The Erotic Gaze: Ireland Wisdom on Intimacy, Immortality, and the Art of Looking

Painter Ireland Wisdom speaks with longtime collaborator Carlye Packer about the sensual rituals of portraiture, the psychic tension of play, and why painting from life is an affair of devotion, desire, and death.

portraits by Austin Sandhaus

In this intimate conversation between gallerist Carlye Packer and painter Ireland Wisdom, what begins as a reflection on their creative partnership unfolds into a meditation on intimacy, eroticism, play, and mortality. Wisdom, whose portraits are painted from live models in prolonged silence are charged with a psychic intensity. She speaks with Packer candidly about her relationship to the body, desire, and the mythic tradition of being seen—and of seeing. As they revisit their early collaborations and look closer at Wisdom’s new Dance Macabre series, the dialogue dances between the sacred and the scandalous, from Goya to Dorian Gray to Georges Bataille. As friends and colleagues, they muse about works that are made like someone chasing the moment before it is lost. Whether you are a sitter or simply a viewer, you are invited to enter that entanglement with her.

CARLYE PACKER: Okay, so it is a pleasure to be interviewing you. We have known each other for over ten years, and started working together about three years ago when I did your first major solo exhibition at my old gallery location on Sunset, which was the original American Apparel flagship store. That exhibition was presented in October of 2022 and was an exhibition of how many portraits? Twelve?

IRELAND WISDOM: Twelve portraits and two still lifes.

PACKER: Yes—all set against a black Goya-esque background and all painted from live models, right? 

WISDOM: Yes, I was trained in Florence on how to paint from life, using an old technique that started with Leonardo da Vinci called “sight size,” which is painting a figure or anything really in the scale of life. It was a technique that was sort of brought back to life by John Singer Sargent in the 19th century. So I have continued carrying out that really old tradition, I continually choose to paint from life with my models sitting in front of me.

 
 

PACKER: A lot of your paintings tend to be very sensual, with direct eye contact, mostly nude or semi-clothed. As a viewer, there is obviously a very deep connection between you and the subject being painted—what is that relationship to your subjects and your relationship to painting them and their relationship to you as they are being painted?

WISDOM: Well, desire has always been linked to themes of love and intimacy, a yearning between two figures. In choosing a model and them accepting my request to paint them, there is a sort of bond of intimacy established. 

PACKER: How is it that you choose your models?

WISDOM: So, usually it just comes from an impromptu feeling of inspiration. Either it's a close friend that I've known for years that has been a consistent muse or it's another type of instant attraction to an unknown person—someone that just kind of wows me, who grabs my attention, someone who feels iconic, timeless, very slay. It’s a very Dionysian impulse. I’m drawn to the essence of something or someone that just feels memorable and usually I’m physically attracted to them as well, which is why a deep sensuality comes out in my portraits; a kind of intenseness that you can feel within their eyes and their facial expressions, a sort of combination of hunger, lust, devotion or appetite.

PACKER: What actually happens in the process, when you're in-person painting someone?

WISDOM: There's a really interesting dynamic between the artist and the sitter, a very genuine experience that is hard to put into words. It’s like trying to capture the powerful feeling that is the human condition, that of being desired and of desiring another person—it’s like trying to establish a lost object, or a dream once you awake, or the tension between how someone appears externally, their unconscious mind, how I see them, how I want them to be seen, how I want them to be immortalized and how they want themselves to be immortalized, and the tension between those things are all in play—all while they are looking me in the eye, and I’m looking back at them.

PACKER: It’s giving very Titanic.

WISDOM: Yes. (laughs) It’s very titanic, but it’s also very Dorian Gray. It’s an erotic sort of adventure—I mean the experience of being immortalized in oil is a very particular and deep experience. The model basically sits in silence—in a meditative state—which feels like a rare experience these days—to be observed and captured over many hours, over many days—in slowness—especially in this digital era. 

PACKER: I have sat for you for a portrait and it definitely felt like a weird out-of-body affair.

WISDOM: It is a sort of affair, there’s something scandalous inherent in this tradition of painting from life. It’s an expression of energy flows and an obsessive concern with the erotic, with myth, with self-mythologizing, the sacrifice of giving one’s self, the nature of excess. It’s an entanglement of energy, a giving and a taking from both sides. I usually choose to paint my subjects looking directly at me, so when it's finished, the viewer looks at the painting and the subject is looking directly at them. The viewer then becomes a part of this entanglement as well.

PACKER: I think one of the best examples of this is your reclining nude portrait of Marco, in his Danskos, with the papaya split open. I feel like when we exhibited that painting, people wanted to know who he was, what your relationship was, and why does he look so good?

WISDOM: (laughs)

PACKER: Someone had actually described, when viewing the painting, that it made them feel hungry.

WISDOM: (laughs) Yes, definitely. It’s giving appetite.

PACKER: Most of your paintings elicit those questions for people. Like when we exhibited the portrait of Yeha (“The Keyster”) at Felix this year, people were so curious to know more.

WISDOM: What did they want to know more about?

PACKER: Everything, really. Whenever I exhibit your work, it demands a sort of curiosity from the viewer. 

WISDOM: Yeah, I feel like “The Keyster” was a great infusion of reality and surrealism. Or rather sort of an infusion of the psychic tension between play and its ambiguities. 

PACKER: In what sense?

WISDOM: Well, she has her arms open, pointing towards two different keyholes. It kind of symbolizes these basic, everyday decisions we have to make. How it all comes down to which one we pick? And she is standing there, being playful about the decision making process, which is something I think is important for us to remember—it sort of goes back to Bataille's ideas about play—like how he believed that death reveals the impossible and that play is a way of seeing this. 

PACKER: Well your new series of paintings is very overtly death-oriented.

WISDOM: Yes, this new series is focused around the Medieval genre of the Dance Macabre, or the dance of death. In the past this was illustrated in a poetic yet literal way, the idea that all are equal before death. Obviously, they were dealing with the black plague back then. Now, in my current series, I’m using a lot of similar imagery, but thinking about death not necessarily in the ending-of-life way, though that as well, but rather as the series of endings that we all go through that make way for new cycles to come. My own personal take is about one having an ego death and dancing with it.

PACKER: Which circles back to the playfulness that is in most of your paintings. 

WISDOM: Yes, I find that play is one of the most important things, the muses do keep musing.

PACKER: Who would be your ideal next muse?

WISDOM: I see people all around me that I would love to have sit for me. Julia Fox would be nice, I don’t really know why, probably because I just read her memoir. But I also saw this old man walking today, when I was walking to meet you, and asked for his number, he was serving homage to Jusepe de Ribera. Maybe one of the presidential portraits, not in the near future, but in the far far future, when I’m much older. Or the Pope, that would be iconic.

PACKER: Would you paint the Pope nude?

WISDOM: Only if he let me.

Islands Within: The Multiplicity of Kilo Kish

With her latest EP, Negotiations, Kilo Kish confronts the emotional toll of digital culture and reclaims space for nuance, rest, and plurality in response to an industry built on speed.

 
 

interview by Summer Bowie
portraits by
Dana Boulos

Despite the ever-shifting expectations of digital culture, American artist of sound and screen Kilo Kish continues to carve out a space entirely her own—one that defies genre, challenges structure, and insists on emotional honesty. With her latest EP Negotiations, Kish turns her gaze inward and outward, interrogating the increasingly blurred boundaries between human and machine, performance and authenticity, burnout and resilience. Through textured soundscapes, fragmented narratives, and a visual aesthetic that’s both nostalgic and hypothetical, she invites us into a world where self-care is a form of resistance.

How do we nourish the spirit while navigating systems that rarely pause for breath? Kish speaks candidly about the emotional labor behind her output, the philosophies that anchor her worldview, and the freedom she’s found in embracing multiplicity—of identity, of media, and of meaning. What emerges is a portrait of an artist in motion: reflective, adaptive, and uncompromising in her pursuit of truth through art.

SUMMER BOWIE: Your new EP, Negotiations, is all about the slippery contemporary landscape of rapidly evolving technology, emotional instability and the struggle to escape our algorithmic silos. Are there any specific life experiences that inspired its conception?

KILO KISH: This EP is focused more on the music industry and the social expectations of artists in 2025 and how they can lead to burnout without proper self-care and protections. With this one, I thought a lot about these creative systems imposed and the internal creative systems in the body, heart, mind, and spirit that require the same nourishment to perform. Just wondering to myself, where is the nourishment going to come from in the future? How do we build ourselves strong to survive and thrive creatively? In thinking of stamina and productivity, what first came to mind was robots, autonomous factories and storefronts, and systems that don’t require rest. So, the visual and creative world was built from that. 

BOWIE: Your visuals—album covers, fashion, and videos—often evoke a futuristic yet nostalgic feel. How do you develop the visual language for each project, and what role does mood or time period play in your aesthetic decisions?

KISH: I didn’t want the impression to be so futuristic or on the nose, I always love bringing in the conversation about technology or the present in settings that don’t necessarily evoke it, so we chose this ’90s office building. I build the world first and then the music, so I’m always clear that the mood of the music and the visual world will be harmonious. When making films that go with the music, I’m already really clear on the characters and ideas that I want to employ, so then it’s just finding collaborators and explaining the world to them. 

BOWIE: What does a typical creative cycle look like for you—from idea germination to completion? Is your process more intuitive and chaotic, or do you map things out structurally from the start?

KISH: It’s very intuitive. My approach to storytelling is purely an internal dialogue and a spiritual practice of just listening. I only make work when I know I am supposed to make it and that comes from hearing from god or my own questions about my path. The first step is just listening—I’m always living and listening to what is next and where I should go. Journaling helps. But I’m always working on multiple projects, so while I am doing one I may get a clue for something else and write it down. I’m always gathering references, so when things pop up that may work for the new project I build out digital spaces for that. As I finish one project, I eventually have all the clues I need to begin the next one. That usually consists of rough ideas, questions, visual references, art direction, rough treatments—but a sense of the world is built internally, and I have a direction. Once I know the world, I start the production process of actually making. So I’m always making at least five to ten projects but in various stages of completion. But a lot of it is just listening, getting quiet enough to have enough alone time or internal practice to feel what wants to come forth next. I’m often wrong about order or timing, but it always works itself out. 

BOWIE: You’ve seamlessly blended music, visual art, and fashion in your career. Do you see these disciplines as separate expressions, or are they different languages telling the same story? How do you navigate where one ends and the other begins?

KISH: I think it depends on the project. They work in tandem to create a more expressive world or story, to me it’s all intuitive and they’re all important to sharing ideas. It all feels very natural to me to play in these different spaces, in expressing this nature to others over the years there were always outside requests to slim down, or streamline who you are, now it’s a bit more accepted, which is great. But before, so much of my time was spent trying to explain how or where things began and ended, which was the “focus,” and I just confused myself ultimately. I saw a coach who helped me to detangle it and I see these extensions now as islands, all of them exist as parts of me and my way of telling stories, and there are bridges between them at times, and these configurations can change, but they are all me, and all existing in me always. There are islands I haven’t discovered yet. I’ve grown more comfortable holding this version of myself as truth. I really like this song by Empress Of called “What Type of Girl Am I?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself tons of times too. 

BOWIE: In addition to your 2021 video and track “American Gurl,” you also curated an exhibition of short films of the same name with co-curator Zehra Ahmed, first at Hauser + Wirth and most recently at MOCA in Los Angeles. Can you talk about the genesis of that project?

KISH: Zehra had featured some of my video work in her womxn in windows shows previously. We first worked together more closely when I did the Midnight Moment with Times Square Arts. The concepts from American Gurl felt so expansive and like there was a lot more to explore so Zehra proposed creating a film exhibition together, kind of blending what we both already do, and so we started working on bringing that to MOCA some years ago. The Hauser show and the Gantt Center show were pleasant surprises in between that initial idea. We have an upcoming guest curation at the Academy Museum this summer as well! Zehra and I gel well creatively, and we’ve found a beautiful niche that’s been really rewarding to bring to the public. 

BOWIE: In works like American Gurl, there’s a conversation around digital identity and the hyperreality of modern life. What’s your perspective on how technology affects our sense of self—and how do you channel that in your art?

KISH: There’s this constant questioning of the self against other things, and these other entities: people, systems, spaces, etc, are constantly in our view and held against our bodies. At this point, detachment from that source of information, inspiration, or entertainment is difficult for lots of us. Although, when explored with purpose it can be very rewarding, I love scrolling through pages and pages of reference or researching things that pop into my mind. But the thing is, you never really know what you will come across or how it might affect you, so I try to give myself breaks or grace around processing time online. I think I aim for freedom and this attitude of being above it all, but in our industry, perception is important and it exists whether you choose to commune with it or not. 

BOWIE: Your music often challenges traditional pop structures, mixing spoken word, noise, and ambient textures. What draws you to sonic experimentation, and how do you balance abstraction with accessibility?

KISH: I guess I just want everything, all the time. It’s part of the “problem” of my work and what makes it unique. I try to balance things that seem to be in opposition or find the threads that connect them. I think boredom with who I’ve been before is a huge motivator for me, I like evolution and watching ideas change over time. But really, I’ve always just identified with otherness, like, “we could do that, but what about this, we don’t know what happens if we do this.” I just love being an explorer, of our blip in time, of the inside, and the outside.  

BOWIE: Much of your work explores identity, consumerism, and modern alienation—often with philosophical or existential undertones. Are there particular thinkers, books, or theories that have significantly shaped your worldview and creative output?

KISH: I’ve always been a very spiritual and purpose-driven person, so years and years of meditating on god have informed this approach to life that says, we all have a purpose and we’re meant to explore, give, and live as humble and as noble as possible, sharing the truth and gifts of our spirit with the world, seeing the body as a channel for ideas to come forth. Like in another life, I could have definitely been a nun, I like the idea of being in service to all but yourself. But too much of this, this martyrdom of the artist part that’s always in the background, was responsible for much of the burnout I touch on in Negotiations. At the same time, I am a product of my environment and my world that says, “Grab up as much as you can for yourself and become the biggest version of yourself you can be.” I’ve read so many self-help, productivity, meditation, stoicism, healthy living, spiritual texts, etc. I have this fixation on what it means to live a good life. I think learning to balance these elements and giving grace for what is left unknown is what I’ve been focused on recently. I constantly return to the Denial of Death (1973) by Ernest Becker and Concerning the Spiritual in Art (1911) by [Wassily] Kandinsky. But much of my practice is intuitive and listening to myself and what comes forth. 

BOWIE: Many of your lyrics feel like internal monologues, offering listeners a peek into your thought process. How do you decide what emotional truths to share, and do you ever feel the need to protect parts of yourself from the wider public?

KISH: I do, but not so much in the art itself. Music to me doesn’t always have to be about the songwriter, so you can hide a little in that space if absolutely necessary. There is this reality and fiction existing at the same time and we expect that too. I think I definitely protect myself elsewhere, in my personal life, or even meeting people in public, even if I just performed for tons of people, I can be really shy afterwards. Also online, I’d rather just present the work than present myself to camera daily. 

BOWIE: As someone who often moves outside of genre norms and mainstream expectations, how do you maintain your creative independence in an industry that can reward predictability? Have there been moments where you had to fight to stay true to your vision?

KISH: To me nothing really feels like a fight. It either just has to happen or not, and you’re on board, or you’re not, and I’m just following that flow in the dark a lot of the time. It can be stressful at times, though, waiting for things to unfold completely, but I know the decisions I need to make to serve the purpose of the project. I think there are many paths to winning, some just require carving out. Everything I have set out to do I have done bit by bit, and if I haven’t, I’m not done yet. It can be daunting and demoralizing for sure, because repeating yourself or your angle time and time again begins to change the meaning behind the words. There is this interview with Venus and Serena Willams’ dad where an interviewer keeps questioning them about a statement one of them made in confidence, eventually their dad stops the reporter, reminding him that the more times you question someone on something they hold true, they begin to lose confidence around that idea. Believe them the first time. I think this business can do that, wear you down, or make you feel small for wanting a different option or another path, or confuse your value or worth with that of numbers. Imposter syndrome is real and definitely plays a role, but I’ve learned to accept that my perfectionism is ingrained even if it’s unattainable. It try to give myself grace in that when I remember that everyone is grading by different measures. 

BOWIE: Looking ahead, what kind of artistic legacy do you want to leave behind? Are there unexplored mediums or themes you're still yearning to dive into that might surprise your current audience?

KISH: I just want to continue to build worlds that people can live and explore themselves in—sonic, video, written, visual, performance. Creatively, I just want a lush, rich, expansive life that pulls from all elements. I would like to be prolific in that sense, not overthinking things, just exploring and doing. I’d like to direct a bit more, short narrative, or maybe make a play or opera. I would love to make more performances that involve music and dance. This year, I’ve done more creative work for others and that’s been rewarding. I designed a book called City of Angels for my good friend Jasmine Benjamin, about LA style. I want to play with nature, make physical spaces, grow food, and build landscapes. There’s still so much left to do. 

Everything Has to Come At the Right Moment: An Interview of Francisco Costa

From Calvin Klein to sustainable skincare, the maternal gaze is a guiding principle for Brazil’s prodigal son.

 
 

interview by Summer Bowie
portraits by
Keith Oshiro


Francisco Costa’s path from the rarefied world of high fashion to the heart of the Amazon is a story of return—both to his geographical roots and to a practice that prioritizes community care by design. Born in the small town of Guarani, Brazil, Costa was raised by a visionary mother who ran a garment factory that empowered hundreds of local women and modeled what would now be considered a quietly radical form of sustainability.

Shortly after losing his mother during his adolescence, the budding young designer moved to New York to study fashion at FIT. An early and formative experience working for a Seventh Avenue garment manufacturer who held licenses for major designers, including Oscar de la Renta, led to Costa eventually working directly under de la Renta, becoming part of his atelier and learning the foundations of luxury design and craftsmanship. This apprenticeship was pivotal—it exposed Costa to the world of refined, couture-level design and helped him develop the precision and discipline that would later define his own minimalist aesthetic.

In the late 1990s, Costa moved to Gucci, where he worked under Tom Ford. This period helped sharpen his sense of modernity, sex appeal, and branding. Best known for his decade-long tenure as the Women’s Creative Director at Calvin Klein, Costa became a defining voice in modern reductionism—an editor of excess, who found beauty in restraint. But even then, his instinct was to reuse, reimagine, and reconnect with materials in deeply personal ways. All along the way, his mother’s ethics of care and resourcefulness continue to shape Costa’s worldview.

With the founding of Costa Brazil, he turned his attention from clothing the body to nurturing it. A pivotal trip to the western Amazon introduced him to Indigenous communities and powerful natural ingredients like breu, a sacred resin with antimicrobial and spiritual properties. Guided by partnerships with organizations like Conservation International, Costa built a brand that honors the land, its protectors, and the rituals that sustain both.

In every sense, Costa Brazil is an extension of its founder’s ethos: pure, considered, and deeply connected to place.

FRANCISCO COSTA: I love that you have all those books behind you.

SUMMER BOWIE: One of the best perks of running a magazine is that we’re constantly receiving beautiful new books that allow us to really sink our teeth into all of the art that we’re exploring. It’s quite a privilege.

COSTA: Isn't that fun? So let me show you my little treasure, because I'm obsessed with books, so I built this little library. This is my pride and joy.

BOWIE: You recently published your own gorgeous book, 555: Revisiting The Fashion Archive of Francisco Costa (Rizzoli, 2023).

COSTA: It's really sweet, that book, because I don't like to look back so much, but I encountered myself in the Calvin Klein archives and I said, how can I actually put this to work? So, I started talking to a few photographers and suddenly I had twenty-one photographers that wanted to shoot the project. It's great because it's also seeing the clothes on and out of context. To me, that works the best.

BOWIE: There's something that feels much more genuine when you look at the collections this way, rather than in a campaign.

COSTA:It wasn't about getting the ‘fashion’ picture, you know what I mean?

BOWIE: I think people forget that you were the first designer in the US to stop using fur. The fashion industry, however, is still an environmental disaster and is currently having this big return to real fur. Did any recent industry trends have anything to do with you making that transition from fashion to sustainable skincare?

COSTA: No. In fact, it goes all the way back to my childhood. I grew up in a very small town in Brazil, and my mom had started this business, which was a children's manufacturing company. All the women that worked in town worked in her factory. She had 725 employees in a town of about 3000 and supported a very sustainable way of living. For instance, whatever textile would remain, she would donate to smaller communities in the rural areas, and she would teach the women how to make quilts. There was always a connectivity with the way she would empower the women with new skills and materials. When I started creating this brand [Costa Brazil], the minute I started engaging with manufacturers, I thought, I don't want to just put my name on something that exists. It’s the same way I created my collections—most of my textiles were created by me. This was a very sustainable approach, though I didn't even know it at the time. I would go to a mill in Cuomo, and they often took me backstage, which I loved. I would go into warehouses filled with yarns—things that have been sitting there since the ’50s—and I always found myself turned on by reinventing, by recreating, reappropriating. With my Fall 2011 collection, I went through knitwear companies in Scotland and in Northern Italy, took all the remnants they had, and I boiled everything. I created a whole new fabric.

BOWIE: So, your mother was really the genesis of both your inspiration in fashion and sustainability?

COSTA: And community care. She was very involved in the community. She was involved in the church and she was civically minded. The mayors of town over the years would come to my house. They used to have meetings there, which was bizarre because she was also so concerned about the wellbeing of the people who worked for her. She really had an impact on me. When I started creating Costa [Brazil] it was that transition, but it wasn't, because for me, it was a process. I was still at Calvin when I started thinking of creating my own brand and I thought it would be a lifestyle brand. I would have furniture linens or what have you, because I love lifestyle. But then, I kept on editing and editing and editing until the Francisco Costa idea ended up becoming Costa Brazil. All of a sudden, the direction changed into beauty because I was really heavily inspired by Piero Manzoni. (Francisco pulls out a book and shows a picture of Manzoni’s Artist’s Shit can). This is what inspired my packaging. 

BOWIE: Oh, yes, of course. The shit cans.

COSTA: You can see how it inspired the candle packaging. Obviously, being on the cusp of Arte Povera, he used not only humor, but elements of highs and lows. That was the genesis of it all. When the name changed from Francisco Costa to Costa Brazil, it felt very radical, but it wasn't about me anymore. It was about creating a brand that spoke about the coast of Brazil and something that could be amplified to many regions: the coast of the Amazon, the coast of Rio, the coast of whatever. It could tap into locations that give that sensibility of the wholesomeness of Brazil. When you say the word ‘Brazil,’ it takes you in so many different directions, but often a very happy place, a curious place. People imagine Brazil being this Xanadu, and so it just felt like it really worked that way.

BOWIE: Costa Brazil is clearly deeply rooted in nature and Brazilian heritage, but you also currently chair the America's Council at Conservation International. What does that work entail?

COSTA: Well, I was working with the Special Olympics in Brazil, designing some of the uniforms. Then, I ended up on the west coast of the Amazon, where I stayed with a tribe called the Yaminawá. They are one of eleven tribes of the same ethnicity in that region. The people there are so gentle and beautiful, and being in the forest itself is beyond magical. 

While I was there, I was introduced to this resin called breu that they use on a daily basis in many of their rituals. At the time, I was already affiliated with Conservation International, but I engaged a lot more as they helped me identify communities within the area, which were already under cooperatives. C.I. and the Brazil Foundation were very important partners that were able to guide me into sourcing everything properly. So, that helped me build this web of people in the Amazon, which I could go and visit.

I also ended up in a state called Amapá, which is near French Guiana and when I got there, I met a single three-generation family that does all the sourcing for three ingredients. I also found Kaya in another region, which has a coconut-like structure. It looks surreal and ancient and the oil is filled with super powerful proteins.

BOWIE: What are the applications of breu within the Yaminawá community?

COSTA: It's a sacred resin. While it's fresh, it's very white and pulpy, and then when it oxidizes, it becomes this rock. After we analyzed it in a lab, we discovered that it is also a mosquito repellant. The Yaminawá often throw those rocks into several different fires throughout the land, but I had no idea at the time that they were doing it to repel mosquitoes. They keep those fires burning day and night, and then prayer is part of it too. If a child is upset and crying, they will have the child inhale the smoke from the resin. It's known to be very relaxing, a little bit like palo santo. It has those esoteric properties. It is also antimicrobial. Discovering something with all of these incredible qualities felt like a dream. It was a lot like discovering a linen that had been sitting in a warehouse for fifty years.

BOWIE: I’m wearing the face serum right now and it has a really wonderful natural fragrance but it’s completely unscented. It feels very light and fresh without drawing too much attention to itself.

COSTA: The serum is the only sku that we have that's not oil based, but you have big potent ingredients in there. Of course, hyaluronic acid being one of them, which is not a Brazilian thing. But then, you have guarana. Guarana is a tiny little seed that's really powerful. It's very well known in Brazil, because they make soft drinks out of guarana. It has an energizing characteristic to it. So, if you feel a tingling, that’s the guarana activating the skin. And then, it also has camu camu, which is pure vitamin C. We curate our ingredients in the best way possible. It's not about the marketing aspect of the brand, it's about the function of the active ingredients, the product itself.

