’s a lot of symbolism there in terms of the female experience. And in these works, we can see traces of Permaid’s with the black latex mask, but now it’s a hood with her face exposed. She’s been liberated in a certain respect, but we’re reminded that it’s still her. Can we talk about your use of water in these works as a symbol of rebirth? 

MISHKAN: I wanted to create a world that’s like this entrance back into the womb. And part of that approach was in these thin washes of paint that build up the darkness. Also, in a lot of literary symbolism, water, when it's out of control, can represent a sort of mental schizoid state. And I like the idea of water as a subconscious realm of collective thought progression. That’s where I imagined the heroine entering—in this deep subconscious shadow world.

Nicolette Mishkan
Ritual of Forgetting, 2024
Oil on linen
24 x 20 in61 x 50.8 cm

BOWIE: There are a couple other motifs that you play with that take the form of talismans, like the latex hoods and poppy flowers. Can you talk about those?

MISHKAN: The latex hoods throughout my paintings prior to this have always been my nod to S&M. But with this series, I wanted it to be a representation of the ego, like that last thing holding her together. And as the series keeps going, they start coming off. With the poppies, I was researching symbols for forgetting, and they started coming up. I like that intersection of this addictive, devotional, all-consuming vice.

BOWIE: You play a lot with this juxtaposition between inebriation and purification. There’s the Dionysian belief that wine brings you closer to the gods that you’re referencing, and then this mythology of the river Lethe making you forget—pulling you away from yourself.

MISHKAN: Yeah, the symbolism of wine comes up in so many different cultures. You have wine representing the blood of Christ. For the Zoroastrians, it represented the fire of the sun and a kind of substitute for blood. In a lot of cultures, wine is something that connects you to the divine or life force, and I like that idea. Intoxication is a process of stepping outside of yourself and connecting to something else. Like this, the heroine is sort of letting down her ego, she's letting down her walls, forgetting her disconnection with others, and reconnecting with her shadow side, as well as her instincts and intuition.

BOWIE: There’s several interesting art historical references that we see in this series, particularly Dorothea Tanning and Leonor Fini. Something I find really intriguing is not just your connection to them as Surrealist female painters that work with the body, and mortality, and nature. But on a personal level, Dorothea Tanning had this history of working in fashion illustration, much like you. And then with Leonor Fini, she had that famous photograph by Henri Cartier-Bresson, where she’s nude, bathing in water, and she has this very classical hourglass figure, much like your own, which is a relatively rarefied body type. Do you remember how you discovered either of their work?

MISHKAN: I'd say both of them were always kind of floating around as soon as I got internet access. I was coming across the imagery and it always really spoke to me. You look at it and sometimes you have no idea what's going on. It really touches a part of my brain. But I think Surrealism has historically been a place where women were taken seriously. It's a great entry point for any female artist because it's so welcoming for some reason.

BOWIE: I mean, part of me wonders how much of it had to do with how sexually liberated the female Surrealists were. Like, the narrative around Max Ernst discovering Dorothea Tanning through her Birthday painting, which was a topless self-portrait and then leaving Peggy Guggenheim shortly thereafter for her is pretty telling. Or the fact that Cartier-Bresson’s most famous and valuable photograph is of Leonor Fini nude with a shaved pubis. I want to talk about this palette you chose for these works because it’s very different from your previous works. These wine-dark reds, greenish grays, ashen roses. Where did the inspiration for this palette come from? 

MISHKAN: I don’t remember why these colors happened. The imagery that came up in my research and imagination was in this palette and I really liked it, so I went with it. And as I kept going, I started to realize that it's actually really moldy. And I think mold speaks well to this idea of breakdown and regeneration. It wasn’t intentional, but it works. 

Nicolette Mishkan
Midnight Abyss, 2024-2025
Oil on linen
24 x 36 in61 x 91.4 cm

BOWIE: [Gestures toward a painting] I love that one so much because she gets to this point where she almost can’t take it anymore. It reminds me of the last stage of child labor right before you start to push. I’m curious about the embodiment of the siren and how she guides your way of living.

MISHKAN: You know, at the end of the day I’m a very cheesy girl; I’m very cringy. I just like mermaids and I chose to lean into it. I always loved them as a kid and I still love them. She’s so endlessly fascinating and the more I think about her, the more dimensions she reveals to me. Whether it’s the way she’s historically demonized as representation of the whore, or valorized as the divine feminine—a woman who's strong in her emotions and intuition. She's a timeless symbol.

BOWIE: Do you drink while you paint? 

MISHKAN: There was a period where sometimes I would drink the night before. There was something about the hangover that was interesting to lean into. And then after a while it wasn’t…

BOWIE: You can feel that with these. You can feel the ecstatic moments of drinking and the eventual burn out. Especially with that moment where you’re pouring yourself another drink and the version of yourself receiving it is like, this is a good idea. 

MISHKAN: That’s what I’m doing when I’m drinking. I’m just really having fun with myself. But the addiction aspect is always floating in the back of my head. The addict is in me and I’ve dated so many of them. But I embrace it because there's something about the addict mentality that is passionate. I like the intensity. I even like the destructive aspect. I don't fight it. I just try to appreciate it. When it comes to these ideas of connecting with the divine, it’s both intoxicating and kind of delusional. If you’re drinking to forget, the cycle just repeats itself versus if you're celebrating, it's a different thing in my mind.

 

Nicolette Mishkan
Limbic Override, 2025
Oil on canvas
14 x 10 in35.6 x 25.4 cm

 

BOWIE: Are they doing both?

MISHKAN: In this series, I like the idea that you could read it a million different ways. Maybe she’s ending back where she started, or maybe her rebirth is leading to a positive transformation.

BOWIE: On the subject of rebirth and a certain feminine continuum, you originally learned to paint as a child because your mom taught oil painting and you used to sit through her classes. I'm curious how your mom feels about your painting practice?

MISHKAN: She’s very supportive. She’s super open-minded and liberal compared to a typical Iranian woman, but when I first sent her the list of work she was like, “Oh, there’s a lot of nudity, and I wanted to bring my friends.” And I was like, “Don't worry about it. You don’t have to bring them.” But then, she did anyway. And I do love that this is really my connection to her in a way. It’s so deeply a part of her that it’s part of me too. And she did teach me. I remember being super young and her being like, “Okay, here are your colors, start mixing.” And that's how I learned oil painting. 

BOWIE: So, it sounds like you’re challenging her in a lot of ways and she’s growing from it in terms of pushing through that discomfort.

MISHKAN: Yeah. I mean, she’s also why I got into classical painting because that’s just what I grew up around. I was always in a house full of paintings of nude women and I didn’t realize that that’s kind of weird. 

BOWIE: Just not as much self-portraiture happening, I imagine.

MISHKAN: No. There was a lot of Rococo and Neoclassical painting going on. It’s very Persian. 

BOWIE: Right. That separation between artist and subject lends itself to a much less vulnerable practice.

MISHKAN: Exactly. 

Nicolette Mishkan
Delta Waves, 2025
Oil on canvas
14 x 14 in35.6 x 35.6 cm