BOWIE: That really mirrors your approach with fashion, because you are so known for your minimalism. You’ve always chosen materials that speak for themselves.

COSTA: I think I’m more of a reductionist than a minimalist, because I love everything. But, as part of my design aesthetics and my way of living, I always like less. I like to be surrounded with a lot of objects, but I don't want to see all of them all the time. Everything has to come at the right moment. I switch my whole house around all the time, which makes my husband crazy. But the editing is so important. Every maximalist moment is followed by a minimalist moment. So, you have to see it all and then you have that cathartic moment when you reduce it all down to what’s functional.

BOWIE: There is something so cathartic about the editing process. How far have you reduced your living space? 

COSTA: Well, when COVID hit, I was in Florida where I had just bought an apartment, but there wasn’t anything in it yet. I ordered two beds before I moved in and that's all I had. I stayed there for the first eight months of the pandemic with almost nothing. It's very hard for me to live without books, though. By the end of the eight months, I had tons of magazines and books.

BOWIE: What does true luxury mean to you today? Especially in the context of sustainability?

COSTA: True luxury is having time. Not having to be somewhere or to do anything. It is a total luxury to be able to edit your life. We are luxury because even though we are a small brand, we are a refined brand. The ingredients are almost unattainable. So, to bring a little bit of the Amazon of Brazil into your home, it's a luxury. And we go through so much to share those ingredients ethically. This work is serious.

BOWIE: How do you balance the tension between haute beauty and environmental responsibility?

COSTA: The beauty business is very interesting to me. There's actually a lot of protocols, and I respect those protocols, but I don’t know if everyone else does. I had zero protocols in fashion. Fashion is very abusive and it’s also very unsustainable. To think that I turned nights and nights with everybody working like insane people. And for what? Just because I wanted to change half of the collection? It’s irresponsible. But, fashion is like a pressure cooker. It makes you insane, because you're not just pleasing the retailers, you have to please everybody. And you're very vulnerable. It's never enough. 

In beauty, at least I know the limits. The way I look at sustainability is the people. How do we protect and empower them? This three-generation family, for example. It’s fundamental that these people can live their lives and continue to manage the land. The Indigenous people are the protectors of the Amazon and there are millions of communities throughout the region.

Another consideration has to do with protecting and empowering the consumer. That means creating a quality product that is functional and beautiful with packaging that's genuinely thought out. This is the most difficult aspect for a designer. So, there are parts of the packaging that are not sustainable but they serve a function. When I created the plastic octagonal cap, it was because it needs to have a grip. We’re talking about oils. That's a protective consideration to prevent the glass from breaking.

BOWIE: Do you ever see yourself returning to fashion in a more traditional sense? Or is beauty and wellness where your heart is now?

COSTA: I love fashion. It's just that fashion doesn't love a 60-year-old man. Fashion is for the young and it should be. I have no interest in going back to fashion because I have nothing to prove. But if I wasn't so busy running this business, I probably would create a couture collection. There's nothing more sustainable than that, you know? The oldies, like Balenciaga, only cut the fabric if somebody ordered a dress. So, there's zero waste. I would've loved to be more playful in that area, or to make a difference in a large corporation with the restructuring of its supply chain. But not just to be a designer showing another eight collections a year. If I could make a difference on a large scale, under a group, I would do that in a heartbeat.

 
 

Artist Karice Mitchell Deconstructs the Black 'Playboy' at Silke Lindner in New York

Karice Mitchell
Paradise (Triptych), 2025
Archival inkjet print, custom frame, sandblasted glass, vinyl


text by Karly Quadros

“I love using familiarity as a way to ask unfamiliar questions,” says Karice Mitchell.

Drawing from Players magazine, often dubbed “the Black Playboy,” Mitchell’s photo-based works explore the no man’s land between exposure and illegibility, frankness and mystery, modesty and obscenity. Through her closely cropped diptychs, triptychs, and modified images sourced from the pages of this landmark magazine of Black erotica, she explores the self-definition, personal expression, and resilience of Black women. Economy of Pleasure, her latest show at Silke Lindner and her first solo exhibition in the U.S., hones in on the early 2000s: the era of the video vixen, digital downloads, and lower back tattoos. Sand blasted over intimate images of a woman’s shoulder, a hoop earring, a pristine pump and a French pedicure are words pulled from the magazine’s pages and models’ nommes de guerre: angel, sensation, paradise.

After a frustrating moment of censorship when she was commissioned to do a public work of art in her native Vancouver, British Columbia in 2023, Mitchell returned more committed than ever to her project exploring the representations of Black women in adult media. While it may seem salacious, the work itself is deeply sensitive and interior. There is recognition between women who have worked to claim their bodies as their own through ink, jewelry, donning clothing, or shedding it. The work is seductive but withholding. Notably missing are the Players models’ faces — rather than exposing these women to judgment and interrogation once again, Mitchell’s work gives the audience only glimpses of a personality and a life lived. Her work is an interrogation, a negotiation, and a reclamation. The rest is on the viewer.

KARLY QUADROS: Can you talk a little bit about yourself, your practice, and how you got here?

KARICE MITCHELL:  I live in Vancouver. I'm an assistant professor full-time at the University of British Columbia. I teach photography there. That work does inform my practice in a lot of ways.

I'm really interested in one publication in particular: Players magazine, which started in the early seventies and stopped in about 2005. It was dubbed as the Black Playboy at the time.

I did my master’s thesis during Covid, which was a terrible, weird time to be making art. I had moved back home, and I didn't have access to camera equipment. I was always a photographer, but the pandemic was a time for me to reassess. What can I do that's readily accessible and within my means? 

I started going to used bookstores, and that's when I found Players magazine. At the time I had no idea what it was, but the images were intriguing to me. So I started making collages with the found imagery, and then after doing some more research for my thesis, I found that it was this really crucial publication for its time in terms of facilitating Black representation. The first editor-in-chief was a Black woman, and she really cemented a particular direction for the publication.

It has a really interesting history that intersects with politics, music, culture, and it was something that was reflective of its time. The women that were in the magazine, that were posing nude, there was a certain kind of allure to them. It felt distinct. It felt cultural, feminine, and very familiar in terms of the women in my family and their rituals of adornment, as well as my own. I was really interested in mining that subtext throughout the images in order to speak to its specific history.

QUADROS: That’s fascinating to hear that the first editor-in-chief was a woman.

MITCHELL:  Especially for that kind of a publication, which we often attribute to facilitating or being simply for the male gaze – which it absolutely is. But something in my practice I'm interested in doing is looking at the images and asking, “What am I picking up on through my engagement and act of looking?”

QUADROS: Have you ever tried to reach out to her?

MITCHELL: She passed away a couple years ago. Her name is Wanda Coleman.  There's one interview that she did. I forget when it was published. It seemed very early 2000s. She talks about the complexities of starting the magazine as a woman, the tensions that were present at the time. But she did also say at the time she had carte blanche to do whatever she wanted. 

It facilitated this very distinct vision for the magazine. She left after a couple of issues, unfortunately. Then the magazine started to go into all of these different directions that I think appeal more to how we understand pornographic visual content today.

But I'm interested in those pivots and in the kind of shifts. With Silke’s show, a lot of the images were from the 2000s, which is seen as being the era that is the most “dirty” or “trashy.” But is there room, maybe, to filter some kind of agency with these images as well?

Engaging with these images from the early 2000s, I see so much of video vixen culture or those modes of representation and femininity – a lot of body modification. There’s this pivot where there’s this very bold risk-taking in terms of the ways in which Black women were adorning themselves. There’s longer nails. There’s a lot of tattoos.

QUADROS: Maybe we can speak a little about adornment – jewelry, acrylics, tattoos – in that era, and how they related to Black women, their bodies, and Black culture more broadly.

MITCHELL:  This is something that I think about all the time, as a Black woman. In a family or a lineage of other Black women, a lot of us are born into these rituals of self adornment. When I was born, the first gift – and this is something that I still have – you get a gold necklace. And it has your initial. It has a stamp affirming who you are. That kind of practice is so familial and feels really precious to me. 

I think about my aunties in the early 2000s, their acrylics and like the sounds that they would make and what they would look like when they were speaking. It's something that I picked up on as a very young child and in a lot of ways has informed the way that I take up space today. 

I think about my mother and corporate settings. She immigrated to Canada from the UK in the ‘90s. One of the things she would say, when she moved to Canada, was that everybody wears sweatpants. “Why don't people dress up when they're outside?” That proclamation of the way she represents herself, especially when she had to navigate the corporate world as a Black woman, was so important to her self-preservation.

Today what we're seeing is a lot of those trends being watered down and bastardized in the context of social media. What does it mean to stake a claim to something that is so authentically true to yourself, and then also watch it be denigrated, but then praised on certain bodies?

QUADROS: There’s this never-ending cycle of cultural innovation and then rejection, often by a white mainstream because that style is “in bad taste” or “too much” or “too Black.” But then  there’s this eventual assimilation that we’re seeing happen now, especially with the early 2000s, in a way that feels very uncritical. 

MITCHELL: I'm in Canada so it's a bit different, but I’ve been witnessing America swing this pendulum into a very sex negative, puritanical, evangelical view and positioning of sex, this anti-pornographic rhetoric. But if we rid pornography, that's not gonna rid us of patriarchy, white supremacy, and misogyny. It's always going to be there. 

I also think about that ongoing rhetoric that is trying to demonize sex but then also permit it only in these weird, codified mainstream ways. It's all of these different contradictory things happening. 

QUADROS: With your artwork, like where do you fall in that?

MITCHELL: In a way, it's complicating. I see my work as interventions to ask questions. I don't ever wanna say that the work is solving all the problems. That's not what I'm gonna do at all. I don't think art should do that. 

When I initially started doing this work, I would have to follow this historical lineage around unearthing the kinds of traumas and violence that had been enacted against the Black female body. That's something that is oftentimes now not being taught in schools: the wars, the transatlantic slave trade and how the Black female body was this vessel of reproduction, labor, and this particular kind of violence that is misogynoir. In a way, I'm sitting with that.

I think my work and my interventions and my interpretations are trying to find the pleasure, find the joy, find the desire and the sexiness and in these subtle suggestions. I think I'm trying to imagine something otherwise. I love using familiarity in a way to ask unfamiliar questions.

QUADROS: This question of the archive and what to glean from it and what to leave, that's something that like Saidiya Hartman writes very clearly about. 

With your work, you're taking us very close. Your work is intimate, almost interior. I find that really interesting because that's the way that sexuality is often expressed: erogenous zones, small touches, little moments like that. The things I love about my body are, for instance, these freckles I have right here on my face or my little tattoo. Your zooming in quality takes away some of the more objectifying quality.

MITCHELL: It’s kind of reorienting, or maybe a different way of looking. In the 2000s era, it was raunchy. It was there for a particular kind of gaze that I'm trying to reject in my own way.

I compared [my work] to when you're at the club, and you're in the girls' bathroom and all the women are like, “Oh my god, your hair, your nails, your outfit. Love it, love to see it.” And that's maybe the kind of approach. It’s like women taking some form of control given the kind of nature around the making of the images. So I love calling attention to those little details.

QUADROS: I love this idea of the girl's bathroom too because it makes me think of the “much-ness” of the work. I don't wanna say “too much-ness.” But there's something where the subjects can't be fully contained in the print. The images are so close. The words are spilling out onto the gallery walls. Could you maybe talk a little bit about how you engage with the frame and the idea of containment? 

MITCHELL: The text has been a new step in the work, and I think it came out of me looking at the covers and seeing the way that on the cover of a magazine, the woman's shoulder would be covering a little bit of the text and like the body on the cover would be like spilling over in these moments. The text is also very particular, and it's very objectifying in a way, but the body is disrupting it. I was really interested in that small moment of disruption of the way this publication is trying to define the body.

It's all text found in the magazines themselves. Some of the pseudonyms of the models – like Angel and Candy and Sweetness – there's this kind of sugary quality to the names that I absolutely fell in love with. I really like this idea of persona and character and the way you represent yourself. What is your character? What is your armor? What do the nails and the hair and the earrings look like? How can I make this spill over into the work in this larger sense? 

QUADROS: Persona comes up a lot in photography with subjects, right? You said you teach photography, so I imagine that's been a large part of your practice for a while.

MITCHELL: It becomes this generative site to determine how you want to represent yourself. I do think more complexly about representation as a whole, especially considering art and the art world, the kinds of representation that are deemed as “good” and then “not good” and feeding into this neoliberal understanding of representation, that just because more Black people are behind the frame, that's a good thing. But are we questioning the kinds of representation we're redeeming as being accessible, as being mainstream?

I think that pornography and committing to this archive in my work, has made a lot of people cautious. Like, why are you walking this line? But Black women were there, and I think that deserves our attention to some degree. That representation is there, so how are you gonna wrestle with it? I'm really interested in the gray area of representation.

QUADROS: Something about representation too is that it’s literally built into or excluded from the technology, right? Cameras originally weren't really constructed with darker skin tones in mind. It's really only been in the past couple decades when we're starting to see directors of photography, cinematographers that can actually handle darker skin tones. Like I just saw Sinners, and it looks spectacular. But it took us a while to get there.

MITCHELL: Oh my God. That movie. It's funny you actually bringing up that movie because I think the use of eroticism in that movie really stuck out to me. Like people assume that couldn't occur given the obviously violent systems in place, but for like sex and eroticism to still bleed out – I love it. It was so good. 

QUADROS: And female pleasure, right?

MITCHELL: That’s right.

QUADROS: I saw that at Brooklyn Academy of Music, which is a little historic movie theater around here, and it was a sold out showing. And that was a crowd that was like hollering laughing. There was a man behind me that was audibly horny. (laughs)

MITCHELL: I love it. Like, we were horny during that time. It's the humanity, right? It's humanizing to acknowledge that was absolutely the scenario and the case.

QUADROS: I guess one thing that I was wondering about though, with your photos, obviously, like they're very closely cropped. There's not a lot of faces. How do you think about anonymity with the source material and your work?

MITCHELL: This is something that I'm still thinking about. I think a lot about other artists’ work like Lorna Simpson or Mickalene Thomas who go to the Ebony archive or the Jet archive. They include the faces of the women in their work. And I do think there is this reason to be specific or to outline that specificity within the archive to show the particular faces of the women that were there. I find that can be a way to humanize the subjects of that particular time or within that era through image making.

My work is about the women in the archive, and it's also about other things. So I think anonymity becomes this way of trying to speak to the other things that I'm interested in. I've played or toyed with the idea of faces, but for me, I think I'm interested in a kind of body politic and maybe that's the draw to then focus on the body, but it's something that I'm still figuring out.

QUADROS: Is there anything you think people fundamentally misunderstand about your work?

MITCHELL: Yeah. People are always like, “Why aren't you behind the camera?” And I'm like, “Girl, it's not about me.” I mean, it is, but it isn't. It's about the images.

There's this constant demand when you're dabbling in terms of this representation to make yourself fully legible, right? To make the subjects fully legible. I think that's why I'm pushing back against this use of the gaze or use of the face because there's this constant expectation that as a Black person, you have to show up in a way that's fully intelligible, oftentimes to a particular kind of white, patriarchal gaze. And in a way, I think this is maybe an exercise of refusal in that. 

The initial hesitation with the work is because it's pornographic. Not to deny the way in which porn does contribute to fetish, contribute to particular kinds of understandings of racial ideologies or gendered ideologies. I think that's where the hesitation does potentially lie. But I don't think the answer is to continue to disregard it or to silence it. 

QUADROS: Do you still take photos? Do you still have your own photography practice?

MITCHELL: I do still take photos. Actually for a public artwork that I did last year, I was behind the camera and I took a picture of myself. Because it was a public installation and it's like in Vancouver, BC, they rejected the work without a reason. It was just a proposal of my hand, satin, and some pearls, which was in reference to the archive. But they rejected it without the possibility of resubmitting.

It felt like a good decision on my part to implicate my own body in that process, rather than the images, because at least then it's a rejection of me. I made the decision to be behind the camera because then I have full control, in a way.

Then after the rejection, I was like, Would it have mattered if it was me or somebody else? I think just the idea of a body there for the sake of itself, is what people just didn't like, because it's a public work. I didn't look very different from any type of ad that uses sex to sell something, to be this capitalist thing. But as soon as it's reclaiming it as something else, it becomes a bit of an issue.

QUADROS: Wow. I'm so sorry you had to deal with that.

MITCHELL: It's okay. We still rose. We still did something. They're operating out of this fear that people are going to say things about the work, and they don't wanna deal with the backlash around that. 

QUADROS: I don't know how it is in Canada, but now in America, you can't even make public art about Blackness or really any marginalized identity without fear of losing your funding. 

MITCHELL: It's crazy that simple visibility is deemed as a threat. It was really eye-opening. I was like, “So this is where we're at.” And, mind you, this is the way that I navigate my day-to-day life. This is how I have to exist, how I have to navigate the world. And somehow in this deeming it as unacceptable – what do you have to say about me and like other people that look like me? What is being subtly suggested there?

A Conversation with Amanda McGowan and Mattie Rivkah Barringer of Women's History Museum


text by Karly Quadros

It was February 2024, and one model at the Women’s History Museum show couldn’t stop falling over. Determined, she trundled down the runway only to trip once again. The culprits were obvious: two enormous, cumbersome brown boxing gloves attached to the toes of classic stilettos. “Take them off!” cried members of the audience, a mixture of fashion insiders and queer iconoclasts. Still, the model made it to the end and hoisted the gloves in her hand, triumphant. K.O.

Unlike most New York footwear, the shoes of Women’s History Museum are not designed with functionality as a priority. In a city where pedestrians reign supreme and comfort is a must, the shoes of fashion label/art duo/vintage store curators Amanda McGowan and Mattie Rivkah Barringer are here to tell a story. Whether they’re white wedding heels bedazzled with a clatter of bones and colorful pills or gold boxing slippers rendered into precarious platforms by two wooden pillars, the shoes of Women’s History Museum exist in the sweet spot between strength and softness, power and precarity, barbarity and beauty.

Vintage remains an essential reference point for the duo. They maintain a carefully curated secondhand designer shop on Canal Street, sort of a modern-day SEX, stocked with everything from ‘80s Vivienne Westwood and ‘90s Gaultier to Edwardian furs and linens. In a similar style to early Alexander McQueen, Barringer and McGowan mine fashion references of the past – Victorian riding boots, rocking horse platforms, 70s crocodile skin clogs – for highly stylized fashion performances that entice as much as they reject traditional categories of beauty. The result is something that feels entirely 2025 in all its shredded, everything-out-in-the-open glory. Throughout Women History Museum’s nine staged collections, they return to similar references: animal prints and pelts; competitive sports, particularly boxing; and New York City, with the coins and shattered glass that cover the sidewalks. The clothes bare skin and barb it too.

Shoes, in many ways, remain the ultimate fetish object. They’re exalted, often the most expensive part of an outfit, yet they spend most of the day in contact with the filthy sidewalk. They’re civilizing, often constricting, and conceal the foot, which remains almost as hidden from public life as the body’s most nether regions. Shoes have often been used to control women as with painful and restrictive footbinding practices, yet their erotic potential is undeniable, as with the long, sensuous lines created in the body with a clear plastic pleaser. It’s no wonder that they served as the basis for Women’s History Museum’s latest show at Company Gallery, on display until June 21. Autre caught up with Barringer and McGowan to talk stilettos, surrealism, and the seriously sinister parts of living – and walking – in New York City.


KARLY QUADROS: Can you tell me about the inception of the show?

AMANDA MCGOWAN: We started working with Taylor Trabulus at Company many years ago.  Not very long after we started, she wanted to do a pop-up shop with us.

We were gonna maybe do an art show with her in the city at some other gallery, but there was drama and it didn't work out. Then she got promoted at Gavin Brown where she was working at the time, and basically she out of nowhere gave us this big art show opportunity there in 2018. After Gavin Brown ended [in 2020], she went to Company Gallery and we did another solo show there, and then they signed us on as artists. We've been working with them since Covid, like 2021. 

This show was actually their idea. It was their idea to do an overview of all the shoes that we've done over the past five years because we actually didn't realize how many we have done. There’s a lot and they're all different. Some have been seen in an art context. Some were in fashion shows. But in a way, they work as standalone art objects, so it made sense to show them in that way. 

The displays that we created for the show, those platforms, were actually wall works that we did for the show at Company in 2021. We made all these prints on paper and then we did these collages imitating ads because that show in 2021 was about recreating an abandoned mall space. The panels were to mimic advertising or storefront environments.

QUADROS: The shoe is such a deceptively simple concept, but there’s a lot that emerges when you see them all next to each other like that. At Autre, our last issue just went to press and the theme was ‘desire.’ We actually had Mia Khalifa on the cover wearing your paw shoe.

MCGOWAN: I saw that! We were talking recently – speaking of desire – about how there is such a sexual element to shoes, a sensuality.

QUADROS: They’re the ultimate fetish object.

MCGOWAN: They are. There’s something about seeing the shoe alone too, not on a foot, which is its own fetish.

QUADROS: Can you talk a little bit about how fetish and sexuality play into your design practice here in the show and elsewhere?

MCGOWAN: I feel like clothes have such a relationship to those topics because there’s such a rapport with the human form, with the body. I feel like it’s one of the reasons it’s not considered an art form because it has this feminine and bodily quality to it that makes it segmented away from formal art world consideration for most people.

MATTIE RIVKAH BARRINGER: There’s just so much loaded with fashion mentally for people. Women are expected to be sexually available or sexually pleasing in a patriarchal society, and clothing is such an interesting way to interfere in those types of codes and signals and take ownership over being specimenized in this way as a woman. 

MCGOWAN: Inherently, clothing and shoes are binding the body. There is this kind of BDSM quality to clothing, and shoes specifically – there’s something about a heel controlling the foot, constricting it, the animal claw within the shoe. There’s something very animalic about human feet – this kind of unruly, weird part of the body – and aestheticizing and controlling it with this beautiful shoe. 

We use a lot of animalic references in the shoes as well. There’s something about female sexuality and animal prints, animal symbology that I feel is somehow connected. Specifically in the fashion industry and in art history, the connection between the animal and the sexual and the woman is so saturated in the imagery. It also, I think, has been interpreted in contemporary feminism perhaps as a degrading comparison. We’re interested in that comparison because I feel like there can be a degrading aspect of it, but then there’s also this other countercurrent where it is kind of positive: I think of Jungian psychology, the positive anima where you’re in this positive relationship acknowledging the animal side of yourself as a human animal. Something about that to us is interesting or empowering to think about. 

And yet, at the same time, we’re trying to point out the possibly negative ways that humans can be animals towards each other in a very cruel world. There’s a lot of very dualistic things about the whole animal reference that is interesting to us in our work.

QUADROS: It’s interesting because fashion is one of the major things that separates humans from animals. We adorn our bodies; animals do not. There’s something maybe post-human about it – does that resonate with you?

BARRINGER:  I feel like throughout time, women and animals have been exploited and used in a lot of ways. So there's also that connection where there's something inherently feminine perhaps about animals too.

MCGOWAN: Everybody does participate in adorning themselves whether or not they consider themselves interested in fashion. It's an activity that is distinctly human.

BARRINGER: In its more negative permutations, the actual industry and making of clothing has a cruelty that we could attribute to like the animalistic behavior of just devouring and consumption.

QUADROS: Some of the shoes – for instance the ones with the bent and broken hooves – recall the sculptures of Meret Oppenheim. I also think of the cloven toe of Margiela tabis, which I’ve seen elicit really strong reactions from people who aren’t invested in fashion. Can you talk a little bit about your exploration of abjection, the uncanny, and yuckiness in your work?

MCGOWAN:  There's such a fine line between femininity being beautiful and being abject.  Within the patriarchal reality spectacle, if a woman has too much makeup and you can tell that she's wearing makeup, it's grotesque, but if she's wearing the type of makeup that really makes her look natural or youthful, then she's beautifully feminine.

We’re very interested in this historical time travel – what the codes were at one time that are different from now and how different depictions and ideals of femininity throughout time contradict the ones we have now.

BARRINGER: Also living in New York City is so abject. We’re very close to abjection all the time. There’s something very medieval about being in New York City. When I’m making something that I think is beautiful, it makes sense to have something abject as part of it in a weird way because it feels like that’s the world that I’m in. It feels more true.

QUADROS: Do you guys have any gross or crazy New York stories?

MCGOWAN: My God, where do I begin? The first show that we did that was a big production last February, somebody punched Mattie in the face on the subway, literally going to see the venue.

QUADROS: Oh my God, I’m so sorry.

MCGOWAN: I feel like New York City has gotten so crazy. It’s like an open air institution.

BARRINGER: I’m surprised that I haven’t seen a dead body yet in New York. I feel like the area we’re in feels so charged from a past time. Looking into New York history, that area used to be like the financial district. It was a port because it’s right on the water, and there was crazy stuff happening there throughout time. You can feel that history.

QUADROS: I feel like that’s certainly reflected in New York fashion right now. Your clothes feel really interested in the messiness or the intensity of the city.

MCGOWAN: I think it feels more, like you’re saying, like the reality. We’re in a time where you’re very confronted with reality. There is a need for fantasy as well, which we try to do, but we also need to acknowledge the reality at the same time.

BARRINGER: Fantasy needs to be mitigated with something that feels more honest to us.

QUADROS: New York is so known for its extremely functional shoes – power suits and sneakers, squishy foamy Crocs. They have to be functional since it’s a city ruled by pedestrians. Meanwhile the shoes in the show are distinctly less functional: towering wooden platforms, Victorian-style shin braces. What do you think of when you think of New York footwear? How do your own designs work with or against that?

MCGOWAN: Mattie has always worn platforms since I’ve known her for the past fifteen years.

BARRINGER: I find platforms easy to walk in, but I just have always wanted to be taller. I’m five foot three, so I always wanted to be tall.

MCGOWAN: She always wears Vivienne Westwood rocking horse shoes, which for me, I probably wouldn’t be able to walk around the city in them, but for her, they’re comfortable. 

BARRINGER: I like being above street level when I can ‘cause it feels very beautiful. I feel cleaner somehow.

QUADROS: My dear friend who lived here for a long time told me when I moved here, don’t wear open-toed shoes unless it’s a platform because a rat will run over your feet.

BARRINGER: (laughs) A hundred percent. My husband, he’s from Singapore, so he likes wearing open-toed shoes, and he only wears flats. He’s the only New Yorker that I’ve ever seen who wears sandals on the ground.

MCGOWAN: I do think there’s an obsession. For me, I wouldn’t wear heels all the time in New York. We’re interested in the fantasy of what shoes could be. If I could make a shoe that I could wear every day, not in a practical way, what would it look like? That’s how they also become an art object because they’re not really functional things. These ones have a bit of a defensive quality, like they have a weapon built in basically.

BARRINGER: We felt so enveloped in the New York atmosphere. We were really looking at the buildings and the statues. This post-human thing where you are becoming the city, the metal and the hard building materials felt like something that we were really talking about with the clothes we were doing in the last year.

QUADROS: In many ways, it’s the exact opposite of the ballet flat, which has recently come back.

MCGOWAN: And it’s not comfortable either. I used to wear ballet flats all the time when I was younger, and my feet always hurt.

BARRINGER: There’s no support.

MCGOWAN: I’m always frustrated with shoe options. My whole life, I’m always dissatisfied with what’s available and what is functional but attractive. Even though there’s a lot of shoes, a lot of them are not great in different ways.

QUADROS: What have you settled on now?

MCGOWAN: I wear Marithé Francois Girbaud vintage shoes because there’s something about the split soles, the rubber shoe, it laces up the front. It’s a supportive ankle situation. Something about the way that those shoes are made are so comfortable to me but they’re also attractive. Like they don’t look like grandma.

The boys in New York City will stop me all the time and be like, “Bro, your shoes are so sick.” And I’m just like, “They’re just comfortable.”

QUADROS: When you’re sourcing now, where are you looking in terms of beauty and inspiration?

MCGOWAN: It’s almost like we’re thinking about archaeology or something. Our practice of souring materials and vintage can feel quite archaeological and specific, looking for, I don’t know, maybe a narrative or an untold story. I think for our next collection we’re thinking about archaeology as this search for self and identity through clothing and also thinking of these as artifacts or monumental objects.

I don’t think we’re going to do an actual fashion show. We’re going to do a lookbook in tandem with an art exhibition, so we’re also thinking of clothing that’s going to stand on its own and not really have to be in movement.

BARRINGER: We always think of ourselves as weird time travelers from a time that didn’t exist. Like historical futurism.

QUADROS: The Fifth Element. Spaceships, but also the pyramids.

BARRINGER: Exactly. There’s so much history and so many stories, people’s individuality that we don’t know about throughout time.

QUADROS: So you’re not doing New York Fashion Week then?

MCGOWAN: We are not this year. We might release a lookbook around Fashion Week, but we’re not doing a show until next year. We’re burnt out. We’re very interested in doing more shows in the future. We really want to take time to do a show in Paris in the future. So we just need to regroup and take time. 

Fashion moves so fast, and it’s not always realistic to create things at that level when you’re self-funded. It’s just us and our interns. It’s not like we have a giant team. For us, this has been the most rigorous fashion schedule that we’ve shown on. It’s been three shows within the space of a year.

And doing runway is a lot. It doesn’t look like it’s as much work as doing an art show or an exhibition, but it’s actually so much harder in comparison when you don’t have endless resources to pour into it. It’s one of the hardest types of creation because there’s not only the functionality of the garment, there’s the live element. It’s basically working for six months on something that’s gonna be seen for twenty minutes. You have to have so many relationships and people involved. In New York especially it’s hard to find venues. It’s a whole thing.

QUADROS: Fashion Week is in a weird place right now too. Your show in particular had a lot of buzz, a lot of really positive responses that what you’re doing is something unique.

MCGOWAN: Thank you. And we don’t wanna abandon New York. I think a lot of our inspiration and identity is very linked to this place, but it’s an experiment that we want to show in Paris. We’re also interested in French fashion history and that lineage. So it feels like a personal goal.

Image courtesy of Company Gallery

It's A Real Carnival at Jeffrey Deitch Right Now

Photo by Genevieve Hanson


text by Karly Quadros

The beginning of May in New York is time for Frieze: time for smart, clipped suits, time for well-to-do collectors, and time to pack into the vaguely dystopian honeycombed behemoth known as The Shed. And then, there was Jeffrey Deitch.

On May 3, a cavalcade of artists, burlesque stars, magicians, drag queens, sword swallowers, latex fetishists, fan dancers, scenesters, and bright young things stepped right up for the night of all nights, the show of all shows, a spectacle to bring even the stodgiest gallerist to their knees: a carnival. Presiding over the whole thing was master of ceremonies/artist Joe Coleman, who curated the group show and contributed a variety of artifacts from his own personal Odditorium of historic circus curios. The gallery was packed tight with art and packed even more tightly with people. A glimmering merry-go-round twirled next to a bulging, fleshy sculpture and ornate Coney Island mermaid costumes. The over forty artists invited to participate ranged from big chip favorites like Anne Imhof and Jane Dickson to cult favorites like Kembra Pfahler and Nadia Lee Cohen to contemporary favorites like Raúl de Nieves and Mickalene Thomas to historic figures like Weegee and Johnny Eck. Coleman, a lifelong devotee of the carnival and performing arts, made a point to include and celebrate the work of circus arts performers that have made up his own found family for decades.

‘Circus’ is a word often used to evoke a sense of chaos and farce — a political circus, a clown show — but the festival of carnival, which is celebrated in more than fifty countries around the world, has a more subversive history. The elaborate masks, headdresses, and costumes that have made carnival celebrations in places like Venice and Rio de Janeiro so iconic were a way of turning the daily socio-political order on its head. Class, gender, sexuality, and power were turned on their heads and marginalized communities, enslaved people and queer people especially, were able to express themselves with more freedom in public.

The American circus tradition is deeply troubled by its own abuses against people of color, disabled people, and animals, but it is undeniable that circuses were also alternative spaces for survival and community for those who couldn’t or weren’t allowed to live freely in mainstream society. In many ways the carnival, with its wild exuberance, unabashed sexuality, hair-raising feats, ramshackle opulence, seedy thrills, and thicker than blood bonds is the ultimate expression of the found family. We caught up with curator Joe Coleman to talk more about the exhibition, flea circuses, Times Square’s sleazy history, roadside attractions, and more.

QUADROS: It's Frieze week right now, so things feel a little more buttoned up, which is why I feel like the show coming out at this point in time was so refreshing.

COLEMAN: Well, these people are like family, so it just comes naturally to me. Some of them, like Jo Weldon produced a work of art for the show, and she had never made a work of art before. Her piece was amazing. People like Bambi the Mermaid have been in the art world for some time. I put some of her costumes in the show because the Carnival is the burlesque house. It's the [Coney Island] Mermaid Parade. It’s Mardi Gras. It's the old Coney Island Wax Museum. It's Times Square back in the day. It encompasses all those things, at least in my imagination. So I wanted to bring everybody on board.

QUADROS: Why Carnival? What is your personal relationship to the circus and who are some of the first artists you reached out to?

COLEMAN: My connection to the carnival dates back to childhood. I was born in Connecticut near Bridgeport, where PT Barnum had a home. As a child, I went to to the Barnum Museum. And when I was very young, I took my first trip to New York, to Times Square where I saw these huge posters of burlesque performers on the street.

QUADROS: Back when it was a little seedy. (laughs)

COLEMAN: Yeah. That's what was fascinating to me, especially as a child. It seemed like those women were eighty feet high on those billboards, plus I got to peek in and see what they were doing. I was also brought to Hubert's Museum where there were sideshow performers and a flea circus. From that day on in my childhood imagination, that was the place I wanted to live. So, when I was in my late teens, I moved to New York, and it’s never disappointed me. I've lectured and performed in Coney Island, and certainly it's been the subject of my paintings. I also have quite a large collection of artifacts dealing with wax museums, sideshows, burlesque and I've included a lot of my archive in the exhibition as well.

Photo by Genevieve Hanson

QUADROS: What inspired you to start collecting?

COLEMAN: It’s really an indescribable urge that you find, or maybe it found me. I didn't find it (laughs). It’s wanting possession of me. Certainly there's a lot of contemporary art that's inspired by the sideshow and by burlesque and even the flea circus people. I have a whole section on miniatures in the exhibition. But aside from the contemporary artists, I wanted the real artifacts and artisans to be appreciated too. There is a real flea circus in the exhibition. There's also works by people that have actually been a part of the carnival. People like Camille 2000 who was an amazing burlesque star from the ’70s ’til the 2000s. There’s one of her great costumes in it. And Liz Renay, also a great burlesque star, author, and filmmaker—she’s in John Waters films, but she also did some B-movies in the late ’50s. Some of her paintings are on view as well. Also, Johnny Eck—have you seen the movie Freaks?

QUADROS: Oh yes.

COLEMAN: He was the Half Man in Freaks who was very charismatic, probably stole the whole movie. He was a fascinating artist himself, so his screen paintings are on exhibit. He was famous for his painted scenes that went into windows and door frames. It was unique folk art. In Baltimore he also made puppets and put on puppet shows. Those and his train are on view. One of the ways he made money was by running this miniature train for children.

QUADROS: That sense of found family is so clear. One of my favorite books is Geek Love by Katherine Dunn. So much of that book is about this deep bond between self-created circus freaks. Can you talk a little bit about that concept and how it manifests in the show?

COLEMAN: Katherine Dunn was a good friend, and I also love that book. I mean, when you find each other, you just get each other. I've seen so many performers rise up in the ranks in Coney Island, and they’re all dear family. Whitney and I have been married for twenty-five years now and our marriage was really a carnival-style marriage. We were married by a ventriloquist dummy named Dutch. He's on exhibit at the gallery as well.

Our wedding was attended by many circus performers and artists. I arrived in a hearse inside of a coffin, and my six groomsmen pulled the coffin out of the hearse after it backed into the barn at the American Visionary Art Museum. They walked a New Orleans-style funeral to the altar, placed the coffin up, and I came out of it and went for Whitney. (laughs) You can also see on display our coffins that were made in Ghana. There's this fantasy coffin tradition, where if your favorite thing is a martini, you can have your coffin made into a martini.

QUADROS: Were there any sort of unexpected additions to the show?

COLEMAN: Walton Ford produced a new work just for the show, which I was thrilled to get. Also, John Dunivant produced a new work for the show, and Mu Pan, and several people that I just reached out to were so sweet to give something to the show, like Robert Williams and Guillermo del Toro. I had pretty much everybody I wanted in the show.

QUADROS: Carnival itself originated in Europe and then was taken to the Caribbean as this tool for political expression. It's a time when common people can wear costumes and speak the language of the ruling class to mock and criticize them. Were you thinking at all about political critique when organizing the show? Or did anyone bring a piece that brought that to life for you?

COLEMAN: Certainly. There's several works that deal with that. One in particular that I was really blown away by is Jo Weldon's piece. She's very well known in the burlesque community, but she's also a sex worker and very unapologetic about it. She made a doll. There's a whole section on dolls in the exhibition that includes Kembra Pfahler’s dolls, but Jo Weldon's doll represents the history of sex work. It's a pretty dramatic and incredibly personal, controversial piece. She's also spoken at the UN about the rights of sex workers. She has such a powerful voice.

QUADROS: Back in the day, the circus really had the power to shock and disgust. People would go to freak shows and pass out in astonishment. These days, I feel like there’s a real sense of over exposure. People are exposed to so much online that they feel calloused, but are there ways that the circus can still shock us? Obviously, you mentioned its power to jostle up people's preconceived notions about sex work, but is there a power to the circus beyond shock value?

COLEMAN: Yes. Obviously there's things beyond shock value, though whether it can change things or not remains to be seen. But it has its effects on people. If you get under people's skin and they take something with them, that's enough. There's all kinds of expression in this show. It’s nice that it could be fun and wild and serious and scary at times. That's what I always liked about carnival. It’s scary and exciting and sometimes it teaches a lesson.

QUADROS: Maybe you're a little repelled by it, but you're also very attracted to it at the same time. It's very frank about some of our deepest desires; the kinds of things we don't want to face.

COLEMAN: There's something wonderful about that—to have a place where you can experience those things.

QUADROS: I'm also interested in the circus as a non-traditional history of America, or the alternate history of the outlaws, the conmen, the thrill seekers. So many of our enduring myths of the country come from the circus, like Barnum and Bailey or Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. What makes that so enduring and timeless?

COLEMAN: It was important to have people that have actually been an active part in some way. Like in the case of John Dunivant—he’s an accomplished artist, and that seems enough reason to have him in the show, but what you may not know is that he created Theatre Bizarre in Detroit, and it's one of the most amazing spectacles of carnival or circus in the past twenty-five years. For many years it's been in this Masonic temple with so many rooms that you get lost. You can't even see the entirety of theater. There’s ghost trains inside, burlesque stages, and art everywhere.

QUADROS: That reminds me of like the House on the Rock or something like that. These American people that just get an idea in their head and create their fantasy world.

COLEMAN: Yeah. And that’s what carnival is all about, really.

QUADROS: Manifesting your dream world.

COLEMAN: Yeah. If there’s something in the world that you always wanted, and it doesn't exist, you have to make it yourself.

QUADROS: But then, there's also the thornier history of carnival. It's always been this haven for the marginalized, but it has also historically been a place where racial stereotypes are reinforced. When you were curating the show, how did you reckon with that?

COLEMAN: There's certainly works of art that deal with it, like Narcissister’s work. She's got one of the most powerful sculptures in the show. Or there’s Derrick Adams’ Ferris Wheel image. I think it's better for them to talk about those works themselves, but it's definitely a part of it. Exploitation has always been a part of the carnival.

QUADROS: In many ways it's part of the art world too. These are ongoing questions about spectacle and viewership.

COLEMAN: Exploitation can certainly be found throughout America in various ways. Really throughout the world.

QUADROS: Do you have an especially unique piece from your own collecting from the historic archives that's in the show that you want to talk about?

COLEMAN: The most unique and rarest one is a ticket to the Tammany Museum, which was the first real dime museum. It predates Barnum; it’s from the late 1700s. Barnum's American Museum eventually took over the Tammany Museum site, so this predates the whole tradition of the dime museum and the sideshow itself in America. And I have an actual ticket to the Tammany Society. You had to become a member in order to see the museum, which consisted of wax figures, taxidermy … you know, what people are making at sideshow museum’s today is pretty much based on what was set up at the Tammany Museum.

QUADROS: What a historic artifact. But then, you also have this flip side, right? People mostly think of the circus as something historically situated with traditions like burlesque that have been around for so long. But you also have some pieces that incorporate new technologies, like the interactive Nadia Lee Cohen piece. Was that something you intended to bring in?

COLEMAN: Yeah, that’s a really great piece. It blew me away when I saw it and interacted with it too. It's one of the most powerful pieces and I think the Carnival would've always wanted to grow with technology, so that does not seem to contradict it at all. When motion pictures became popular, the first places that really started showing them were dime museums and sideshows.

Nadia Lee Cohen, Entitled, 2025
Silicone, sheet metal, and glass

QUADROS: There's something very tactile about that world. Everyone instinctively knows what the aesthetics are.

COLEMAN: Yeah, but Nadia's piece does prove that the technology works really well with the subject.

QUADROS: People think of Carnival as being relegated to the past, but we still get it peeking through into popular culture every now and then. What does Carnival look like in modern times?

COLEMAN: I think it looks like Jeffrey Deitch's gallery right now.

Carnival is on display at Jeffrey Deitch in New York until June 28.

Photo by Genevieve Hanson

Ric Heitzman: A Pee-wee's Playhouse Production Designer on Art, Animation, and Finding the Humor in Anything


text by Karly Quadros
portrait by Joshua White

“Guess who’s at the door, Pee-wee!”

Anyone who was a kid in the late-80s (or a lover of camp, kitsch, and tactile production design in any subsequent decade) knows the phrase well. Emanating from a jolly windowpane, it signaled the entrance of any number of zany characters: a rhinestone cowboy with an animated lasso, a bobbleheaded salesman, a 1950s beehive towering to the ceiling. Every Saturday morning at 10 a.m., the cast and characters of Pee-wee’s Playhouse pogo-sticked around a mid-century, candy-colored dream home, stuffed to the brim with puppets, papier mache, and wallpaper only the 80s could produce. Pee-wee Herman – the impish avatar of host and comedian Paul Reubens who is the center of a new two-part documentary, Pee-Wee As Himself, airing on May 23 – was the clear heart of the show, but it was the world of Pee-wee’s Playhouse that had kids wishing they could live inside their own surrealist bungalow.

Artist Ric Heitzman worked on Pee-wee’s Playhouse as a production designer, puppeteer, and voice actor for characters like Mr. Window, Cool Cat, and the Salesman. Even after the show ended in 1991, Heitzman’s art is packed with a boundless gestural joy and cast of characters straight from Sunday morning cartoons. Working across comics, cartoons, and commercial animation, Heitzman’s Escher-like paintings have a technicolor psychedelia to them, packed densely with explosions of color, hatching, and characters romping their way through their worlds.

Heitzman’s new show, Squiggly Dee, is on display until June 9 at Face Guts, a storefront gallery project from artist and former animator Tim Biskup, in collaboration with White Box LA. The two artists got together to discuss Pee-wee’s Playhouse, recurring dreams, and finding the humor in anything.

TIM BISKUP: What’s your favorite animal to draw?

RIC HEITZMAN: I draw a lot of insectoid characters. The first thing that came to my mind is Triceratops because that’s the animal I like the most, but I don’t draw it very often. I think about it a lot. Everything I draw is a mashup. I noticed I draw a lot of things that look like donkey-giraffe compilations. There’s a lot of insectoid things like centipedes and millipedes, things that look like human heads and insect bodies. That’s been in my head for a long time. It’s probably from playing with bugs as a kid. Kept everything in boxes with wax paper over them.

BISKUP: Of all the Pee-wee’s Playhouse characters, which one was the most like you?

HEITZMAN: Mr. Window. Mr. Window is the most open. Mr. Window [dips into the character’s cadence] is also just my voice. ‘Hey, Peewee, guess who’s at the door!’ That’s basically all I said. ‘It’s the King of Cartoons!’ I liked the character of the window. I liked it because it was really happy. All those characters were happy, but that particular character was big and happy. Plus, I designed it.

BISKUP: Was there one that you didn’t like?

HEITZMAN: No. There was nothing on that show I didn’t like. Even the characters that other people didn’t like, I liked. To me, it was like a sandwich. If you take away something, you don’t know what else would be there anyway. We were recently together as a group, and George McGrath, the writer, said he never liked the salesman character because the exaggerated size of his head always bugged him. But it functioned in the narrative as this irritating thing. It bothered him – it was supposed to bother everybody. That’s the point. 

BISKUP: You’ve told me so many great stories about famous people that you’ve just randomly run into: your James Brown story, the Belushi and Akroyd story is incredible, the Dolly Parton story.

HEITZMAN: I was just in the right place at the right time. A lot of people came to [Pee-wee’s Playhouse]. I met a lot of people, not necessarily through Paul [Reubens], but through my associations with Paul when that show was on.

BISKUP: Can you tell me a random one that you haven’t told me yet? Have you met Liza Minelli?

HEITZMAN: No, I haven’t met Liza Minelli. I did go to a drag show when I first moved to LA and there was a really great Liza Minelli imitator.

BISKUP: Cher?

HEITZMAN: Oh yes, I’ve met Cher. She came to the Playhouse. She was on the Christmas show. That was amazing to meet her because she was really sweet.I don’t know how old she was, but she looked amazing. When people came on that show, either they were fascinated by it, because it was like being in Candyland, everybody walking around with their mouths open, or they were terrified.

She was one that was absolutely terrified. Paul introduced her to us before we did the shot. She admitted to us she was nervous because she always did stuff for adults and she didn’t know how to do this. Paul was like, “Don’t worry about it. Just play it the way you play it. Don’t worry about who it’s for.” It was just funny to see someone who does these giant stage shows and performs all over the world, and they come on set and they’re insecure about it. You wouldn’t think somebody that big would be that vulnerable.

BISKUP: The way that you’re talking about it gives me a great picture of what it was like to work there and the amount of vulnerability it created in people whether they were feeling joy or fear.

HEITZMAN: Most people felt joy. That’s the thing that I can say that I’m proudest of about that show. You were able to convey a pure sense of joy. You do that too. Your stuff has joy in it. To me, that’s the best thing in the world. It’s harder to be funny than it is to be serious.

BISKUP: It’s vulnerable.

HEITZMAN: Comedy has tragedy in it, but it still has to be funny. 

That show afforded us, at least afforded me, a view into this world that I never expected to have. I didn’t come out here to do that. I always just wanted to be an artist. In fact, when we first got an Emmy, I was like, “What is that?” I always heard that term, but I was like, “What is an Emmy really?” I remember when they said, “You won an Emmy,” I was like, “This is great, but could I get a show somewhere? Show my art?” 

That’s what I wanted. In other words, if you’re not going for this stuff, you look at it slightly differently. It was a window into a world that I never thought I’d ever have a window into. I was always like, [ silly voice] “Golly!”

BISKUP: [similar silly voice] “Look at all this cool stuff!”

HEITZMAN: Some of it was cool, but also the personalities! Like you said, I have stories. I literally have seen every kind of behavior on set that could ever happen: tantrums, people punching walls, people throwing themselves down in the middle of a scene crying. It’s a place where people feel comfortable just going to pieces. I’m not talking about people in front of the camera. I’m talking about the director, the costumer, the lighting person, somebody falling out of the rafters, the wardrobe catching on fire. You just go, this is Hollywood, man. This is wild. This is uncharted territory. Something can happen at any minute. I know workplaces can be like that. It’s emotional craziness but also technical craziness, and sometimes it’s both at the same time. People’s emotions are really raw in live action shooting. That’s the great thing about animation. You’re gonna see it through very slowly. 

BISKUP: It’s gonna develop over a long period of time, and you’re gonna be alone.

HEITZMAN: You’re never gonna be patient enough.

BISKUP: When you’re talking to somebody, do you see the cartoon version of them?

HEITZMAN: I see a humorous version of what’s going on very often. It’s exaggerated. I almost see a punchline before it’s coming. Someone can be telling a poignant story, and I don’t mean to make fun of them, but you get ahead of them and you think, is this gonna be a joke? But there’s no joke. But in your mind you imagine the joke.

BISKUP: Do you think about how you would draw them?

HEITZMAN: Now that I’m a seasoned artist, I could translate that at any time. I’m not as ambitious as I used to be because otherwise I get frustrated because some of this stuff passes in a moment. It’s really only at that moment, and it makes me happy. 

The characters get exaggerated, almost like Hee-Haw or some other TV show like Monty Python. It’s the kind of stuff I’ve always been drawn to. Everything just gets exaggerated in my head. I find it very humorous and it puts me in a good mood and happy. It’s a state of mind that I’m in most of the time.

BISKUP: I actively look for funny things that people say. I have a tendency to share my interpretation of what somebody said that was obviously not what they meant to say. I have a way of picking language apart and thinking of different ways to think about something that somebody said that makes it funnier. Does that ever make you feel crazy?

HEITZMAN: I think it's an inner world. I thought about that for a long time because even from an early age it makes you more isolated, developing another world or being able to look at your subconscious. I would say a lot of people are not in touch with their subconscious. Maybe I’m not using the right term.  

I have lots of examples of being somewhere – especially when I was dating women, and even with Lorainne, my wife – and I’ll be sitting somewhere with a really big smile on my face, and she says, “Why are you smiling like that?” And I’m honest. I’ll say, “If you could see what I’m seeing in my head right now, you’d be very happy too.” 

I have a really rich inner world. I could close my eyes right now and just start imaging stuff, and it’s always really entertaining to me, even when it’s dark, just because it’s cool looking [laughs]. You get caught up in your own imagination. That’s what an artist does.

BISKUP: I felt like I was crazy when I was younger, but now…

HEITZMAN: When did you start feeling like that, I wonder?

BISKUP: I was not doing well in school, and my mom was trying to figure out why and she took me to some doctors to get tested. They told her, “He’s really smart!” The translation I made in my head is, Okay, I’m really smart, but I’m not doing well in school, so I must be crazy. I just sat with that idea in my head for most of my life. I explained everything based on that.

HEITZMAN: But you weren’t scared of yourself, were you?

BISKUP: I think this is why I avoided drugs. The one time I smoked weed, it was really existentially terrifying. All the big fears that I didn’t even realize I had came out, and it was just like, Oh God, I cannot do this. I cannot let that stuff out of the bag. I always felt like there was this stockpile of craziness inside of me that I just had to keep a lid on.

HEITZMAN: When were you first conscious of this?

BISKUP: I had terrible nightmares when I was a kid, so I was scared to go to sleep.

HEITZMAN: Were they recurring nightmares?

BISKUP: I don’t think they were recurring until my thirties. Then I started having them, and they helped me get out of a career that I was troubled by and start actually making paintings. 

HEITZMAN: Have they gone away?

BISKUP: Yeah. When I was working in animation, I kept having these dreams that there was a portal inside my house, and on the other side of this portal, there was a whole universe of these characters and it was my responsibility to help these characters escape.

HEITZMAN: That’s a good responsibility. Unless they were characters of ill repute.

BISKUP: No, they were defenseless little guys. And my house was a machine that would help them get into my dimension. Eventually I stopped working in animation and started making paintings and selling them in galleries. And all of those dreams went away.  I had a friend who was having dinner at our house one night and she said, “Those were your paintings. Those were the characters from your paintings.” You got something like that?

HEITZMAN: Oh yeah. Going through the entertainment industry, it’s just a different approach to creativity because it’s creativity on demand, and that’s very different from creativity when you’re just sitting around daydreaming. When I was in the industry, most of what I was doing in my dreams was trying to figure out the jobs that were ahead of me. If I had a storyboard or something, all I could do in my dream was turn it over and over again.

But I had a recurring nightmare when I was really young that went away about the time I was a graduate student in college. A Tyrannosaurus was always coming at me, and I was always running into a room where my mother was. Her back was to me so I never saw her face, then I looked out the window, and it wasn’t the Tyrannosaurus but a tornado coming, and that’s when I woke up.

BISKUP: So the dinosaur wasn’t as scary as the tornado.

HEITZMAN: Yeah, because a tornado was something that would happen in my real life.

BISKUP: It makes me think of the storm drawing from your last show here. You told me some kind of emotional stuff that was wrapped up in that.

HEITZMAN: Most of my drawings address the humor that I feel most of the time. At least, I hope most of those drawings exude a certain humor that’s chaotic and spastic. But sometimes when I’m frustrated, usually about something in my life, some situation that I can’t really do anything about – I can’t spend the money, I can’t fix this, I don’t know the answer, damned if you do, damned if you don’t – I’m just trying to struggle through something. I don’t know what the answer’s going to be so I just try to put it into the drawing, and those drawings tend to be pretty dark, just because of the nature of indecision and lack of control.

There’s a bunch of these drawings that I wouldn’t show anybody. They’re just messed up.  Some of ‘em I painted over. It’s a side of you that you’re not proud of, so you’re not sure how people would interpret seeing them.

BISKUP: Do you think they show clearly that emotional intensity that you’re not comfortable with? Would I see that if I looked at it?

HEITZMAN: I don’t know. I just know how it resonates with me when I look at it. It’s okay. I captured that and put it in the bottle. But I don’t want it out of the bottle.

BISKUP: I have those too.

There’s pieces that I have that I’ve shown that may be dealing with really intense things that I don’t want to talk to people about necessarily, but nobody’s going to get that from looking at it because there’s an abstraction that kind of takes it away. But the energy that it transmits is still really powerful.

HEITZMAN: I tend to just put those things away and go on to something else. The one that you saw, it’s not that I like that one particular drawing and I didn’t like the other drawings. It’s just there’s something revealing, something when I see it that irritates me. It doesn’t make me go, “I want to show that to people.” There’s a lot of stuff in portfolios: it’s the evil portfolio.

BISKUP: Would you show me?

HEITZMAN: Maybe. I’ve shown very few people that just because it really is stuff I should get rid of. There’s also stuff that’s just not politically correct from a long time ago that I’m ashamed of. I’ve destroyed a lot of that. I don’t know why I haven’t destroyed the rest because it really needs to be.

BISKUP: It’s interesting because listening to that new Robert Crumb biography, he talks about flushing his work down the toilet for years. When he finally unleashed those things on the world, that’s when he really achieved fame and fortune.

HEITZMAN: I think that I’d be flogged. I think about that portfolio that I’m talking about, and the reason I haven’t thrown away some of that stuff is because I rendered it very well. It’s an evil thought, but I rendered it really well.

It’s funny because, especially when I had commercial artwork to do, the illustrated kind of design, I clenched a lot. I was really good at the beginning about starting with really loose drawings, but then when I had to formalize it I got really tight. I didn’t like where it went.

It affected my sleep. It affected a bunch of stuff about me. But people don’t know the difference. They say, “It looks great!” and you’re like, “God, it really kills me.” With commercial work, I felt it in my shoulders. My wife, she’s the most honest person. She’d just look over my shoulder and go, “Why did you tighten up?” She knows. After a little stretch, when I got out of [commercial work] and started doing animation, she’d say, “I’m so glad you don’t do that anymore because you don’t tighten up like you used to.” In animation, you don’t have time to tighten up. I was doing storyboards as fast as I could possibly draw them. I didn’t have time to think, This has got to be perfect.

BISKUP: I know some really good storyboard people who draw terribly, but their ideas are so good.

HEITZMAN: You know, I was freaking out when I first got into it. I never thought I was very good at it. When you turn it into a client for the very first time and you’re like, “Are they gonna understand this? Is this gonna make any sense?”

BISKUP: I talked to John Kricfalusi once about storyboarding. I was a background painter at the time. And you know what he said to me? He asked, “How old are you?” And I said, “I’m thirty.” He goes, “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be learning how to draw?”

HEITZMAN: [laughs] Wow. That’s supportive.

BISKUP: He loves to do that. He’s a challenger, man. Let me just say, I never did storyboards. That was me trying to get into storyboards, and that’s what he said. Thanks, John.

HEITZMAN: When I started doing storyboards, which was in Chicago, I realized fairly early on, you might be able to imagine the scenes, but you’re around a lot of people who can’t. In other words, they’re relying on you. 

Now, translating those drawings and being able to make it look like what they want it to look like? They don’t know what they want it to look like, but they know they don’t want it to look like R. Crumb or some funny animal comic. I had a really hard time drawing serious storyboards for serious things. They always looked rubbery. I couldn’t un-exaggerate. 

BISKUP: That is the inherent problem with animation: you’re working with people above you who are essentially going to tell you to make it less good.

HEITZMAN: You start out with a great idea, and you end up with one that’s just been cut to pieces. That’s the way most animation in America is. They say things like, “We have an artist-centric studio,” because they think that’s what they want to have. People love to rag on producers, and I can honestly say that there are producers to be ragged on, lots of ‘em. But I’ve also found producers who were really smart and who really believed in art and were just as good about managing people. But it’s few and far between. There are a lot of stupid people who ask you to do stupid things for stupid reasons.

It’s a hard business. But it’s mostly psychological. It’s not the art as much. It’s the psychology of trying to get all those people at the table to agree on something without too many opinions. Because they all want to have an opinion. 

HEITZMAN: Disney was the worst. I started out as a storyboard artist, and I worked myself all the way up to director. Then I was creative director, which is above the line. I didn’t know what that meant ‘til I was above the line. You’re just this über-head that looks over everything. “Oh, we can’t do it that way. This can’t be done that way.” If somebody’s really weak, you have to step in and say, “This person’s not doing their job.” I have to help them do whatever it is they’re doing or get rid of them.

BISKUP: How many years was that before you got there, above the line?

HEITZMAN: Oh that was a long time. That was way after Pee-wee. At least twenty years before I got to that. And I was just somebody that didn’t know that was a job.

In cartoons, it was not that developed. It was really small at Funny Garbage when I was doing cartoons for Cartoon Network. They wanted me to develop an entire division to make cartoons.

BISKUP: I was at Nickelodeon working at Oh Yeah! Cartoons at the same time. What a trip.

HEITZMAN: That was in ‘99.

BISKUP: I left the industry in 2001.

HEITZMAN: What forced me out of that industry was 9/11. Funny Garbage was very close to the Twin Towers. That was the Monday after I delivered the contract. I did twenty-five one-shot cartoons, three TV series, and a music video. I delivered that contract on Friday, so I was not in a hurry to get to work. I looked out the window of my building and the plane went right into the tower. It was the wildest thing to see. I knew something was wrong.

BISKUP: Whenever I think of leaving  animation, I always think of pulling back a bow string. Like my whole time working in animation was like tightening, tightening, and then all of a sudden I shot into a gallery. Is that what this feels like for you?

HEITZMAN: No, I went too long in that business. I burned myself completely out, and I couldn’t work for a while. I couldn’t really do anything. I took on too much. I couldn’t think funny.

Basically I couldn’t go anywhere unless I pitched something and it sold. I’d directed, I’d produced, I’d co-written things. People expected me to be delivering. Everybody said, “Okay, just bring us a product, and we’ll either do it or not.” I did that for a while, and I just got burned out.

BISKUP: How did you get back?

HEITZMAN: I taught for a while. I thought when I first started teaching that I would have a regular paycheck because I didn’t have one doing those jobs. They were always just up and down. I thought, This will give me some time to think out where I’m at. And it did. 

My whole trajectory with my work outside my art is that I’ll do as best I can until I get really tired of it, and then I’ll just walk away from it completely. This last walk away – which I hope is the last walk away, I hope to just be an artist the rest of my life, that’s what I want to do – I finally got to the point where I walked away from teaching. Even if I do it part-time, my head is going to be so distracted. I can’t make the art I want to make.

When I did that, I looked back and I was like, “God, I’ve had forty-five different careers where I’ve walked away from that career saying, ‘I can’t do this anymore. I have to do my art.’” You were smarter than me.

BISKUP: [laughs]

HEITZMAN: Right after Pee-wee, a lot of people that were close to me decided not to do this anymore. A lot of big artists I knew who were working partially in the industry like you were, they just decided to jettison the whole thing and be artists and make a go of it. I was a little insecure. I felt like I couldn’t.

I know you did what you did, and I have to say to this day, I really admire you for doing it. I admire all my friends who did it because I was insecure and I didn’t do it. And I feel like now I’m doing it.

BISKUP: When I did it, it was far more profitable than animation.

HEITZMAN: That’s the secret I didn’t know.

BISKUP: But only for about four years. And then there’s been fifteen years of barely making it. But having those four years in my head, I know I just gotta survive until there’s another wave. I’ve survived on that idea.

HEITZMAN: You’re good at looking ahead and strategizing. I’ve learned something from you in that world.

BISKUP: I think I really had to break away from the strategic part for a while. That’s what [storefront gallery space] Face Guts was about for me, just seeing how strategic I had been and that it was not working. I had reached a point where I was pushing so hard, and I think I was pretty annoying to most people. I realized that I had to get more loose and play around more and enjoy myself more. Being able to step away from strategy for a while made something energetic that I think was powerful and more true to who I am, so now I can be more strategic again.

HEITZMAN: You have the confidence because you know who you are. I’m a little behind you, but at the same time, I understand. I’m gaining on the confidence side.

BISKUP: I see this work and your last show as such a clear vision of who you are.

I haven’t asked you any of the questions I wrote down!

HEITZMAN: [laughs]

Leda Was Always the Swan: An Interview of Marianna Simnett

The mutability of power and pleasure takes center stage in Charades @ SOCIÉTÉ, Berlin.

Marianna Simnett
Leda Was a Swan (production still), 2024.
Courtesy the Artist and Société, Berlin.
Photo/ Leander Ott

interview by Summer Bowie

How we present ourselves and what we aspire to project is in an everchanging relationship with those around us. It is a story we’re telling about ourselves, to ourselves. In Marianna Simnett’s Charades, her second solo exhibition with SOCIÉTÉ, the inherent masquerade of existing in a society is examined from the ancient allegories that undergird our collective worldview to the personal histories we replay in our minds. It is a power play where nothing is ever fixed. Undermining the very foundation of Greek mythology’s Leda and the Swan, she contends that the swan was never Zeus in disguise, it was actually just a hand puppet. The subject of the story thus shifts from that of rape to masturbation when the subjects of the story exchange their masks. Persistent obfuscation is an everpresent quality within the work. In this way, she is asking you to decide whether the charade is just a playful game amongst friends, or if it is indeed an act of mockery.

SUMMER BOWIE: Greek mythology has been a recurring theme in some of your most recent work. Is Leda Was a Swan the first piece that puts your work in dialogue with a mythology that dominates the art historical canon?

MARIANNA SIMNETT: In 2019, I made a sculptural work called Hyena and Swan in the Midst of Sexual Congress, which, less directly, was also preoccupied with flipping the same myth. In 2022, I revisited Athena and her inadvertent role in Marsyas’ demise. Titian did a painting of the Flaying of Marsyas, who was flayed because he challenged Zeus to a musical contest and failed to play the flute upside down. 

I try to talk about these minor myths that don't get painted by people like Titian because they're either too female or too monstrous or too unimportant. So, yes, this is the first time I am confronting such a Top-of-the-Pops myth, and I’m not even trying to change its essence other than maybe reveal a blindspot. 

BOWIE: The polymathic quality of your work seems to have been developing since early childhood. From drawing and painting to music, text, film, installation, and beyond. You even taught yourself to taxidermy roadkill for previous works. It’s clear that you resist categorization and pigeonholing, but is there also an insistence on the role of the artist’s hand in the process that prevents you from outsourcing aspects of the work, as other artists of your stature are often wont to do?

SIMNETT: I’ve always enjoyed being in direct contact with my output. There’s an integral back and forth dialogue between my thinking and making. However, I also don't fetishize the artist’s hands. There can be an overstated importance of ‘touch’, which leans into the glorified image of the artist as genius, which suffuses the work with auratic value and power. For me, it is precisely that sludgy, messy middle that excites me. It’s also dangerous for artists to bend to the incessant demands of the market. One would hope that art is not a party trick to be reproduced at anyone’s whim.  It doesn't feel like a healthy response to just take orders and make more. On a larger scale, that’s eventually going to make you fall into a sinkhole. And I would not be proud of that work on my deathbed. (laughs)

Video Still
Marianna Simnett
Leda Was a Swan, 2024
Courtesy Marianna Simnett and Société, Berlin 

BOWIE: You recently started working with AI in your practice. When did you first start using the medium and what initially sparked your interest in it?

SIMNETT: I started working with AI in 2021 with Blue Moon, which was about the story of Athena carving a flute from a deer bone. I am attracted by antiquated tales and how they still resonate with what’s happening today. I’ve now produced a series of myths using machine learning, which explore our own relationship to AI and its infiltration upon our lives. Using it was a way of becoming friends with this ‘other.’

The way I approached it was not trying to be too clever. I don’t call myself an AI artist, it’s just yet another tool in the box. Everyone is undeniably already using it even if they are not aware.

BOWIE: It is starting to integrate very seamlessly into everything we do. At this point it’s only a question of how we want to use it.

SIMNETT: It’s a reflection of us. I think we perversely fantasize being destroyed by machinery. But at the end of the day, we are the ones making the models, and we have the chance to invent weird and wild experiences. In Leda, I don’t rely on text prompts and shoot all my own datasets from scratch. It’s a deliberately closed palette that I’m working with.

BOWIE: How did you go about setting up the AI model for Leda? I don’t know if that’s getting too far into the weeds…

SIMNETT: I mean, no. Well, that’s funny because there are weeds in the film and they represent Leda’s orgasm. (laughs) I wanted to reveal that Leda was always the swan. Her hand is the swan’s beak and she’s masturbating. It’s a tale of violence turned into pleasure. I worked with AI artist Arash Akbari, DoP Leander Ott, and Producer Henry Eigenheer. We set up the model by filming data sets of me performing in front of a makeshift set modeled upon a fresco of Leda and the Swan discovered in Pompeii in 2018. Every sequence was filmed about fifteen times so that we had a vast number of images to feed the model, and then it would regurgitate badly reconstructed video sequences, which I used as film editing material the same way that I would make an analog film. I was simply given new material by the AI based on what I fed it, which produced this interesting confusion.

Video Still
Marianna Simnett
Leda Was a Swan, 2024
Courtesy Marianna Simnett and Société, Berlin 

BOWIE: That feels like a very genuine collaboration with the medium rather than a basic outsourcing of the tedious, or even creative, parts of the work. You’re actually creating more tedium for yourself.

SIMNETT: Right. It’s precisely the opposite. Much more tedium. It’s also boring because I don’t even get to perform in the way that you might on a theater stage. It doesn’t care about talent. It just wants the goods. I was trying to do very dynamic, generous movements for the camera, so that it would have enough to chew on. But it doesn’t read subtle facial expressions. These just get blurred. So, it was really about gesture, movement, tableaux, mise en scène, lighting, props; all the basic elements.

BOWIE: This exhibition is very concerned with the fluid boundaries between individual and collective behavior. You also live and work between New York and Berlin, two cultural capitals that are currently in a state of ideological crisis. What role, if any, has the current political landscape played in the conceptual framework of Charades?

SIMNETT: I hope that people will feel the undercurrents even if I never land directly on the nose. But I can’t help but imbue the work with an omnipresent feeling or that deep, rumbling state of the Earth right now where there is so much collective feeling and pain. It’s alluded to, but not directly stated. There is something implausible about the multiple realities that we are forced to live with today. And the flooding of painful disasters whilst the chirpiness of another conversation is going on at the same time. The collision of some of these worlds is almost unbearable.

BOWIE: Do you feel as though our individual behaviors are getting lost in the collective behavior—that we’re losing track of our sense of internal motivation in our pursuit of the status quo?

SIMNETT: Yes. I think we’re being puppeteered by dopamine and addiction, and our brains are becoming less capable of individual thought. We’re being retrained to find quick, shorthand ways of responding to nuanced situations that then inevitably recondition our minds.

BOWIE: Charades is also rooted in notions of masquerade. You employ humor in your sculptural work with objects like the merkin to address historical examples of what we expose about ourselves in the act of hiding. Would you say this is a timeless phenomenon, or is the performativity of everyday life an evolving process?

SIMNETT: I’m with Judith Butler on the notion that the construction of identity is through performance, as opposed to there being any preexisting original ‘I.’ It’s malleable and mutable and unfixed. So, yes I think that’s timeless. I instinctively occupy many bodies, and I’ve done so since way before the internet became such a big part of our lives. I have multiple names, multiple personas—that is just how I have always lived and felt most comfortable in my skin. I think it’s innate.

 

Marianna Simnett
Caked, 2025
Oil on canvas
200 x 150 cm.
Courtesy of the artist and SOCIÉTÉ, Berlin

 

BOWIE: Can you talk about the mutability of power and how it’s addressed in some of the sculptural works?

SIMNETT: Power and idolatry are addressed through the choice of subverting or remaking what is commonly known as a reliquary, which is an object formally used to house the remains of saints after their death. There are some really fascinating ones encasing jaws and teeth, or lockets of hair, or bones, or ash; very macabre morbid objects. Often the remains of these bodies are not seen. They’re just implied to be inside. But the objects themselves are very ornate and bejeweled. In the Medieval era, they were thought to be much more than just objects, they were a powerful connection to the divine. For Charades, I have created my own twisted version of the reliquary.

There is a bronze bust with a nipple extracting milk made of pearl, an arm dressing as a wedding cake, a foot wearing a horse shoe. So, I am pointing to this ancient tradition of worship using classical materials in all the wrong ways.

BOWIE: There’s a wonderful inversion happening with the beautiful object that’s meant to hold the macabre turned into the macabre object that’s meant to represent something sacrosanct.

SIMNETT: Exactly. And then there’s the merkin box. There’s a presentation of six merkins that we have produced out of human hair, and they are also presented in a treasure box with cast bronze masquerade apparatuses in there, like combs and brushes and eyelashes and mirrors.

BOWIE: We just wrapped our Desire issue where we also thoroughly explored Lacan’s theory of the Other as it relates to desire and jouissance. And I was curious if you might talk about the way that you address these ideas in Leda Was a Swan.

SIMNETT: Through all of my work, there is this sense of the pleasure/pain dichotomy. With Leda Was A Swan, I didn’t want to destroy the story. I wanted to transform pain into pleasure, rape into masturbation. Not to say that masturbation is necessarily always pleasurable. It can also be painful, distressing, lonely; it can be so many things.

It’s interesting to repeat exactly the same story but just substitute the god with a puppet. There’s still aggression, fighting, tumbling—I wanted to keep it ambiguous as to what this orgasm was. Speaking of the weeds, we cut from a shot of the swan heading towards the pubic region, and then it transforms into a shot of the swan’s hand traveling through some pond weeds before it opens up into an orgasmic expression by the corpse bride, Leda. We cut away from the action and go into the one and only exterior shot, when we are actually going into the body.

BOWIE: That’s interesting because one of the artists in the issue whose work talks a lot about jouissance and the Lacanian Other is Isabelle Albuquerque. Her work also came up a lot for me as I was researching your œuvre, because she also subverts the subject-object relationship by instead making it subject-subject.

SIMNETT: (laughs) My merkin maker actually made some merkins for Isabelle.

BOWIE: What a small world! And that’s the same thing that’s going on with you in this work. It’s not Zeus and Leda, subject-object…

SIMNETT: …This is subject-subject. It’s quite thrilling to split yourself up like that and to think about these meeting points between different subjects overlapping with each other.

BOWIE: In the piece, you turn your body into a literal grey area by playing the role of both Leda and Zeus in swan form within the same body. In an interview we published with writer Constance Debré, she said, “We’re all victims and we’re all guilty.” I’m curious if you agree with that.

SIMNETT: Yeah, I think so. Being a survivor of sexual violence myself, I have to understand my own position. There are choices one can make, different ways to narrate the story without obfuscating the truth. Not for anyone else, just for yourself. It’s so important, so empowering, and so hard. 

Angela Carter inspired me when she reconceived Zeus as a puppet in The Magic Toyshop (1967). It was one little sentence that made me think, he's just a toy!

BOWIE: I want to talk about the way that these themes of gender, power, vulnerability, and identity are very prevalent in your work. But more specifically, this mutability of all the above as a society. Do you think we’re losing our ability to parse through the grey area?

SIMNETT: Social media preys on the attention economy, which has no outlet for nuanced thought. The way that we communicate to others is fundamentally shorter, snappier, and less about long-form opinion.

BOWIE: Right. We tell ourselves we don’t have enough time for a 5-minute video, but by the end of the day, you probably made time to watch a hundred 5-second videos. We don’t remember most of it, but we keep consuming more than we can digest.

SIMNETT: It’s like The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Are we all just going to eat until we become butterflies? And then die within two days.

BOWIE: Right, be beautiful for one minute and then go out. (laughs)

SIMNETT: Collectively. (laughs)

Marianna Simnett
Mute, 2025
150 x 200 cm.
Courtesy of the artist and SOCIÉTÉ, Berlin

BOWIE: I want to talk about Faint with Light. It’s an audio and light installation, but also it’s the recording of a durational performance in which you brought yourself in and out of consciousness via hyperventilation. Can you describe the experience of creating the work?

SIMNETT: I hired a professional medic to stand in this recording studio while I fainted four times. I learned how to faint from YouTube, from these kids posting videos of themselves doing it to get high. When you reduce your carbon dioxide and faint, it gives you a euphoria. I did have a seizure by the fourth and I was advised not to do it a fifth. The recording is in real time. There’s no editing. It’s just faint after faint after faint after faint.

The experience of fainting comes in stages. You first hyperventilate on your haunches, you close up your air passageways by closing up your lungs and getting very small into a ball. You keep hyperventilating until you feel your extremities go quite cold and your tongue starts tasting a bit like metal. And then, you suddenly stand upright and you strain your glottis. That causes your blood to be pushed down from your brain into your body and your body’s reflex is to become horizontal, to get the blood back into your brain as quickly as possible and for the air to get back into your lungs.

This piece is inspired from a Holocaust story of survival. My Jewish grandfather fainted when he was shot and they left him lying with the dead. He woke up and bit his arm to check he was alive, because he thought he was dead. He was Yugoslavian-Croatian, so he also lived through that war as well. He had a horrifically traumatic life. He was in concentration camps, fought in the French resistance, and was a very miserable and mean man. He was actually very mute. So silence has a lot to do with the piece as well.

For me, the physical act of fainting was—as it was for the little boys—very exciting, very euphoric. That work was really about a gap as opposed to a presence. When I listened to the audio recording back, the sound that I was interested in was this guttural noise that happens when I’m unconscious. It’s really hard to faint. You have to hyperventilate for ages and it’s painful. That’s the barrier you need to go through. Once you cross that barrier, you’re like, oh, I have to go that far. And then it’s easier. So, it took many failed, exhausted attempts to get to one faint. 

I didn’t want to understand my grandfather’s experience. I just wanted there to be an acknowledgement that there was this anti-body in the room somewhere. It’s brutalist, it’s almost like a heart monitor. The audio is governing the light, which rises and falls with my breath, and it’s the strongest light you can get. Blinding. When I’m fainting, it’s this raw, very orgasmic, huge sound and the whole wall goes bright white. That’s my black out. So, it’s this inverse of my experience in a way.

BOWIE: It sounds like it mirrors childbirth. The first time is so difficult, and then once the body learns how to do it, subsequent births get much easier. But there is so much that gets lost in the long-term memory because forgetting the pain makes it easier to try again.

SIMNETT: Absolutely. And actually all of the memory of fainting was absent because the split second after that point of pain, you’re out cold. You’re somewhere else. And then, you wake up into a deep, deep disappointment at the world. I was absolutely horrified that I had to come back.

BOWIE: Our treatment of bodies, both human and animal is addressed extensively (possibly always) in your work. Are there any specific life experiences that led to this recurring motif?

SIMNETT: I’m trying to be choosy about the way I approach this because anger, violence—it’s not a secret that that’s been around me since birth. But I don’t wish for the work to be autobiographical. I don’t want to start giving you woe is me stories about things that happened to me in my childhood. It just doesn’t seem relevant. But, am I angry? Sure. Did things happen? Yes. I don’t know what miracle landed on me as a kid, but the transformation of whatever I had—which was a deep anxiety and fear and loathing and all these negative emotions—were channeled into this fuel that is absolutely inextinguishable. It’s just a fire up my bum that won’t go away. (laughs)

BOWIE: That sublimation seems to constantly keep fueling itself. You also problematize the tropes of beauty and monstrosity in a very interesting way.

SIMNETT: There are so many standards to adhere to and idealized versions of female beauty. What’s funny about my appearance is that I can subscribe to the ideal if I perform it. And so, it can be confusing for people, especially men. I had to get rid of a photographer recently because he was a creep and he was making me feel really uncomfortable. I was reflecting on it with my butch lesbian friend who was like, “I never get looked at like that. I get pure hatred. Like, I wish you didn’t exist.” 

I don’t know which one’s worse, but in that room, I had my makeup on, I was posing in front of the painting and doing the thing that you’re supposed to do. And I just couldn’t do it. His eyes and the vibe was just all wrong. It’s really about understanding that there are as many identities and versions of beauty as there are human beings in the world.

BOWIE: That comes back to this idea of embodying different identities. Sometimes when you embody, say, a hyper femme identity, under a certain gaze, you feel very empowered. Under another gaze, you feel diminished and want to embody a completely different identity, because you don’t always have the power to change the gaze.

SIMNETT: Of course, I held it all together and then burst into tears as soon as he’d left. It just completely broke my shell. That was such a perfect example of getting overly beautified, being well-behaved, and then not being able to behave in the moment.

Marianna Simnett
Scored, 2025
Oil on canvas
110 x 150 cm.
Courtesy of the artist and SOCIÉTÉ, Berlin

BOWIE: Which begs the question of who’s misbehaving in that situation? I want to talk about the paintings. Can you tell us a little bit about the images and the ideas that you explore in these works?

SIMNETT: Yeah, absolutely. It’s the first time I’m showing oil painting. One comes from a memory of these invisible feet coming underneath the chair and pushing my feet, but in slow motion so that I didn’t even know it was happening until my feet were jammed between this anonymous person’s feet and the wall. It was a way of silently showing me that I was being attacked from behind. It was a public bus, but the act was a private violation under the chair. I exaggerated and fantasized over it in my mind for many years. A lot of the works are suggestive of power play. There’s a still life on a vanity table with little objects and a very fine-tooth comb with pubic hairs stuck between the teeth. It could be the comb for the merkins or suggestive of getting ready to put on that day’s mask.

BOWIE: The setting of the stage, perhaps. Do you feel like there have been any misinterpretations of yourself thus far in your career that you want to correct?

SIMNETT: I think there are risks that I take that are not always digested, just due to the sheer amount of medium-hopping. If my work risks a kind of randomness, I would hope that by the time I reach ninety, that that’s been solved. Like in the [Louise] Bourgeois sense of being able to see a coherence over a lifetime. It also comes back to this victimhood, which really relates to the show. This show is bold in its lack of deliberate attack upon the viewer. Maybe that’s a first for me. I’m not trying to assault anyone this time.

Charades is on view May 1 through June 28 @ SOCIÉTÉ Wielandstraße 26 10707 Berlin

Crumb Hearts: Sonya Sombreuil in conversation with Dan Nadel

Sonya Sombrueil of Come Tees and writer Dan Nadel talk Robert Crumb, Eric Kroll, and watching the dirty old man go from artist to muse.

Image credit: Eric Kroll

text by Karly Quadros

For a certain kind of weirdo, R. Crumb is a god. The grandfather of underground comix, his work teems with a highly specific dirty-little-bugger-ness that hit just as 1960s San Francisco counterculture was getting into full swing. He defined a sickly funny visual language that inspired the likes of ‘90s alt comic anti-heroes like Daniel Clowes and Jamie Hewlett as well as painters like Louise Bonnet and Nicole Eisenman. In his cartoons, Crumb depicts himself as a combination of ornery, neurotic, and randy, chasing down (or fleeing in terror from) Catholic schoolgirls with chubby thighs and languorous hippie chicks with their asses hanging out of their bell bottoms. His fetishes are unmistakable; a Crumb girl exists in a category all her own. 

His other character creations share similar cult status. Mr. Natural, a guru with a Santa Claus beard and a priapic nose, was a great dispenser of ‘60s absurdist wisdom, while his relentlessly bootlegged Keep on Truckin’ cartoon fetches prices in the hundreds if you manage to find a vintage t-shirt carrying its image. Perhaps nothing captures Crumb’s signature cocktail of sleazy satire like his comic strip Fritz the Cat about an unrepentantly hedonistic hipster tabby cat. An X-rated film adaptation of the comic strip from cult animator Ralph Bakshi was released in 1972; Crumb was so worked up over creative differences with the filmmakers that he immediately killed off the beloved Fritz, dispatched by a scorned ex-girlfriend who stabbed him in the back of the head with an ice pick.

In recent years, the art world has grown to embrace Crumb’s work a little more. A 1994 documentary by Terry Zweigoff on Crumb brought his work to a larger audience, and he’s now represented by David Zwirner. Crumb’s notebooks, full of obscene jokes and intrusive thoughts, sell for around a million dollars each. On display is his adamant lack of self-censorship but also a technically dense, exuberantly gestural personal style.

Sonya Sombreuil, artist and founder of the LA streetwear brand Come Tees, has found a muse in R. Crumb, inspiring a limited collection of t-shirts, panties, and long sleeves emblazoned with Crumb’s artwork. The collection’s campaign is shot by legendary fetish photographer Eric Kroll who, in addition to his landmark “Sex Objects” series has also shot Robert Mapplethorpe, Grace Jones, Madonna, Kenneth Anger, and Andy Warhol. Sombreuil was joined by Dan Nadel whose biography, Crumb: A Cartoonist’s Life, is out April 15. The two discussed Crumb, fetish, photography, and flesh.

KARLY QUADROS: When did you first encounter Robert Crumb’s work?

SONYA SOMBREUIL: My parents had a TV in their bedroom and underneath their TV there was a dubbed tape that just said CRUMB in big red block letters. As a little kid I was like, oh, that must be for kids. And my dad was like, “Nope, don’t watch that yet.” I grew up immersed in ‘60s, ‘70s counterculture ephemera. So I encountered it really early, and my dad would always get me Crumb for Christmas.

DAN NADEL:  I first found the work because I was at a comic book convention when I was like twelve or thirteen. The dealer asked what I was into and I said “Maus,” so he handed me American Splendor, which had this great Crumb cover and Crumb stories inside. Those were written by Harvey Pekar. They're these amazing tales of working class Cleveland and record collecting and just like quotidian life, and those drawings just totally knocked me out. A year later in a used bookstore, I found a copy of Head Comix. I was with my dad, and he bought it for me. I don't even think he looked inside. That rearranged my head.

It also felt completely normal for some reason. It was very familiar. I knew it was my own little world, but it was completely familiar to me.

SOMBREUIL: It’s funny that he has this corrupting influence.

NADEL: It’s educational, Sonya. How dare you? [laughs]

SOMBREUIL: For me it was! I guess I’m lucky.

NADEL: It’s true.  For a lot of us – I mean, for me – he was part of a gateway to all other art. A real inspiration in that way. It opens up a lot of other interesting doors.

SOMBREUIL: Before I got the subject matter, I knew it was for me.

NADEL: It’s weird when you find things there for you. I felt the same feeling when, like fifteen years later, I first ran across Christopher Forgues and Paper Rad and Fort Thunder. It was like, oh yeah, this was made just for me. It’s a curious thing.

QUADROS: There’s a recognition there. For me, Crumb is the ultimate avatar of the outsider, a helm that was then taken up by the likes of Daniel Clowes and Charles Burns. In the 20th century, there was some edge to the people who embraced or satirized their neurotic preoccupations, but these days it seems like our whole world is ruled by repressed and intrusive thoughts run amok. Is there a danger in identifying too closely with being an outsider?

SOMBREUIL:  No. Crumb’s work, and why it's so important now, is the Charlie Brown phenomenon. Charlie Brown is the anomaly in his universe, but we're all Charlie Brown. And I feel the same way about Crumb's work. It's the recesses of your psyche. That was his content. He portrayed himself as this disgusting, irascible person, but he wasn't lauding those ideas. He was just revealing them. 

I think what's interesting about now is that there's a lot of people feeling offended. But actually, I think that the stigmas that are important to our society are ones that Crumb upheld in this work. And I think some of those stigmas have deteriorated in kind of a messed up way that I'm not sure we've seen the end of. People talk about the idea of decency or something – like obviously his work is indecent, but that's the point.

NADEL:  That's the point. It makes me think of Steve Albini, another avatar of edgelordiness. Before he died, he talked about how he regretted being so edgelordy, that he didn't quite realize that the stuff could be taken the wrong way. But at the same time, he remained this highly moral character with a really strong set of values. And what's so interesting about someone like Crumb is that, yeah, he gave vent to all this misogyny and racism. He also critiqued it, and it was also extremely clear where he stood.

It's still a blinking red warning sign at work. Even though it feels like it's too late for the warnings in some ways, his sense of awareness still feels very important even if we're completely swept up in it, like a tidal wave, swept up in the nastiness. But I think it's still really important. 

The thing about guys like Clowes and or someone like Julie Doucet or Robert, Aline [Kominsky-Crumb, Robert Crumb’s wife who is also a cartoonist], is that no matter where we are, that feeling of being outside is always accompanied by a really deep sense of self-reflection and, in many cases, deep self-loathing that is paired with a real meditative attempt to look inside and understand what it's all about. That, I think, is also a crucial difference between edgelord kinda work because they're really trying to understand. They're not just trying to fuck with you.

Image credit: Eric Kroll

SOMBREUIL: I’ve been talking about Crumb as a kind of wounded healer. He has these emotional and psychological wounds that he’s vociferous about, and in his own family, [you see] the effect that those wounds could have if they are accompanied by a different set of actions other than artmaking. But paradoxically, he’s healing the society that produces those kinds of wounds. When we shun that kind of work or say it’s a problem, you lose the potential impact of looking at yourself and looking at the world you live in.

NADEL: A s Robert would say, you have to deal with it. He always says “I’m both Mr. Natural and Flakey Foont.” He's the wise man and the fool. As he's gotten older, I think there is this instinct to heal. I think there always was this… wanting to understand and making work that would exercise these demons as much as show them. 

SOMBREUIL:  I heard this expression recently that someone said. They said this is a perverted attempt at healing. And a very literal attempt.

QUADROS: It makes me think a little bit about punk as a subculture. There’s this perverted sense of both reflecting and healing the ills of society. Crumb’s work especially was very integral to developing the aesthetics of punk and zine culture, underground comix.

NADEL: That was one of the fun things about writing this, realizing that influence didn't stop at hippiedom and it didn't stop in comics. One of the things that got me wanting to do it in the first place was knowing that the late Mike Kelley was a huge fan. Punk magazine was in part inspired by Crumb and then made fun of him, in this great judo move. Then people like Mike Kelley or Jim Shaw would take it up and put it through a conceptual blender. 

It just continues to have so many lives right up to the surprise that Sonya was so into it. The surprise that someone outside of my purview would be at all into it and so game was so much fun. It was such a great surprise because you never really know with him. I know that he's not forgotten because there's so much hubbub around the book, but you never know who's reading and who out there that's making art is into his work.

QUADROS: When you were making Come Tees, Sonya, were those some of the aesthetics you were drawing from when you were first beginning that label?

SOMBREUIL: Definitely. He is a looming figure in my personal cosmology.

I realize he’s that for a lot of artists. It’s like being into Jimi Hendrix when you’re into music. But it definitely feels very personal to me, like it’s possible to have a personal relationship with an icon. I tried being various forms of a Crumb girl for Halloween many years in a row. I tried putting cross hatching on my face. Come Tees, especially early Come Tees, had a lot of those qualities, cross hatched figures and speech bubbles, very conventional comic imagery.

NADEL: Did you ever make comics?

SOMBREUIL: I need an artist grant so that I can write my comic. Oh yeah, the least moneyed genre of all time.

NADEL: Maybe it would be worse if you were a poet, but otherwise… [laughs]

SOMBREUIL: In a way I’m a cultural dilettante. Compared to people who are into comic books, I don’t know almost anything. I know Art Spiegelman, the greats, but I’m into them profoundly. I really love the genre that is not fantasy. Did you say the word is prosaic?

NADEL: Nonfiction?

SOMBREUIL: Quotidian.

NADEL: You and me both.

QUADROS: Since you mentioned being a Crumb girl for Halloween, maybe you can talk a bit about the editorial and how you went about trying to capture the essence of the Crumb girl.

SOMBREUIL:  I have been obsessed with Eric Kroll for a few years. I had an amazing epiphany when I actually met him. I thought that I was obsessed with his archive that he posts all the time. But then I realized I was just obsessed with his constant posting, which is similar [to the editorial], totally mundane. No one in my generation could ever post like that. [laughs] It's amazing. He's so funny. I realized that I had misunderstood my interest in him. 

Many years ago, I reached out to him without knowing almost anything about him. I reached out to him to see if he would shoot for me, and he said, “I don't see how I fit into your world.” I was like, maybe we could meet up and talk about it. And he was like, meet me at this diner. But then I realized it was in Tucson. [laughs]

NADEL: Seriously? It was in Tucson?

SOMBREUIL: That’s where he lives! We all flew there.

NADEL: I always assumed he lived in LA.

SOMBREUIL: I did too. But no, he lives in Tucson.

NADEL: You flew there? Where?

SOMBREUIL: We stayed in a hotel. He offered to put us up, but there’s literally no standing room.  His house was incredible. I had no idea that he had shot the cover of the Zweigoff documentary. He was just like, “Oh yeah, they hated how much I charged them for my Crumb photo.” And I was like, “Oh what was your Crumb photo?” [laughs]

NADEL: That’s incredible.

SOMBREUIL: And then I just have intimate knowledge of what a Crumb girl is.

I had a couple friends who were down, who I knew were like in the archetype. It was an amazing thing because they're artists too. There was this really cool flip where Crumb and Kroll are actually our muses, these two artists who fetishize women.

Everyone knew what the assignment was. We all feel like we gained like a best friend. He just wanted to shoot things on his iPhone. He ended up making all these extravagant requests for different cameras, and I rounded up all of it and then he was like, “I hate these machines!” So he just shot everything with his phone.

NADEL: It’s such an interesting thing, that flip, because I showed Robert the Kroll photos. I explained because he’s still so… Crumb, that he couldn’t get his head around the idea that some young – meaning under the age of 50 – some young artists, particularly young female artists, would be even the slightest bit interested in him. Which, at a certain point, he should get over since young artists of all genders have been interested in him for about sixty years. But I showed him those pictures and he was like, “Oh my God, they really got it. They really understand what it is.”

And he’s self-aware enough to understand that what you got wasn’t just appealing to his kinks, but what you got was a particular way of thinking about the body and of embracing one’s body. I think he even used the term ‘body positivity.’ I was like, “Where did you learn that?” [laughs]

To make somebody like Kroll or Crumb your muses is such a great reversal because it flips the power. And it also lets them relax in a funny sort of way. It’s okay, now somebody else can make the art. There are other people in the game, and that’s good. It’s a good thing that it’s neither slavish imitation nor highfalutin, conceptual stuff. It’s just this other strain. For somebody like Crumb, who’s always been very generous about that, it’s refreshing and cool, especially in this mode, to see your treatment of the graphics. The things you picked were so left field and so interesting. 

It’s just great to have another set of eyes, another mind on this stuff that isn’t usually getting to play with it. Despite how much we love Kroll and Crumb, it’s remained within a fairly circumscribed set of people or a certain aesthetic for decades. It’s so cool to see it broken out of that mode. Nobody else would’ve chosen those images or nobody else would’ve designed things the way you designed them. They’re just completely making it fresh again.

SOMBREUIL:  I rewatched the documentary when you had first contacted me, and I was really moved by it because I felt first of all: the archetype of the outsider, that's still my inner monologue. I resonate with it so much. It's not an adolescent thing. It's eternal. And there's a lot of agony in that. 

It's funny, as a female viewer of his comics, because those comics had his idealized female form and it was like, “Hair? Unimportant. Face? Unimportant. Race? Unimportant. All that matters is they have big muscular thighs.” It felt like it gave me permission. Its soul breaks from the incredibly oppressive standards that are forced upon women. Both angles of it were healing for me. 

I thought a lot about the ways that Kroll and Crumb are the same and the way they're different. The women that they represent, the women in their worlds are almost always playing along on some level. When you think of Aline as a character, she's intelligent and she's bawdy and she is neurotic, and he portrays her so lovingly. It's an important feature in his work. 

NADEL:  I started on the journey of this book seven years ago. I was at an art opening actually. I was at a dinner and I was seated next to this woman named Sarah Lazin, and we got to talking. It turned out that she had moved to San Francisco in the late sixties and went to work for Rolling Stone magazine. She was part of this crew of female editorial workers who banded together in that time to to work together against these, you can imagine, ultimate macho rock assholes of the universe at that time. She's a badass. And she told me, “Crumb gave me permission to feel okay about my body.” And that kind of gave me a way in. Because I then interviewed a lot of women from that era, many of whom said the same thing, that his drawings were the first time that they felt okay about the way they looked.

There's a flip side to that, which can be a little bit like what my friend Naomi texted me the other day. She was joking, but it was partly real. She was like, “Did Crumb used to love bomb?’” There's a little bit of “I understand your body, no one else.”

But if you didn't know him, and you were Sarah, let's say, and it's the era of Twiggy and Peggy Lipton, I think that vision of women was really liberating. Obviously there was a lot about it that was also not so good. But nothing is. We all want things to be black or white, and it's all a big gray. 

SOMBREUIL: But I think the whole point is that women are treated sadistically, and that it’s sympathetic towards them. Like in the same comic I was walking about, he talks about the “sadistic women’s shoe industry.” And he says something like the tragic aspect is that these women have been the subject of ridicule their whole lives and have a negative self-image. It’s so compassionate.

And obviously there’s straight up obscenity, but that’s where humor is involved. Nothing is funny to everybody, and humor depends a little bit on taboos. There’s the funny, fucked up part of it, and then there’s the part of it that I think is incredibly sensitive.

NADEL: I agree. It’s interesting though because, of course, there’s another part of him. There’s a great interview from ‘68 or ‘69 where the interview goes, “You don’t really feel this way about women, do you?” It was about one of the Snatch comics. He says, “Sometimes I hate women.” There is that, that you have to contend with, but it’s part of the package. I guess what I’m saying is that some of it, you can’t even excuse. It’s just gnarly. But it’s part of the greater body of work.

Image credit: Eric Kroll

SOMBREUIL: You can’t defend it, and I don’t identify with all of it, but I think that the greater effect of it on a person, or at last on myself, was that it’s about objectification itself as a phenomenon. And a lot of it is about how women objectify men.

NADEL: It’s not something that has been written about much actually. It should be more. There’s much more nuance in all that work than he would lead you to believe. He’s often his own worst advocate in that sense.

SOMBREUIL: I think he has said that he doesn’t know where a lot of it comes from.

NADEL: That's right.

SOMBREUIL: It’s like this funny fairytale we have about drugs, that you take them once and you have ego death and then you’re just connected to the collective unconscious. That’s, to me, a funny way of talking about him, but it’s like he connected somewhere to something that’s very dark and twisted and resonant, and he has not taken full responsibility for it in a way that I relate to as an artist.

NADEL: That’s really interesting. There’s no explaining it. Bob Dylan said he didn’t know where the songs came from either. I think it’s the same with Robert. He connected into this larger consciousness, and he stayed with it for a very long time.

He’s still with it. He showed me a comic he’s working on. It’s all about paranoia, and it’s right on the money. It’s so specific to him, but he has this ability to be talking right at the reader, saying things that seem like they’re just the product of his own very particular imagination until you realize he’s talking about all of us, and that we all have this baseline paranoia, or a baseline set of visual cues or languages that we share. Somehow he both keyed into that and then iterated it so that it became his own. It’s highly unusual. You’re right, he doesn’t fully take responsibility for it, and maybe that’s good. Otherwise he’d be a whole other kind of artist. He can’t explain it. He refuses to.

SOMBREUIL: For someone who produced things that piss so many people off, for him to not accept full authorship of it is probably not the best PR.

NADEL: No. Terrible. [laughs]

SOMBREUIL:  But I think what he's saying is very truthful, which is that like he doesn't know where it comes from, and what he is responsible for is his technical ability to relay it. As corny as it is, it's like the artist as a mystic.

QUADROS: In some ways, it makes me think of the word ‘fetish’ and its origins as something religious or mystical, a ‘fetish object.’ It’s not just your kinks, but an object that gains higher meaning, a grander meaning than the sum of its parts. His obsession with it has imbued more inside of it. Not that he’s the first artist to make art about his fetishes, of course.

NADEL: But what he’s doing that’s different is that it’s in comics, so it’s not obscured. It’s so direct because it’s on paper and in a stack of things that you find in the basement or on a tape. The difference between it and, let’s say, Picasso or de Kooning or John Currin making art about their fetishes is that there’s no separation between you and the thing. You don’t have to go anywhere to experience it. The thing that you’re holding is the thing. It becomes a much more direct relationship.

SOMBREUIL: I never thought about that. Like the personability of privacy. It’s like a porno.

NADEL: Totally because you can lay in bed and read it. That was one of the great pleasures of comics in general growing up. It was my own thing. You watch a movie, somebody can walk in. You’re in an art museum or an art gallery, somebody’s going to be on their phone or whatever. But holding that thing… I think that’s one of the reasons why people feel that Crumb is theirs in a way that people don’t normally feel about other artists.

SOMBREUIL: His innovation is another flip, which is that the object of desire is often totally repugnant. You think about a John Currin, and it’s unrelenting. It’s quite sinister.

NADEL: I love those. Not all of them, but I love some of them a lot because they’re so thorough and twisted.

SOMBREUIL: Yeah, but to me the misogyny is much more evident there than in a Crumb comic where everything about it is obscene. Somehow that makes it a little bit easier to understand what he’s talking about. The nuance of it.

NADEL: Painting can be so nuanced, but it exists in a particular structure whereas comics have space to stretch out. And even though it’s maybe a more limited pictorial language with fewer tools – it’s just ink on paper – I think it does allow for a certain amount more nuance, especially in those areas.

[phone chimes]

SOMBREUIL: Would the ‘70s ever have happened if there was an iPhone? Definitely not.

NADEL: No, no. Too much technology in the way.

SOMBREUIL: Kroll was really engrossed in his phone. We were like, “Please use the camera, please.” And he was just like, “That’s not how this works.” But the more I look at the iPhone pics, the more I’m like, they’re incredible.

NADEL: What does he do all day? Does he have an archive?

SOMBREUIL:  He lives in the most incredible temple to erotica and photography in general. There's barely room to snake through all the different rooms. One room is just an island of files where you have to narrowly walk around. It's a relatively small house, but there's photos plastering the ceiling, the bathroom wall. Everything and anything you open up is just filled with photos. He OD'ed on beauty. He just loves photos and women. 

He loves women's clothes. I was thinking about him and Crumb because they both seem to really love dressing women. Crumb informed my personal style so much. I was like, “Yes, this is a flattering way for me to dress.”

When we were hanging out with Kroll, I was like, “Do you think you're just in women's clothes?” And he was like, “I've definitely thought about it.” He has like 10,000 bathing suits. We kept joking about it because he had only so much energy for shooting the photos – at a certain point he was like, “This is boring. I'm gonna take a nap,” – and then the next day he took us thrift shopping, and he had so much energy. He loved taking us shopping.

He’s incredible. Really good company and lovely and not a pervert. You feel comfortable around him. That’s part of his effect.  You feel like you could very easily take off your clothes, but it doesn't actually feel sexy at all. But I think immediately we were all really comfortable with him. But his house is incredible. It's a little bit of a tragedy because I'm not sure that it will ever be adequately archived. He’s a historian of erotica.

In the end, right before we left, he was like, “I have to show you some of the photos. This photographer's really important.” This guy would just go up to women in Washington Square Park and take photos of their hair. He had a hair fetish. I think it was like in the ‘60s. They're all black and white photos, just of someone's bun or someone’s hair as they’re moving by. I think people hated that and yelled at him. I don't think it was common to be photographed then. But they're important because they're anomalous. They're not in any other genre of erotica.

NADEL: I love the idea of those hair pictures. That’s so interesting.

SOMBREUIL: They’re really magical and really weird. They’re somehow about… shyness, like really profound inhibition. Because that’s as far as he could go: snapping a picture of a stranger’s hair.

NADEL: It makes me think of Christina Ramberg. She’s a Chicago painter in the ‘60s and ‘70s who specialized in refashioning women’s bodies but also really focused on hair. There’s also an Italian painter named Dominic Gnoli who did unbelievable paintings of hair. It’s a very particular thing to zoom in on, like with Crumb and shoes. If somebody’s deep into it enough, it’s a whole world basically. It opens up a whole universe of artmaking.

I was talking with Robert about a guy here in New York named J.B. Rund who we’ve all come in contact with in some way because he was an early champion of Eric Stanton. In the ‘70s, he was really responsible for bringing back a lot of the forgotten erotica before Taschen got involved.

It’s not as if there’s much writing about this stuff outside of these particularly obsessed people. And once they’re gone all the information in their heads is gone too. I think about that a lot. It’s not history that’s found its way even into cultural archives. It’s really sixty levels below the subculture. They’re gonna take the information about, like, what guy on 43rd Street sold what magazine to who. All that’s gonna go.

SOMBREUIL: I think there’s a laziness now about these kinds of histories because of the Internet.

Kroll is a national treasure. I think we all were wondering what we were in for, like this could be strange. He’s mercurial and cranky, but he’s also really lovely and sweet. He clearly really loves women.

There’s a lot of these kinds of histories that I wish were recorded. It was a really fun shoot because we got to go from taking photos to just sitting around for an hour while he’s going through boxes and boxes of photos, telling us the stories of everything. It’s interesting because being into erotica puts you super deeply in the margins. He showed us this book of his called the New York Years. It’s photos of Nam June Paik and all his artist friends. Like he wasn’t some obscure, random pornographer.

NADEL: He was around.

SOMBREUIL: I think it’s different now. I don’t think he would be sidelined as much. But that’s also what’s great about the whole precept of underground comics. It’s for the initiate. Even if it’s an enormous audience like with Crumb.

NADEL: It’s for the initiate, but it doesn’t take a password to get in. It’s accessible.

SOMBREUIL: I talk about this because my work is mostly on t-shirts, but you can’t get more democratic than a comic book.

NADEL: And a t-shirt.

SOMBREUIL: My t-shirts are not so democratic, unfortunately.

NADEL: You gotta make a living. That’s why you’re not making comics!

A Love Letter in Motion: An Interview on Fashion, Film, and the Erotics of Desire with Kate Biel & Kimberly Corday

Love Is Not All directed by Kimberly Corday and Kate Biel

interview by Eva Megannety

In fashion, desire is often draped in fabric, but for Kate and Kimberly, it lives in motion. In their collaborative short Love Is Not All, the two artists trade runways for reels, channeling longing, beauty, and decay into a filmic fever dream. Against the backdrop of a world increasingly obsessed with speed and spectacle, their work feels like a deliberate pause - a place where emotion lingers, glances haunt, and the act of getting dressed becomes a cinematic ritual. As fashion continues to merge with entertainment, film has become the new frontier for designers looking to craft legacy, not just collections. For Kate and Kimberly, fashion isn’t just about fabric and fit - it’s about emotion, storytelling, and cinematic escapism. And through their lens, each frame becomes a love letter to the art of getting dressed. We spoke about the allure of the fashion film, the seduction of storytelling, and why, for them, desire can only be truly captured in movement.

EVA MEGANNETY: Can you both walk me through the inspiration behind Love Is Not All? How did Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem shape the vision for the film?

KATE BIEL: Okay, so it’s sort of an extension from the first shoot I did with Kimmy, a couple of years ago. I think it was 2022. It centered around these somewhat sinister, feminine archetypes, isolated in a black void. It felt like a commentary on the ostracization and alienation that stems from feminine hunger and desire. Like Kimberly’s garments, it’s a feeling that’s both ancient and modern. We wanted to explore that further because we felt like we were onto something.

KIMBERLY CORDAY: It’s interesting that the poem led us to the film, but once we had the visuals in front of us, our initial idea of using voiceover to recite the poem felt like overkill. Watching the dailies gave us the same feeling as the poem.

MEGANNETY: How do you both feel the film captures the essence of the poem? How did you approach translating such a powerful literary work into visual art and fashion?

BIEL: Kimberly and I both have such a personal connection to this poem, it resonates with each of us in similar but different ways. For me, it encapsulates all the love stories that have really stuck with me: Phantom Thread, The Beast in the Jungle by Henry James, or even my own relationships. I've always seen love as tragic but necessary - nothing transforms you like romantic love. It’s overwhelming, humbling, a constant ego death. Torturous, but it’s also how I’ve grown the most, personally and creatively. In the film, we wanted to explore that duality, love’s destruction and its fertility, through each vignette.

CORDAY: When we were first discussing the short, I had kind of given up on looking for love. But I’ve always been a romantic at heart, so I was constantly grappling with those two sides of myself. This poem was kind of like my single woman manifesto because it encapsulated that same feeling through a combination of flowery language and macabre imagery. And the irony is … I met someone while working on the short.

MEGANNETY: Did that change your view on the project?

CORDAY: Yeah! In pre-production, I actually consulted him about the budget because I’d never handled a short film before - I’m not a line producer, so I really didn’t know what I was doing. And now, we’re literally engaged.

MEGANNETY: Oh my god! That’s insane, congratulations. What a beautiful full-circle moment.

CORDAY: Thank you!

MEGANNETY: Kimberly, your brand is known for merging punk aesthetics with a softer, more feminine touch. How did you blend these elements in the film’s character design and overall art direction?

CORDAY: Well, I never explicitly set out to make things that are both pretty and punk. I even fought that instinct for a while because I was afraid of being boxed into a genre. But I guess it’s just in my nature; it’s what I gravitate toward when I create.

MEGANNETY: The film seems to feature a lot of gothic undertones. How did the gothic genre influence the design of the wardrobe and visuals?

BIEL: Totally. I think the gothic genre is something that both Kimmy and I have always been attached to. For me personally, I love the erotic melancholia experience in Victorian era romance. There was this dying for love and being seen and being worshipped, but also was just not a fun time to be alive in, you know? And so, I think the gothic genre does a perfect job of challenging the romanticized, over-idealized notions of love. It adds these elements of fear and haunting to the mystery of human connection. And we wanted the visuals to be reminiscent of a ghost story, which is like unsettling yet bewitching, just like being in love.

CORDAY: Echoing what Kate said, I really love the gothic genre, so it comes up unintentionally in most cases. And so this time I thought, why fight it? Let's delve deeper into this. We were looking at a lot of medieval art and early horror films like Jean Cocteau's rendition of Beauty and the Beast from 1946, and just let ourselves play in that world and have fun with it.

MEGANNETY: Desire is often a central theme in both fashion and storytelling. How does Love Is Not All explore the idea of desire - whether it’s longing, obsession, or the pursuit of something unattainable?

BIEL: Yeah, I think we grounded that theme really clearly in the lead’s journey, the way the film begins and ends. With desire, there’s always this element of danger and risk. You have to give yourself away entirely, and there’s just a lot of risk with that loss or gain, because you could entirely lose yourself in that. And so in the first scene, our lead enters this portal through consumption, and she’s honoring her hunger for more while still being uncertain if she’ll come out on the other side fully intact. And I would argue that we’re our most feminine when we allow our desires to take control and overpower our reasoning, our logical thinking.  It creates something scary and uncomfortable, but also violently beautiful.

MEGANNETY: I love that analogy. The film has an ethereal, almost dreamlike quality. Do you think desire is something inherently surreal or unattainable in some way? How does this influence your artistic choices?

CORDAY: For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a fantasy addict, like growing up, I was obsessed with the artist J.W. Waterhouse, who painted pictures of nymphs and Roman Gods and sorceresses. I never wanted to leave that world, and honestly, I still haven’t. It makes reality a little easier to manage. Escapism plays a huge part in my brand’s aesthetic. Kate and I were referencing a lot of the surrealist painters like Paul Delvaux and Leonor Fini, whose works very much feel like a fever dream. So I’m happy to hear that translated.

BIEL: Totally. The vignettes start with this idealized version of love and romance, but as the film progresses, those fantasies start to crack. We wanted to show the inner conflict of desire - this constant dance between fantasy and reality.

MEGANNETY: Fashion is so intertwined with desire - whether it’s being seen, expressing yourself, or embodying something else. How does your work tap into the psychology of desire?

CORDAY: I feel like right now, people are hungry for romance and eroticism. There was an article a few years ago called Everyone Is Beautiful and No One Is Horny, about the simultaneous fetishization and desexualisation of the body on today’s screen. I’m hearing desire in a lot of new music, especially pop, but it feels like film and visual arts are devoid of it right now. Kate and I grew up on Steven Meisel editorials, McQueen and Galliano runways … we want to bring that tension back, that tug-of-war between romance and something more lascivious. 

MEGANNETY: In an era of fast fashion and fleeting trends, how do you think desire influences consumer behavior in the fashion world? And how do you both navigate that in your work?

BIEL: We both have similar, but different approaches given our medium. But personally, I try to slow myself down and remind myself that desire can be achieved through scarcity as well. That being selective, thoughtful, and precious in producing my work versus working from a quantity over quality mindset ultimately does a better job at serving myself and the audience. And that it’s sort of just like comparing casual sex with love and passion. 

CORDAY: Yeah, I’ll echo what Kate’s saying there. I’m personally interested in romance, not pornography. And I want to create things that haunt you or make you desperate to seek out, almost like an unrequited crush. Pornography is immediate and disposable. Romance is about withholding, delaying gratification, which is the sensation that I’m interested in recreating in my work. 

MEGANNETY: I love that. Fast fashion is like pornography. So accessible in today’s world too. It’s a shame. Do you think the pursuit of artistic creation is driven by desire? If so, what kind of desire fuels your work?

BIEL: I would say my work is honestly only driven by desire to really get down to brass tacks. Like my desire for approval, my desire to feel something, my desire to be seen, my desire to be understood and to understand the people around me. Desire is just exhausting, but also the only thing that gets me out of bed. 

MEGANNETY: Yeah, I really relate to that.

CORDAY: To be honest, I have no idea why, but it feels like I was bit by some bug that keeps me up at night creating and doubting myself and starting and stopping projects. It’s just in me and I follow it because it’s better, or somehow less painful than the alternative.

MEGANNETY: Your process involves manipulating materials like old lingerie and boudoir remnants. Can you explain how this Frankensteinian approach plays a role in the storytelling of the film and fashion pieces?

CORDAY: You know, the making of this film didn’t really change my process, it’s pretty much the same whether I’m creating for a stockist or a performance. But, what I can say is, any time I make something, I come up with characters who might wear what I’m working on. In this case, I had outlines of vignettes and Kate’s input to help build out the characters. 

MEGANNETY: So you had the garments first, and then the characters kind of grew from there?

CORDAY: Kind of. I made the garments based on the ideas Kate and I came up with for each vignette.

MEGANNETY: Fashion films are such a captivating way to showcase a brand’s narrative. Why did you choose to tell the story through a fashion film rather than traditional runway presentations or photography?

BIEL: When Kimmy and I first started, we were watching so many films where fashion was the heartbeat. One that really stuck with me was a documentary on Helmut Newton. There’s this incredible moment where Charlotte Rampling is being interviewed about modeling for him before she became an actress and she was saying that with modeling there’s this kind of frustration that comes about a still photographic session and it’s almost like you’re on the point of a climax and you’re stopped all the time and you’re frozen and your energy keeps coming up, it keeps coming up but it has to be still. 

And while in film, that climax moment is really lived in - fully realized and honored - I think that’s why we have a handful of these scenes in the film with no cutaways. We linger on the subjects, lavish in their desire, to the point where it feels almost extravagant. And so I would argue that desire can only truly be represented through motion. 

CORDAY: I was going to say, I think there’s a story built into my personal work and Kate’s personal work. Someone, upon first meeting me, told me that my brand brought up visuals of a 17th-century Versailles woman having a mental breakdown, which I just love. The stories are already there, they’re just waiting to be expanded on. And a fashion film felt like the natural next step for my work.

MEGANNETY: Kimberly, your brand has been described as walking the line between “punk” and “unapologetically pretty.” How do these contrasting elements work together in Love Is Not All, and what does that duality represent for you as an artist?

CORDAY: Yeah, I like to think it’s just an extension of my personality. I’m overly polite with a trucker’s mouth. And I listen to Vivaldi and Minor Threat in the same sitting. I think the contrasting elements in my work, the ultra-feminine and the unexpected decay are just a natural expression.

MEGANNETY: What do you hope viewers will walk away thinking or feeling after watching Love Is Not All? Is there a particular message you want to convey through the film’s narrative and visuals?

CORDAY: I would like to haunt someone. I don’t need the viewer to understand what they just watched. I just hope that they walk away with a distinct feeling. And I hope it’s not a passive viewing. That’s the effect that LEYA’s work had on me throughout the editing process. I was haunted by the score that they made for the short. 

BIEL: Yeah, I’d kind of say the same. Kimmy and I have this love relationship through our collaboration, we’ve gone through so many eras of creativity and ideas. And this film is sort of a tailing off point from the first photo shoot we’ve done. It kind of shows that love is this open project, and there’s no big end. And it’s not necessarily romance, but it also shows that creativity is erotic in and of itself. So yeah, it’s about the many ways we, as creators, explore eroticism, desire, and love, and how it’s never-ending. A constant, open discourse.

Submerged Dreams: An Interview of Xiaoqiao

Photo credit: Erika Kamano

interview by Maisie McDermid

As a child, London-based artist, harpist, vocalist, and model Xiaoqiao spent summer days watching water lilies on a pond near her house in Hefei, China. These early moments of  “fluid and empty” time beside water have leaked into her earthly music characterized by angelic vocals, fluid harp, and electronic effects. Her debut EP, Weltschmerz, composed of four songs— “Lethe,” “Magnolia Dream,” “Weltschmerz,” and “Fleur de Sel—” flows through lost and re-encountered memories. 

Each song, vibrating with contemporary sound effects, reimagines ancient feelings—tales from Greek mythology and Taoist parables. In “Lethe,” Xiaoqiao reflects on the Greek river of forgetfulness in the Underworld. Her second single and title track of the EP, “Weltschmerz,” comes from one of Xiaoqiao’s poems and her interest in Renaissance polyphonic choir. “Magnolia Dream,” her third song, references one of Xiaoqiao’s favorite childhood stories, Zhuangzi's Butterfly Dream—a tale about a man who is not sure whether he dreams about being a butterfly or if the butterfly dreams about being him. “Fleur De Sel,” Xiaoqiao’s final piece, honors her studio cat, Fleur, whose recorded purring sounds appear on the track itself. 

Here, Xiaoqiao dives into her first glimpse of a harp in a music store, the making of her otherworldly music video, “Lethe,” and existing between London’s fashion and live art scenes.

MAISIE MCDERMID: Tell me about the underground live music gigs in Beijing you went to when you were younger—these atmospheres and your first exposure to music.

XIAOQIAO: I'm in a very typical Asian family situation where your parents have you pick an instrument to learn. I studied piano. But I didn't really enjoy it because it felt like I was forced to do this.

But then, when I was fifteen, I wanted to learn guitar. I met my guitar teacher, who is a bassist in an underground band. I was never exposed to that world before because I was raised in a very, very strict traditional Chinese family. He would tell us stories about them doing crazy stuff, and it was just a new world unveiled to me. And I was so crazy about underground rock music. In my adolescence and uni, I was not really going to school. I was always in Beijing, seeing all these bands. The freedom of the spirit behind it sparked me. It made me want to make music. I wanted to be one of those people. 

MCDERMID: Did you want to be in this underground scene or just to create similar music? 

XIAOQIAO: It’s about creating something out of the norms. It was intriguing; they were writing new chapters of themselves, of the culture. Especially back then, the underground artists were not seen. But I can see all the love and belief in their work. That moved me, even when I didn't know much about the music. 

MCDERMID: Was it difficult getting your parents to understand your interest in this experimental music? 

XIAOQIAO: It was definitely very challenging; they always thought I was going to some random nightclubs. I mostly did not share this music with them; it was kind of a secret. But then I started making my own music when I was 25 or 26, and things really changed. 

I was also doing modeling at the time. Once I had some savings, I bought a harp. From there, I decided I had to do this thing that I always dreamed of. My family is probably one of the voices in my head that would hold me back in the past. But then, I told myself that if I don’t start doing this right now, I might never be able to. Now, they’re actually kind of fans of my music. 

MCDERMID: I was somewhat surprised to see that you went to London to study cinema and film rather than music. Tell me about your interest in visual storytelling.

XIAOQIAO: I chose film because it balances my parents’ expectations of me with what I love. I think cinema is one of the very big oceans of inspiration for me doing anything in general. When I was taking my course, my teacher played Maya Deren. She’s one of the pioneers of experimental Surrealism in cinema, and she’s one of the first female filmmakers. Seeing her film at that time changed my life. It’s like you don’t know whether you’re in a dream or you’re awake. Everything dissolves—time and space dissolve, and reality and dreams dissolve. That fluidity and feeling is something that inspired me in so many ways. 

MCDERMID: The line between reality and dreaming appears a lot in your work. Have you always been interested in this distinction? 

XIAOQIAO: I feel more able to connect to it and articulate it because of cinema. I am a big fan of Andrei Tarkovsky, Maya Deren, and this Thai director Apichatpong Weerasethakul. I remember when I watched the film Solaris from Tarkovsky. It's about a guy in a spaceship who visits his past life, and Solaris, the planet, is covered by the ocean of subconscious memories. The ghosts are like hidden undercurrents that keep visiting you. 

I'm very drawn to all these worlds because I think dreams are so important to us. They are like everyone’s cinema at night. In dreams, you get to meet your most hidden echoes and discrete voices, which are lost in the misty forests of everyday life. As humans, we need cinema. We need to be in the darkness and lose ourselves sometimes.

Photo credit: Erika Kamano

MCDERMID: Do you feel like your harp gives you access to these dream-like spaces?

XIAOQIAO: Yeah. I remember when I was a child, my dad took me to the music shop to buy me a piano. When I went in there, there was a huge, golden harp in the middle of the music shop that I’d never seen in my life. It was just completely mesmerizing. And, of course, we didn't get a harp; we got a piano. 

But then, I discovered Alice Coltrane’s music, and she kind of approached the harp like a portal rather than a classical instrument. And there was no structure. It's like this feeling of everything being dissolved, and nothing is concrete. She played it like ocean waves of sound, and I feel like it's transcending you to a dreamscape. I wanted to create this sound around me. In my music, I use the harp with all the contemporary electronic effects, like watery, soaked reverbs or echoes. I want it to sound like a ritual of dreams. The harp really sounds like water, like streams. And it's almost like the ocean of mind, the streams of consciousness. And I feel everything is sinking.

MCDERMID: How many harps do you now own?

XIAOQIAO: I have two. I have one that is slightly smaller, which is very easy to carry for live shows. And then I have a big, dark red, mahogany one.

MCDERMID: From the videos I've seen of you dancing, your hands seem to move very naturally in the way that your hands move when you’re playing the harp. I’m curious: did the physical experience of playing the harp come naturally to you—the delicate hand movements? How did you begin to learn? 

XIAOQIAO: At the very beginning, when I was first able to afford a harp, I was full of excitement. I was fully experimenting with it because I had been waiting for that moment for so long. I have a background in guitar and everything, but I have never felt as connected to an instrument as I do with the harp. Even before I had a harp, I already had all these ideas in my mind that I wanted to create a new sound on a harp. For example, all the electronic paddles make it super watery, like you're in the underwater world or something. It was very intuitive for the first several months. Nothing was right, but I felt good. 

It got to the point when people started asking me to perform. And then, I was like, Okay, I actually want to learn the rules. Not to rule your instrument, but to be friends with it. To have a deeper connection with your instrument, you have to know the rules, right? And so I was having online courses. I remember I had to play a set for my friend’s brand at the ICA. It was for their Fashion Week presentation. And that was the first main show I had to play, and back then, my fingers were still very silly. And I did have a phase where I would sit there for at least ten hours a day just to do it. And then, I actually almost hurt my finger because I was practicing it so much. But once I knew the rules, I was able to have a much deeper conversation with my baby.

MCDERMID: I’d love to hear about the making of your EP. How did it come together and were there any surprises along the way?

XIAOQIAO: We started the EP in late 2022, so it's been almost three years. This one is basically my first release work, and it was the first time I worked in the studio. The way I like to create music really comes from improvising, and, at the time, I was learning to play the harp. 

My processes start from intuition, improvisation. Sometimes, I play silent films in the background and start improvising on my harp. It’s really wherever my body is leading me, and my hand is leading me. Then I started to build—laying bricks, building a little palace. For me, the ideas for the work always come later. I don't want to frame or structure it. And then, after the improv, I sit down, and the ideas arrive like fish. They’re like fish that swim to the surface of the ocean. It’s like the subconscious is doing it. 

For example, my first single is called “Lethe,” inspired by the Greek mythology of the under-river of Lethe, about forgetfulness. And that’s one of the fish in my ocean, in my head. While I was putting the bricks of my improv, that swam up. That’s kind of how every song came by.

MCDERMID: I find it interesting you put on silent films while you create music. Tell me about this and how visuals influence your creative audible process. 

XIAOQIAO: I used to always put on Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon. It was one of my favorite shorts. It transcends me to a space that I forgot about. I'm able to completely forget about time, space, or where I am. It's my core, and I’m able to peel off all the layers, all the conditions out of it. It’s like a meditation for me, this kind of slow cinema. With writing music, you have to expose yourself. You're putting yourself back into the incubation chamber where you come from. These filmmakers have really helped me to connect to that space. It's about letting go, and then it just flows naturally, like the fish.

Photo credit: Erika Kamano

MCDERMID: I like the imagery you mention about fish coming up to the surface; it reminds me of the scenes of you floating in water throughout your music video. As someone interested in both music and film, it must have been a special experience, bringing the two together for your first music video. What was the experience like? How did you know you wanted this song, in particular, to be visually represented? 

XIAOQIAO: I don’t really see myself as a musician. It’s really about building a whole world rather than one element, rather than just presenting the music. Visuals are definitely essential to building a world. As for this music video, I’ve always been obsessed with water. It’s a holy presence, but it’s also a very poetic metaphor. It’s where everyone comes from, like the environment of a womb. But then it’s also similar to the inner world, like the undercurrents and the flow. 

The song, “Lethe,” is about forgetfulness. It’s about this river that erases your memory. I was working with my friend Erica Kamano, who is an amazing photographer, and we kind of worked it out together. 

I wanted to build a paralleled labyrinth of a world made from everything that inspires me. I wanted it to be a space that is beyond time or reality—a space between waking and dreaming. It’s a forest full of mist, which, for me, is like a forest of your memory. It’s like when you sleep in the night, and you revisit that memory, that space in your dream, and then all the memories flow like mist, and you’re trying to see it all. 

In the beginning, we wanted to only create an underwater music video. But then, when we were plotting it down, I felt like I actually wanted it to be a parallel universe with myself and my shadow self that kept echoing. I try to create a world where I’m able to meet this shadow self in the deepest dream, and I get to hear all these lost echoes—vulnerable dreams, memories, feelings, and tears. Then, we’re able to meet through this river, and I decide to embrace that shadow and echo rather than eliminate the memory. 

MCDERMID: What was it like, filming in the water? Do you like being in water? 

XIAOQIAO: I learned how to swim for this music video. I never knew how to swim, and I don't know why, but I wanted to learn how for this video—like shallow diving, not deep diving, and underwater dance. I did it in like two or three weeks. 

MCDERMID: Wow. Is the river real or constructed? 

XIAOQIAO: It’s actually in a studio. We tried to make it look like a river on the surface. 

MCDERMID: That’s amazing. It really does look so real, very earthly. 

I see you’ve performed in a variety of spaces—churches, runways, art galleries, etc. How much do these environments influence the music you perform? 

XIAOQIAO: It comes back to the idea of building a world. In this world, every element matters. And when I have the access to do everything I want, I like to re-create my dreams. We had this show a few years ago at 180 Strand, and we made a whole moss set in the concrete ground. The environment helps me feel grounded. 

At the very beginning, when I was starting to do performances at serious galleries around two years ago, I definitely felt scared. Before I went on stage, I was almost in a panic attack. But the way I calmed myself down was to find a quiet space where I could visualize an environment where I felt safe. 

Sometimes, I envision myself in a cave—there’s a waterfall in front of me. And then, I am going to step on that stage. But this is where I am. I’m playing to nature rather than all these big curators and stuff. 

Churches are so beautiful because, again, they are one of the things that kind of exist out of time. You can really see the passage of time in them. I am able to have a connection with all the ghosts that have lived there. They’re watching me, and we’re having a conversation. The beautiful, very big sound in the church hall is like they’re echoing with me. So, I feel very lucky to be able to play my music to these ancient ghosts.

MCDERMID: As you exist in both the fashion and live arts scene in London, how do you compare working in both performance spaces, whether it be walking a runway or playing the harp in a gallery?

XIAOQIAO: After I graduated, I got signed to a modeling agency. I was doing shoots and stuff. The power is very instant, and it’s very visual. So you get the adrenaline straight away from your presence; from your skin, what you wear, the fabrics. 

I enjoy both. Walking down the runway—to compare with the music—is more like presenting strength. It’s bam-bam, and then the light hits you. You present that sight, and that’s where the power comes from.

But doing the music performances is really not about performing the strength. It’s about the opposite. It’s about being vulnerable. When I perform, I forget what I look like. I forget my skin, I forget my bones, I forget my fabrics. It’s just a fluid spirit in there, and I feel nothing. Everything dissolves around me.

MCDERMID: I've noticed brands like Vivienne Westwood and Alexander Wang have photographed you with your harp. Is this a way for you to merge both fashion and music? How does it feel being photographed with your instrument, which I imagine very much feels like a part of yourself? 

XIAOQIAO: Exactly. The shoot happened the first year that I learned harp, and I was not even doing that many performances back then. I feel, firstly, very lucky to be seen as a musician with my weapon, with my baby. That was at the very starting point of my music-making, and I feel that it definitely moved me to embrace myself more in what I want to make.

MCDERMID: Yes, this feels special. I rarely see models being photographed with items important to them. 

XIAOQIAO: I feel very lucky because I did several campaigns even after that with ID, also a film with Alexander Wang—they had me try to play rock music on the harp. I feel very grateful to be seen with the instrument; it’s very personal, to be honest. 

MCDERMID: I know you draw inspiration from Alice Coltrane, one of few harpists in the history of jazz. Does her existence as a rare artist inspire you? Do you come across harpists often? 

XIAOQIAO: There is one harpist who I really love who is also putting all the very celestial effects on her harp; her name is Mary Lattimore. She’s one of the contemporary women artists who I look up to. I take inspiration in a very philosophical way. I kind of take their spirits rather than their fabrics. For example, Alice Coltrane, for me, is to have the idea that you can interpret a traditional historical instrument. You can approach it in a completely fluid, new way. And you can bring the sound of a dream to life. Even if it’s intangible, it can flow on an instrument.

Xiaoqiao’s debut release Weltschmerz EP is out today on Spotify, and her “Lethe” music video is on YouTube.

Time to Think and Time to Dream: An Interview of Robert Wilson

Autre editor-in-chief Oliver Kupper spoke with titan of avant-garde theater Robert Wilson in the lead-up to his installation at Salone del Mobile.Milano, opening April 6.

Robert Wilson. Mother Museo della Pietà Rondanini Castello Sforzesco Salone del Mobile.Milano 2025 © Lucie Jansch

introduction by Karly Quadros
interview by Oliver Kupper

Michaelangelo was working on the Pietà Rondanini the week that he died. Perhaps eclipsed by his naturalist and expressive Pietà housed at Saint Peter’s Basilica, which is considered one of the great masterworks of the Renaissance, the Pietà Rondanini may seem crude in comparison. Many scholars regard the work as unfinished. And, yes, there is an openness to it—in the roughness of the features, in the ambiguity of the figure cradling Christ, and in the specifically rendered but detached arm that stands beside the sculpture’s primary characters like a sentinel.

The statue, which confounded art critics for many years, was championed by the great modernist sculptor Henry Moore. In his collected writings and letters, Moore noted of the statue, “This is the kind of quality you get in the work of old men who are really great. They can simplify; they can leave out.” At 88-years-old when he sculpted the Pietà Rondanini, Michaelangelo’s sculpture was less of a sermon and more of a prayer: some things need no explanation.

At 83-years-old, Robert Wilson is something of an old master himself, although he has approached his entire career with the confidence of an artist who knows not to carve away more than is needed. Beginning with light and formalist performance schematics, Wilson has staged some of the most renowned avant-garde theater works of the 20th century. From collaborating with minimalist composer Philip Glass on 1976’s marathon opera Einstein on the Beach to directing theatrical masterpieces from Vagner, Brecht, and Beckett, his formalist approach provides structures for audiences to encounter extended stretches of space, time, and silence.

Born in Waco, Texas, Wilson moved to Brooklyn in 1963 to study architecture at Pratt. A day job working with comatose patients at the Goldwater Memorial Hospital on Roosevelt Island sparked an early interest in signs and signals that transcend language, which suffuse all his performances. Wilson has collaborated on theatrical works with Rufus Wainwright, Laurie Anderson, Tom Waits, Lou Reed, Anna Calvi, and William Burroughs.

On April 6, Wilson will kick off the Salone del Mobile.Milano with a new installation at the Castello Sforzeco titled Mother, centered around Michaelangelo’s final and unfinished Pietà. Featuring music based on a medieval prayer arranged by Estonian composer Arvo Pärt, Mother will explore the enduring universality of the image and emotion of Michaelangelo’s final work. In the run up to Salone, Autre editor-in-chief Oliver Kupper spoke with Wilson about his early years in New York, his creative process, and the limitations of interpretation.




OLIVER KUPPER: I wanted to start in Waco. What was your access to the avant-garde – or was there even access?

ROBERT WILSON: I grew up in Waco, Texas. It was a right-wing community, very Southern Baptist. Waco was segregated. It was difficult to walk down the street with a Black man. Not much culture. 

I was fortunate enough to be introduced to a man named Paul Baker who at that time was head of the theater department at Baylor University. They were doing experimental work. It was quite amazing the way he had an integrated program with the arts whether it was painting, sculpture, or performance. He thought about it in a very open way. That was a window to another world when I was growing up. At a certain point he left Waco and went to San Antonio to Trinity University, and it was a great loss for this conservative community.

One of the positive things is that I connected with the Black community. That was a real beginning of another way of thinking. What was amazing about the Black community is their positive attitude. Here’s a race of people that have been beaten, enslaved, shamed, not allowed to read a book except the Bible. They wrote music in the spirituals that were all about hope. Martin Luther King Jr. and the protests, the peaceful marches were an awakening for me and had a profound influence on my work and life.

KUPPER: Were you ever a part of those marches?

WILSON: A little bit, but mostly it was an awakening.

KUPPER: What called to you about New York? 

WILSON: New York at the time was a prime epicenter of experimental theater. New York to me was being in a community that had so many different viewpoints, different races of people, getting on a subway and seeing people from all over the world. It wasn’t so much what I was studying at school but the experience of being in a large city with so many people of very different beliefs and cultural backgrounds than mine. That was very exciting and still is.

In terms of the cultural scene, I went to Broadway plays and didn’t particularly like them. I went to the opera, and I strongly disliked that. I became interested in the work of [ballet choreographer] George Balanchine. I liked it very much, and I still go back. I especially like the abstract ballets of Balanchine. There was so much space and time to think that I didn’t find in Broadway plays. They were so visually appalling, and the opera was worse.

I was looking at classical sculpture and classical architecture. I entered into the artistic world by going to the New York City Ballet and later seeing Merce Cunningham and John Cage and how they structure time and space. The abstraction of the work and the freedom of the mind… to experience their work is very important. For Cunningham and Cafe, the visual was not an illustration. It wasn’t a decoration to a text. It was something independent and had its own integrity, conceived as a standalone. As someone who saw the world more visually, this was an awakening.

KUPPER: Can you talk a little bit about your work with polio patients?

WILSON: I worked at Goldwater Memorial Hospital, which was isolated in the middle of the East River. I worked there for a few years with people in iron lungs. Only their head sticking out of the tank. Most of them were catatonic.

I’d meet these people – someone who was 33 years old. He was married and had two kids and was a young lawyer who was in a car accident. They were told that he was paralyzed from the neck down and that it would cost $175,000 a year at that time to keep him alive on an artificial respirator. He was put in the welfare hospital. The first year, his wife came to visit him every day. The next year, maybe three or four times a week. After five years, she had her own life and maybe she came once a week. Patients like this became very isolated, in most cases, became catatonic. 

I was hired as a physical therapist to encourage patients to speak. I developed certain techniques that would bring people together in a solarium, maybe eight or 10 people, and see what I could do to have them communicate with one another and with myself. 

After a few years, when I decided to move on and do other things, I wasn’t so sure that it was necessary that they speak. There was a man that I’d spent a little over two years sitting beside, speaking with him, and he never spoke. I told him that I was leaving him, that I enjoyed getting to know him. And he said, “My problem of not speaking is not really a problem for me. It’s more of a problem for others. My condition, the way I am, I’ve learned to live with it. It’s really okay. It’s more of a problem for people from the outside world.”

I made a work a couple of years ago in Hamburg called “A Hundred Seconds to Midnight.” It was very much influenced by my time working at Goldwater Memorial Hospital with people in iron lungs and that world, that mental space of living in that world.

My first major work in the theater was seven hours long and silent. It was shown in Paris. And much to my surprise, it was a big success. We played for five and a half months to 2,000 people every night. Etel Adnan, the poet, philosopher, artist, writer came to see it and said, “I’ve seen the play three times, and I like it very much.” And I asked, “Why did you like it?” And she said, “Because it gives me time to think and time to dream.” I think that stems from those years that I spent working in Goldwater Memorial Hospital.

I had also adopted a deaf mute boy who’d never been to school. He thought in terms of visual signs and signals, and that silence really transcends language in a way. It’s the universal language of movement. I think that’s one reason my work has been accessible. I’ve worked in the Far East and the Middle East and throughout Europe, North America, Latin America, all over. I think it’s because I stage work, first, visually.

KUPPER: I read a piece by Robyn Brentano about your work and your approach to the performers that you work with. You’ve worked with a lot of performers from all walks of life, and you’ve also worked with a lot of collaborators like Philip Glass. How do you approach collaborators versus performers?

WILSON: Usually I start with an abstract structure. It’s coded in math. Einstein on the Beach  was four acts and three themes – A, B, and C – and they recurred three times. I could diagram it, see it.

I make a map where I can readily see the whole picture very quickly. I once made a play that was seven days long, but I diagramed it quickly in just a couple of minutes.

KUPPER: Einstein on the Beach was your most famous work. Why do you think that piece was so revolutionary?

WILSON: It was classical. People said it’s avant-garde. But actually, if you look at it abstractly, it was a theme and a variation. That’s nothing new actually. That’s a classical structure. The Life and Times of Joseph Stalin: seven acts, one and seven related, two and six related, three and five related, and four in the center, spiraled in and spiraled out. That’s King Lear. The first half is in a manmade environment. The center line Lear says, “I shall go mad,” and the second half is in nature. The turning point was right in the center.

I think that when we’re all born, in our  unconscious minds are the classics, and we have to rediscover them. Socrates said, “The baby is born knowing everything. It is the uncovering of the knowledge that is the learning process.” And I think that is always rediscovering the classics.

KUPPER: In terms of visual art and theater, which overlap and interplay in your work, how do you approach a visual artwork versus a work for the stage? How do you balance visual and narrative elements?

WILSON: I start with light. Light’s what creates the space. Very often people working in the theater, they write a play, they write an opera. They cast it. They rehearse it. And two weeks before they open, they light it.

Louis Kahn spoke when I first went to school to study architecture here in New York. He said, “Students, start with light.” It had a profound influence on me.”

KUPPER: Speaking of light, your upcoming work at Salone del Mobile Milano, Mother. Can you talk about that work?

WILSON: It’s a construction in time and space. You do one thing and then the next thing is something else, and then you do something else. I don’t think of it in terms of a narrative. In terms of time and space, [I think about if] this is quicker than that or slower. This is rubber. This is smoother. This is more interior. This is more exterior.

KUPPER: How is music going to be incorporated into this piece?

WILSON: I haven’t done it yet, so I’m not sure. Music is freedom. Freedom of the mind. When you listen to the radio, you’re free to imagine pictures. So what does the room look like? What does the person that you’re listening to look like? The interior visual screen is boundless. You’re watching a silent movie. You’re free to imagine sound.

The work for me is a bit like if you take a silent movie and you take a radio drama and you put them together. You have a different kind of space. Etel Adnan said the work gave her time to think. So often we don’t. If we go to an exhibition or we go to a performance, if we go to the opera, if we go to a play, we don’t have time to think. You’ve got so much information coming at you that you’re trying to process. How do you create a situation where you do have time and freedom to think. 

How do I look at the unfinished Pieta of Michelangelo? It’s full of meaning. My work has never once been interpreted. In working 50 years, I have never once told an actor what to think. I give very formal directions and structuring of space, but interpretation… I don’t get involved with that. I come from a more… zen world. 

Our education in the West is primarily based on Greek philosophy. I do something because of a reason. I don’t need a reason to do something. Later you can, if you want, find causes or reasons for why you’re doing what you’re doing, but I don’t start there. Most people working in the theater start with a reason and then they make an effect. I start with the effect.

Robert Wilson. Mother 
8th April– 18th May  
Museo della Pietà Rondanini – Castello Sforzesco  

Free entry on 6th April to mark Milano Art Week  
Project curated by Franco Laera. Production Change Performing Arts 
A Salone del Mobile.Milano event in collaboration with the Municipality of Milan | Culture 
Admittance by reservation only at scheduled time 
Tickets and reservations
www.museicivicimilano.vivaticket.it

 
 

Y-3 Debut Their SS25 Campaign Featuring Petra Collins and Moni Haworth

Petra Collins and Moni Haworth collaborate on the new Y-3 Refresh Campaign

interview by Karly Quadros
photographs by Moni Haworth

Moni Haworth and Petra Collins have always focused on the liminal spaces of American suburbs: teenage dreams confined to bedrooms, silhouettes pressed against Venetian blinds, cut-and-paste condos spiraling down culs-de-sacs like soap in a drain. The two longtime collaborators have teamed up once again for the campaign of another collaboration, Yohji Yamamoto and Adidas’ Y-3 Spring/Summer 2025 collection. From the simultaneously sporty and delicate Regu Mary Jane to Petra’s doppelgängers, duality takes centerstage. Autre caught up with Moni Haworth to talk about crafting the dreamy world of Y-3’s new collection.

Image credit: Moni Haworth

KARLY QUADROS: What was the starting point/inspiration for the campaign?

MONI HAWORTH: Y-3 wanted to build on the strange world Petra and I have played with for years, featuring Petra as various versions of herself. We wanted a kind of ‘nowhere but everywhere’ backdrop in a way mirroring the pieces, which from a distance appear classic but on closer inspection reveal many unexpected details.

Image credit: Moni Haworth

Image credit: Moni Haworth

QUADROS: You and Petra have been working together for so long. What’s the secret to an enduring collaboration?

HAWORTH: Voice notes. (laughs) We have a constant stream of communication from the most mundane details of our day to huge debates on AI, the end of the world, etc., all via voice notes, back and forth.

QUADROS: The great ballet flat comeback was not on my bingo card for 2025, and I’ll be honest, I still am resisting that trend. But the ballet sneaker like the Regu Mary Jane or other styles like Simone Rocha’s ballet tracker feel more resonant — instead of girlish and formal they’re lithe and aerodynamic. What’s so alluring about these contemporary hybrid styles?

HAWORTH: Yes, hah, I love ‘ballet sneaker’ trending. We were super excited to shoot the Regu Mary Jane. It fit so well into the hybrid world we wanted to set this in … a kind of future/past chemistry!

Image credit: Moni Haworth

QUADROS: Can you talk a little bit about the short film that you made for the campaign? What were you trying to explore? Did it bring up anything unexpected for you?

HAWORTH: The idea of two versions of Petra coming together via me was the concept we wanted to explore. Petra often sends me the craziest voice notes of dreams she’s had. We wanted to dip into that feeling when you’re not so sure you’re remembering a dream or an actual experience, the hazy speculation and the weirdness of sharing a dream. The unexpected thing was the hawk perched on a pole right in front of us and being able to capture it taking off in front of Petra. That was perfect!

Image credit: Moni Haworth

Making Old New: An Interview of Anna Molinari

 

Photo credit: Monty Hamm

 

interview by Maisie McDermid

New York-based designer Anna Molinari, 27, is the definition of thrifty. For Molinari, plastic forks, when melted and reconfigured, double as voguish rings. Gold and silver beer tabs, when hooked together, become a one-of-a-kind bikini. She sees the potential in everything– her motto: Why not extend its life?

Three years into running her fashion business, Instinct Brand, Molinari has accomplished what many find un-accomplishable: maintaining a sustainable business model with significant growth. Instinct Brand's buying demographic has expanded from friends and family to 130,000 followers (between @annamo.1 and @instinct.brand) who come across Molinari's bubble-wrap corsets or trash bag high heels online. While her talent emerges from her iconic upcycled pieces, she has recently prioritized making custom pieces for public figures like Julia Fox and Pattie Gonia. This paradox — being a successful and sustainable business owner — won Molinari a position on this year's Forbes’ 30 under 30 list.

MAISIE MCDERMID: I saw a video on your Instagram of a dress you made from straws when you were seventeen. How young were you when you started designing clothes? Have you always prioritized sustainability in your designs?

ANNA MOLINARI: I started sewing when I was a kid, around eight years old. I’d have Project Runway marathons and call my then five-year-old sister, Lily, up to our little playroom and start immediately pinning things on her and hand-stitching them. I’d use materials that were lying around the house, like old curtains or leftover fabric from Halloween costumes that my mom would make. It was sort of in my nature to be scrappy from the start because my mom is too. Why buy something if you already have something you could use? 

In high school, I took an AP 3D sculpture class and got permission to do my 3D portfolio as wearable 3D sculpture. So, that's when I first started experimenting with real, unconventional materials. I made one of the sculptures out of a million perfume caps that my art teacher, Mr. Hansel, had for some reason in the art room. I got all those black straws for the dress from a cafe that was switching over to paper, and didn't want the black plastic anymore. And I also did like a red Solo cup top. 

Then in college, I continued doing experimental art classes and learned how destructive the textile industry is. I just feel this guilt every time I throw something that is single use away, so I made a conscious decision to only use second hand materials. Why not extend its life?

MCDERMID: I see you left Syracuse for a semester in 2019 to study at the London College of Fashion. How was this experience, and how did conversations on sustainable fashion vary compared to those in New York?

MOLINARI: I didn't really feel like it was a priority at the time. I don't think it was as progressive in that way; I think it was more of a traditional fashion experience. 

But since COVID, really, there has been a major social push towards being sustainable – people thrifting all the time. I feel judged or guilty anytime I buy something new or from Amazon. I recently saw that at London Fashion Week, designers weren’t able to use plastic packaging or furs anymore. So, I think a lot has been happening in the last five years. It was right on the cusp when I was there, but now the real change is starting, which is exciting and hopeful.

MCDERMID: I see the ways your passions for sustainability and fashion have aligned, but when did you realize you wanted to start your own brand?

MOLINARI: Since I was a kid, that was always the goal. But my college professors kind of ingrained in us that you're supposed to get out of college and have corporate design jobs. Then maybe, down the line, when you're middle aged, you can work your way high enough to have your own brand. 

So when I got out of college, I had a corporate design job, and it was horrible. It felt like, what's the point of this? This isn't helping anybody. And it was mass production. Even though it was supposed to be sustainable yarns used to design sweaters, it was still mass production. I had also started making more money from social media than from my full-time job, and I was working until like 4 AM every day, so I had to decide to take the leap and start my brand.

Since then, I have been growing it more as a source of inspiration than a shop. I feel like I can be most valuable by putting ideas and inspiration about sustainable fashion out there, as opposed to selling things.

MCDERMID: A lot of your Instagram content is of you picking up your phone and sharing your thoughts on current sustainable fashion trends, pieces you’re working on, etc. This really distinguishes Instinct Brand as a more personal label compared to others that prioritize selling clothes. Have you always felt comfortable voicing yourself to large numbers of people? 

MOLINARI: I've never really felt any anxiety about sharing my thoughts on the environment and global warming. Something I had not expected to be so tricky is navigating how to post things when other things in the world are going on. When I post about the environment, I have experienced people getting upset that I'm not talking about other things too. So, that's something that makes me a little bit uncomfortable, because social media is just so public, and a lot of things are so polarizing to talk about. But I try to keep it light, while still touching on things that are more serious. 

 

Photo credit: Monty Hamm

 

MCDERMID: Has Instinct Brand evolved the way you thought it would? 

MOLINARI: No, because I thought I would need to sell things consistently through consistent drops of thrift-flipped items. But now, we sort of just do customs and experimental projects for fun. The rest of the brand is sharing other inspiring work and process videos. 

I've loved how it has sort of evolved into more of just a platform. People send us their projects, and we feature them on our stories. We post mood boards and share things about fashion weeks. I really enjoy how it has become a hub of fun ideas that are all in the sustainability world. That's what I look for whenever I'm trying to find inspiration.

MCDERMID: One of my questions for you was actually going to be about how possible it really is for a small, sustainable brand to maintain its sustainable priority as it grows. In many ways, I imagine it becomes impossible as the brand inevitably transitions to big-brand business models that are not always sustainable. 

MOLINARI: Yeah, it really is due to social media. I fund Instinct with the money I make from social media, so I don't have to rely on sales. But the one stressful part of that is social media itself. Tik Tok was almost banned this year, so it’s inconsistent. You never know when a video is going to hit or not. You never know when people are going to approach you for brand deals and stuff like that. 

But that's why I also do large-scale customs. It’s a great way to generate income in the least wasteful way, like taking on large scale sustainable projects. Every once in a while, I think that's a lot better than having to churn out affordable things. Unfortunately, many small businesses don't make enough money by making affordable things, and that's why they have to turn to mass production or less sustainable methods. It's expensive to be sustainable, and you're trying to appeal to the masses who aren't going to pay the $500 that that shirt is worth. 

MCDERMID: How do you feel shifting from creating smaller pieces for your followers to now bigger ones for public figures? Are you under more pressure? 

MOLINARI: I actually love doing customs because I get to create an entire look as opposed to just taking a button down from the thrift store and turning it into something else. I'm taking tons of things from eBay and Poshmark, taking them all apart, and pairing them with shoes, bottoms, tops, jackets, everything. It feels more fun as a creative person to see an idea fully come to life from head to toe. 

And the fun thing about customs is that each one has its own vibe and theme. In an ideal world, I would love it if my career could just be one insane custom every month for a public figure. That would be the most fulfilling thing to me, the act.

MCDERMID: I see you have worked with Pattie Gonia, a well-known environmentalist, musician, and drag artist. Tell me about the experience. How much do you collaborate with the public figures you’re working for? Do they express an idea of what they want for the custom piece, or do you take the lead? 

MOLINARI: In Pattie’s case, she will tell me the theme, and then I'll sketch out a bunch of ideas, make mood boards, and pick out hypothetical materials and everything. And then, I'll review with the stylist, we pick one, and from there, I get into construction. 

Working with Pattie is great because we have a very close relationship now. We've done probably around seven or eight at this point. I'm working on two more right now, and those ones are really fun, because drag is a whole different genre. It's cheeky and camp. You can be really crazy and it doesn't need to be something you can wear to a gala. The thing that we're working on right now is a construction worker themed outfit that we are calling “Cuntstruction worker.” It’s all of these things that I got on Poshmark and Ebay that we're taking apart, putting together, and bedazzling.

 
 

MCDERMID: Can you talk a bit about “A Piece of Meat?” What was your vision for this creative project, and did you feel satisfied with it in the end?

MOLINARI: I'm trying to do more creative projects in 2025. With that one, I had been collecting a bunch of cellophane, bubble wrap, and clear packaging from my studio’s building. They get a lot of shipments in, and then they just have all this plastic wrap. So as I was collecting that, I started making the skirt. I thought about how this woman is going to look like a piece of meat wrapped in cellophane and how it feels to be looked at like a piece of meat as a woman in New York. You really can't walk down the street dressed up without somebody making you feel uncomfortable. 

So, we used a piece of meat as her clutch to round out the whole point. That's one of my favorite projects, because it was such a social experiment. A lot of men were getting angry. Some people were upset that we were taking pictures of strangers, but they were taking pictures of her. A lot of interesting conversations came up because of that photo shoot, and I really enjoy that as a designer. I think it's important that people argue about these things and hear each other's differences. 

 
 

MCDERMID: Are you usually able to step out from the conversations once you’ve started them? Do you ever feel like you need or want to be participating in the conversations with people? 

MOLINARI: There was one person that I engaged with, because he was saying the shoot didn't have a point and that people were just staring at her because it was a spectacle, and that it was poorly executed and everything. Which is stupid, because I know that it was a spectacle. I would stare at her, but that wasn't the point. The point was to just capture a vibe. 

He didn’t get it because he doesn't know what it’s like to be that girl who is getting stared at and spoken to. Those pictures don't capture the comments that people were making as they walked by. But normally I don't engage because it does make me angry, and I kind of regret it, because men can't get things through their thick skulls. 

MCDERMID: I would love to hear more about the collecting you do— the specificities of it. Do you feel like this collecting part of your brain is always on? When you get takeout food, do you always save the bag? Do you ever ask people to crowdsource certain items? 

MOLINARI: You kind of hit it spot on. There's stuff in every single bag and every single pocket. I try to keep most of the single-use plastic that my roommates and I use, and that alone is so much stuff that I had to get a storage unit. Everything at the grocery store is sold in plastic. You really don't see how much waste you're producing until you start collecting it. 

If I see a long sheet of bubble wrap in the street, I'll grab that, or I will dumpster dive, depending on the place. For specific things – like if I need bulk soda can tabs or bulk bread tabs – people literally collect them and sell them on eBay.

 

Photo credit: Monty Hamm

 

MCDERMID: Wait, did I hear you right? You said you have a storage unit now because you’ve collected so much stuff?

MOLINARI: Yeah, oh my gosh, to the brim. I might have to get another one. 

MCDERMID: Wow, the philosophy of this is so intriguing— if every person could visually be confronted with how much they consume, as you do for yourself. Can this degree of self-recognition be isolating in a way? 

MOLINARI: That's a great question. I wish people could see it, like make videos about this or something. It does make me really upset that people aren't doing the bare minimum by sorting their trash. This is something that is so easy and that has such a large effect. I wish I could shake people and show them how much waste they aren't disposing of properly. 

MCDERMID: Your brand is about making sustainability instinctual. Can you speak about this mission statement? 

MOLINARI: In college, I made the decision to only use materials that would not negatively affect the environment. I thought about everything that we know and that it should be instinctual to choose the sustainable option. With every emerging younger designer, it should just be innate.

And that even extends to consumers. Why would you buy this brand-new pair of designer shoes when you can find a cooler, vintage version online, secondhand? Everybody needs to have that reaction to things in order for real change to happen.

MCDERMID: We’re, of course, seeing a lot of continued success with luxury brands who don’t use sustainable practices. Have you noticed a rising awareness amongst designers you know?

MOLINARI: I definitely feel like I'm the minority. All three of my closest friends work in the fashion industry, and they shop mostly by designer, but sometimes they buy designer vintage. It's something I really can't relate to, and it is frustrating to me. 

But I have a network of social media upcyclers that have large platforms, and they are really helping the movement. People who do their thrift hauls are helping the movement, but as long as these luxury brands exist, it's not going to go away. Hopefully, they’ll all go bankrupt someday; we can just use things that already exist. People are slowly moving to the green side of things, but it's not enough for it to really make a serious dent yet. 

MCDERMID: I understand why luxury brands will be around, considering their legacy statuses and classic elements, but I'm just baffled by why people by from fast-fashion companies like Shein when there is higher quality vintage clothing for less. Do you think fast fashion brands will really make it in the long run?

MOLINARI: I don't know. There are just so many people that don't understand how real this problem is. You can order a bunch of really cheap stuff and it comes right to your door. It doesn't feel harmful. You see headlines about Shein, but you never see video exposés, and what happens to all of the unused textiles that get thrown into rivers in Africa, and then pollute the rivers and kill people. 

MCDERMID: Tell me about Forbes’ 30 Under 30— what it meant to you.

MOLINARI: I didn't even know that the list was coming out, or that I was on it back when it did. I was honestly shocked, because I feel like I'm just one person who works out of one little room and is doing a project. To get that sort of validation— it's a win for the sustainable people. It’s one of those steps in the right direction for Forbes and for business owners to see that sustainability in the fashion industry is a priority.

A New Story Every Day: An Interview Of l'Area's Edouard Chueke

The Center of Le Marais’s Social Scene Is A Mom & Pop Restaurant/Bar Serving Lebanese/Brazilian Fusion & Drinks Until Late

 
 

interview by Abraham Chabon
photographs by Kenna Kroge

L’Area tonight, like every Saturday night, has spilled a crowd of well-dressed twenty-somethings out onto the streets. The rain comes down in a light haze, and smokers rotate in groups out of the doors. Some women’s fur coats are being flattened by the rain that rolls off the edges of their slanted umbrellas. The smokers hug the small, flat green face of l’Area and step away from the windows, from which you can see, behind and around them, a growing crowd inside the bar.

L’Area, during the day, is a quiet restaurant that serves Lebanese and Brazilian food on a side street between Bastille and Le Marais. The food feels home-cooked, comforting; it’s rich curries and shawarma, black rice and pita bread, citrusy ceviche, and a cold glass of white wine. You can’t go to l’Area and order just one thing—a meal at l’Area means a table covered in plates.

But at night, l’Area becomes something else—an overflowing bar where you can start or end your night, a refuge from the rain, good drinks and good music, but also one of the hearts of Paris’ youth scene. L’Area attracts artists, students, musicians, and, during fashion week, half of everyone who’s left their afterparties. It’s designed for conversations, for making connections. At l’Area, you can find a photographer for your brand, a writer for your magazine, or a date for next Saturday.

Inside the bar, the soft light feels as if it could all be from the glow of candles. The walls are mostly covered with thick white paint that thins in some important places and cracks in others. On each wall, there are mirrors, tchotchkes, and photos and paintings in thick and thin frames. The bar’s counter is long and shining and turns at one end to meet the wall.

The wall behind the bar has a splash of blue and green tiles. There are glass shelves covered in glass bottles and aluminum cans and corks and towels and art and busy hands and other things that a bar should or shouldn’t have. And the bar’s counter itself is covered in action and movement, the knocking of glass on the counter, the shifting of elbows under thick coat sleeves.

I move with the crowd as the room thins and then pushes out into the bar’s barely larger backroom, filled with a traffic jam of tables, benches, chairs, and people. You have to step over and squeeze past creaking wooden chairs with skinny iron legs. Boot heels catch on coats, elbows brush against the shoulders of drinkers, and backs press against backs. A small projector sends a faint blue glow—cut through by the shadow of the spinning ceiling fan’s blades—against a screen blocked by pots of flowers, a glittering silver lava lamp, and an enormous glass vase filled with coffee beans. Wine-soaked cushions and a floor sticky with Saint Germain lick the soles of boots and Puma runners.

The restaurant's owner, Edouard, steps into the backroom and lights his cigarette from a candle placed on a countertop. Edouard has silver hair and skin that looks like it has spent most of its life smiling. He wears a sweater knit tight like l’Area’s weave of tables and chairs. It is my first time back in two years; Edouard remembers my name.

There is no l’Area without Edouard. You would be hard-pressed to find a kinder man in Paris, and if you did, he would be nowhere near as cool. Edouard creates the culture of l’Area. When he can find a break between pouring drinks and hugging friends, he will pull you aside to connect you with someone he wants you to know. And all night, until the bar closes, through every backhanded glass, late reservation, and declined card, he keeps smiling.

I caught up with Edouard the next day. I sat at the counter as he paced back and forth behind the bar. I had to follow him with my phone so the recording would stay clear.

EDOUARD CHUEKE: It began with the food. Because of that, it began with Lily. People don’t always know this, but she’s the most important person here.

Lily is Edouard’s wife; they fell in love in Rio.

ABRAHAM CHABON: I haven’t met her yet, but you always say great things about her.

CHUEKE: She is completely essential. She arrives early in the morning and prepares everything—the ceviche, the dishes, all of it. She’s in the kitchen from 7:30 or 8:00 in the morning until 4:00 in the afternoon. And that’s the truth.

CHABON: I think you should probably give yourself more credit. You are so important. If someone loves coming to l’Area, part of that is because they love coming to see you. How do you think you’ve you built these connections? 

CHUEKE: Thank you so much. I try to receive people, make them feel welcome, and friendships will just happen from that. For me, that’s the most important thing. The connection first comes from my love for electronic music, photography, and fashion—my wife too. There are a lot of students who come here, as well as some young fashion designers. They come, we talk, we discuss things. It’s a place for that—to meet, to exchange ideas. 

Edouard lights a cigarette for me. 

CHABON: At a certain point, this bar must feel like a part of your family.

CHUEKE: Yes and no. It’s a real love affair.

I’ve had offers—good offers—to open other places, even in New York or London. But the mentality wasn’t the same. That’s why I decided not to do it. Even here in Paris, I had offers, but it wouldn’t have been the same. I’m happy we have this kind of relationship with the people here.

For me, the best part is that whether you come at night or just for Sunday brunch and a coffee, I’m happy you choose my place for that.

CHABON: You’ve told me before you just want to be a Mensch, what does that mean to you? 

CHUEKE: When I say I want to be a mensch, that’s something my father taught me. It means being clear, being correct with people, being honest. To be as honest as possible. To be kind. And not to be jealous. I don’t care if someone opens a new spot down the street. I say, "Thank God." I do my own thing in my own way.

I have friends in this business who make huge money, even with fewer customers than I have. They serve more expensive food, more expensive drinks. But I don’t care. I’m happy here.

People only see the surface of this place. They don’t see the work behind it, everything we’ve created. My wife and I both know—we’re never going to be rich from this. But we’ll have a good life, filled with good things.

Edouard scoops ice from a silver bucket into my hazy yellow glass of Pastis. 

 
 

CHABON: That honesty is what draws people to this place. And you feel it from the design.  It feels natural like it was put together with the intention of being genuine to who you are. You have family portraits, personal touches. Did you or your wife design it?

CHUEKE: My wife, mostly. Everything on the walls—that’s her. If you stop and really look, you’ll see we have pieces from some of the most important French artists, American photographers, even a Paris Photo Prize winner from five years ago. We wanted to bring that here.

Edouard gestures at the art hung in the room, wafting a cigarette through the air. 

CHABON: How did it start? How did l’Area become what it is?  

CHUEKE: There was a French radio station—Radio Nova. After the first two months, they fell in love with this place. They told all the DJs and musicians about it. And people just started coming. And it has stayed like that, always the right people who care about the same things. 

CHABON: Paris has a long history of bars and cafés being hubs for creatives. Do you feel like you’re continuing that tradition?

CHUEKE: I never really think about it like that. When we bought this space we knew Le Marais was on the rise but also it was an old part of Paris, filled with history. That was important to us. I love Paris, and it’s history, but I don’t think I was creating something only French. I think the connections, the creativity, can happen anywhere. I know we’ll be here for a few more years, but when this place is done, I’ll probably open another one. Maybe in Naples, maybe in New York. A smaller one—just breakfast and lunch. But with good music, good people, the same kind of identity as here, and the same people will come, and it will give people the same thing.

We have to pause our conversation; someone has called Edouard personally to make a reservation. 

CHABON: How do you keep going? Running a bar like this must be exhausting.

CHUEKE: It’s in my blood. Every day is a new day—that’s something my parents taught me. And this place, it feels like a movie to me. A new story every day. New characters, new relationships. That keeps me going. Also, I don’t drink much. I sleep four hours a night. I try to take care of my health, but it’s not easy.

CHABON: Do you ever worry about l’Area losing its identity as it gets more popular?

CHUEKE: Never. Because the people who come here, they become part of it. Even the celebrities—they feel at home. That’s what matters. And they wouldn’t come if they didn’t want to be a part of it, you know? 

 
 

The Los Angeles Confidential: An Interview of Devin Troy Strother

interview by Oliver Kupper

We caught up with Devin Troy Strother on a sunny afternoon right after a bustling LA art week, where his latest exhibition opening had fans overflowing into the street. We chat a few moments before the debut of his first-ever digital commission, which marks the relaunch of Different Leaf, the trailblazing magazine founded by Michael Kuseck, broadening its horizons from cannabis to a new cultural platform encompassing art, music, and fashion.

Strother reaches an even broader, more diverse audience through Coloured Publishing, his independent press that rolls out artist zines, books, and editions that pop up everywhere, from the Printed Matter Art Book Fair to Undefeated. Strother’s publishing work connects him to a lineage of artists who have explored the book as an art form, including Henri Matisse, whose iconic cut-outs began for his own illustrated book, and Ed Ruscha, whose accordion-like photobook Twentysix Gasoline Stations stretched across galleries at MoMA and LACMA during his recent major retrospective. Or Kandis Williams, whose publishing and educational platform, Cassandra Press, took over an entire floor of the 2022 Whitney Biennial. These artists have utilized the medium to extend their visual narratives, blending text and image in innovative ways that challenge and enrich the viewer’s experience—and make their work more accessible. 

In a way, Coloured Publishing doesn’t just broaden his studio’s creative horizons; it lets him and other artists dive deep into more personal, experimental print work. At the center of his latest exhibition, which was on view at Good Mother Gallery, sits a bright green newsstand bursting with zines and prints, surrounded by Strother’s new paintings—a testament to his commitment to making art communal and accessible.

The return of Different Leaf magazine, with its expanded focus on cannabis, art, music, and fashion, embodies a similar spirit. By commissioning Strother for its relaunch, the magazine not only underscores its commitment to artistic exploration but also celebrates the enduring significance and adaptability of boundary-blurring print projects in the digital era, promoting creativity over commerciality amidst a shifting media landscape.

In our discussion, Strother shares insights into his latest artistic and publishing endeavors, the newly reimagined Different Leaf, and how these efforts interweave to foster a community.

OLIVER KUPPER: Hey Devin, it’s good to see you. I overheard a lot of people talking about your new show throughout art fair week. It was undoubtedly the talk of the town! Can you share what drives the themes in your work?

DEVIN TROY STROTHER: (laughs) Thanks. I like to play with a mix of humor and history in my work. It’s about pulling in all these different cultural threads—like snapshots from a big, sprawling narrative—and then adding a bit of my own twist to it. I want people to experience something familiar but also get them thinking about the deeper stories behind what they’re seeing.

KUPPER: Your work often plays with humor, irony, and racial themes in a bold way. How do you balance provocation with playfulness in your art?

STROTHER: It’s a dance trying to balance the two. Trying to find a middle place between making you laugh and making you a little uncomfortable. I think about it like this: if I can get you to laugh first, I’ve got your attention. Humor is the ultimate disarming tool. It’s a way to let people in before they realize they’re already deep in the conversation. And once they’re there, once they’re engaged, that’s when I can start twisting things, pulling them into that space where the playfulness turns into something else, something that lingers.

I don’t force that balance; it’s just how I see things. I grew up on alternative music, cartoons, and stand-up comedy, these spaces where humor and critique are kind of intertwined. I have always tried to navigate the absurdity of racism by flipping it, exaggerating it, and making it so ridiculous that you can’t ignore it. A lot of my work pulls from that tradition. I take imagery that already exists, stereotypes that have been floating around forever, and I push them to the point where they collapse in on themselves. I want you to see how absurd they’ve always been. But instead of presenting them in some heavy-handed, overly academic way, I make them colorful or a little silly because that’s how I process it. That’s how I make sense of it. And honestly, playfulness is its own form of resistance. 

There’s this expectation that if you’re talking about race, history, or identity, it has to be serious and somber. But why? Why should that weight take away the joy? There’s something radical about making people laugh while you’re also making a point. There’s something powerful about turning pain into something that feels like a party. So yeah, I like to play with that tension, but I don’t think of it as a tightrope rope walk. It’s just how I communicate via images, I guess. 

KUPPER: Last year, your show Scenes for Josephine explored deeply personal themes and histories. Can you talk about how memory and personal histories—and also the fabrication of Los Angeles as a city of make-believe—play into your work? 

STROTHER: Oh yeah, Scenes for Josephine was all about memory, my own personal memory, cultural memory, and the way those things get distorted as a result of the memory process; no memory is exact. It’s a memory of a memory that slowly gets remixed and mythologized over time. And finally, it becomes its own myth/history into itself. A lot of my work plays with this idea of history as something both deeply personal and totally fabricated. We take bits and pieces of the past, reframe them, exaggerate them, and suddenly, they become something else that feels foreign but also somewhat familiar simultaneously. 

That’s where Los Angeles comes in. LA is the ultimate city of make-believe. It’s built on a real illusion. The illusion of Hollywood as the dream factory, a place where you can reinvent yourself, write your story, and create an entirely new identity. 

But underneath all the delusions, there’s a real history, a real culture, a real city that gets overlooked in favor of the myth. That tension between the real and the fake, the past and the present, and the way stories get reshaped over time is exactly what I’m interested in. With Scenes for Josephine, I was pulling from my family history and filtering it through the lens of performance, spectacle, and exaggeration.

KUPPER: We have been to many of your shows. You not only show paintings and sculptures, but your work is totally immersive—from wallpaper to sculpture to installations, like a full-scale bar. Why is this immersive quality so important?

STROTHER: I’m happy that you picked up on that part of my practice. For me, it’s about slowly building worlds that exist within different themes, not just showing some paintings on a wall. I want you to step into something, be surrounded, be overwhelmed, and maybe even feel a bit confused by the situation. The paintings and sculptures are one thing to me, but they behave differently when they’re not attached to a larger conversation. One that is being manifested in many different iterations, all unfolding simultaneously for the viewer.

I’m asking and even begging the viewer to engage with the work on a different level. One is that paintings hanging alone in a white cube can only achieve a certain extent, and in some instances, not far enough to truly transport the viewer to different places, both physically and mentally. I think a lot about the context of our current times versus how things exist in space and how they speak to one another.

KUPPER: How does performance fit into your work? 

STROTHER: Performance is a part of any artist’s practice. Whether intentional or subconscious, there’s always a performative aspect in every genre of art. The act of setting up lights, strobes, and composing backgrounds for portraiture is highly performative. It’s not necessarily intentional, but I’m always in awe whenever any kind of shoot or set is being rigged up.

The same goes for painting and sculpture. The act of making is a deeply personal performance that unfolds constantly, whether in the studio or beyond. I guess everything and anything you do in the studio can ultimately be seen as performative in an abstract sense.

KUPPER: Your work not only spans multiple mediums but also bridges communities. How does your role as a publisher with Coloured Publishing influence your art, especially in the context of your new show, The Los Angeles Confidential?

STROTHER: Coloured Publishing is like my playground. It’s where I can experiment and really push the boundaries without having to deal with gallery space or logistics. It influences my art by keeping things fresh and letting me explore more direct, more personal forms of expression. Plus, it’s just really fun to see a book come together. The newsstand installation at Good Mother is a physical manifestation of that idea.

KUPPER: So, let’s talk about that. What inspired the choice of a newsstand?

STROTHER: The newsstand is iconic, right? It’s this old-school symbol of information exchange—a tactile, grab-and-read culture that’s disappearing. By using it as the centerpiece, I’m playing with nostalgia but also commenting on the accessibility of art and literature. In the broader sense, it’s about democratizing art, making sure it’s not just something you see in a gallery or museum, but something you can stumble upon and engage with in everyday life.

I’ve always been interested in how people interact with art in everyday settings. The newsstand is about making art approachable—like, literally bringing it into people’s daily routines. I wanted something that wasn’t just to be looked at from afar but could be touched, flipped through, really engaged with.

KUPPER: Speaking of newsstands, Different Leaf magazine is branching out into areas like art and fashion alongside cannabis; your commission marks a significant part of this new chapter. How do you see this collaboration influencing culture?

STROTHER: I think it’s really cool, especially at a time when a lot of art magazines are folding, and everything is moving towards AI-generated content. Different Leaf is taking a stand for creative risks and putting artists at the forefront. It’s like we’re saying, “Hey, let’s slow down and actually enjoy this.” Art, music, fashion—these are all about experience and emotion, not just consumption. So, this collaboration is a chance to remind people of that and create something tactile and memorable.

KUPPER: In your installation at Good Mother, you engage deeply with themes of media, commerce, and myth-making. How do you think these themes resonate with Different Leaf’s new direction?

STROTHER: There’s a real synergy. Different Leaf delves into the layers of culture that cannabis interacts with, which is similar to how my installation explores the layers of information and how we consume them. Both are about peeling back the surfaces to look at what’s underneath, whether that’s questioning societal norms or celebrating lesser-heard voices. It’s about challenging the viewer or reader to think differently and to question more.

KUPPER: As Different Leaf reimagines its identity, what do you hope readers take away from your commission for its relaunch? 

STROTHER: I hope they see it as an invitation to explore, question, and be part of a community that values creativity over convention. It’s about pushing boundaries, sure, but also about finding joy in the unexpected. Different Leaf is creating a space where these intersections of culture can flourish, and I’m just excited to be part of that conversation.

Suburban Atmospherics: An Interview Of Olivia Erlanger

 
 

interview by Erik Morse

Multimedia artist and filmmaker Olivia Erlanger is a suburbanist in multiple senses of the word: her oeuvre, a combination of sculpture, scale miniatures and shadow boxes, furnishings, short films, performance, as well as vernacular and technical histories of the home, takes its inspiration from American suburban geographies and the domestic interior that form its primary mise en scène. But Erlanger’s work also explores the world of margins, thresholds, and coulisse implicit in the etymology of the sub-urb—a space that, by definition, is beneath or outside of a physical and discursive center. Hers is a work that often eschews the stabilizing components of characterization, materiality, and setting for what, absent a sturdier, more easily translatable, descriptor, might be called a suburban atmospheric.

But what precisely is a suburban atmospheric? Beyond its seeming interest in combining the milieu of the suburb with a study of speculative environments, the term remains labile and fugitive, as atmosphere tends to be. The topic of suburbanism is itself obscured in a certain kind of epistemic veil, enforced by an enduring urban-centric ambivalence toward its historical or cultural import that says indignantly, “I’d prefer not to.” The suburb has long been the subaltern to its urban hegemon. Equally, the notion of an atmosphere is resistant to any center. It is neither material/spatial nor strictly rhetorical or conceptual, but more like an environmental “mood” accompanying these objects or categories. Peter Sloterdijk, the great thinker of atmosphere, describes it as an affective envelope that shelters self, other and world in various existential interiors. Its ur-space is the home, whether hut or tract house, though the feeling of at-homeness is as much an architecture of familiarity as it is materiality. Atmosphere, however, will always retain some essential mystery or exoticism. Appearing in disguise under designations like “the sensorium,” “the spectral,” “interiority,” “microclimate,” and “the nobject,” it haunts the world of people and objects from its dark purlieus, much like the suburb haunts the city and thrives in the nooks and verges.

Erlanger’s works hover in this same elusive topology with its outré images of possessed housewares, adolescent bedrooms in miniature, deteriorating snow globes, manic realty agents, piscine nymphets, and trompe l’œil terraria. Evoking the sort of Gothic unheimlich that emanates from a landscape of empty cul-de-sacs, dead shopping malls, and vacant ranch ramblers, they play in the interstices of the quotidian and the storybook. The result is a spiritist practice that is simultaneously an “anthropology of the near,” in the words of Marc Augé, and a “space of elsewhere,” in those of Gaston Bachelard. And, perhaps, most of all, Erlanger’s works echo Longfellow’s observation in “Haunted Houses” (1858) that “All houses…/Are haunted houses/…The spirit-world around this world of sense/Floats like an atmosphere…”

On the occasion of Erlanger’s new exhibit, Spinoff, at Luhring Augustine Tribeca, the artist spoke on a variety of topics, including the mysteries of the suburb, the pleasures of the miniature, Last Year at Marienbad and the haunted house genre, Nabokov and the “final girl.”  

ERIK MORSE: I wanted to make the centerpiece of our conversation this concept of a suburban atmospheric. I will start with Prime Meridien (2024), which immediately evokes for me the famous engraving from L'atmosphère: météorologie populaire (1888), depicting the traveler who finds, at the end of the Earth, the spherical boundary to the cosmos, which he pierces to glimpse the beyond; it also evokes some of the earliest globes of the Columbian era, which served as both a decorative and metaphysical object, illustrating the dimensional mysteries of the world, where, as Sloterdijk describes, the Earth’s reserve of secrets seemed inexhaustible. What I’m getting at here in both instances is that like Prime Meridien’s miniature suburban globe, the Flammarion engraving and early, modern globes suggested an emotional or mysterious liminality that occur at a spatial margin and yet are preserved by an atmosphere of familiarity—the place of the home. That said, I’m interested to know where this mergence between the geographic space of the suburb and the sensorial mystery of atmosphere became connected through your work, and in what way do you think creative interventions into atmosphere allow you to explore the mysteries of suburban spaces?

OLIVIA ERLANGER: In making art, I feel it is as though, like the traveler in Flammarion’s engraving, I can only ever hope to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond—of what might exist on the far side of the boundary. But, let's be real, I don't think I can unravel the universe's mysteries through examining the invention of suburbia. Perhaps it is a terribly romantic notion, but I do hope to uncover something far more intimate: the contours of my place within it. The myth of the American suburb is filled with mystery—your choice of word is exact. In my work, I trace the edges of this myth, striving to glimpse what lies just beyond the surface. To peer beneath the banality, beneath the oppressive masquerade of “normalcy.” I want to know what is in your garage or stuffed behind a closet door. What lies forgotten at the bottom of your junk drawer, waiting to be uncovered? 

MORSE: Most of the pieces in the new show Spinoff are some version of what one might call a scale miniature or a boxed work.  It’s difficult to look at your miniature Sky series (Blue Sky, Orange Sky, Green Sky) and not to think of Bachelard’s writings on miniatures and daydreams. What initially drew you to miniatures as an artist?  

ERLANGER: I spoke at length with a friend about the show's title, Spinoff and how a spinoff, which, much like a miniature, will always fail in terms of its ability to recreate the essence or atmosphere of an original. There’s something about that failure that I find compelling—an inevitable distortion of the thing it's trying to replicate. And speaking of the show, have you seen the new drawings? I think they really resonate with what you’re describing, especially in the way they condense those compressed images of horror films; there are cinematic references threaded throughout my work. Miniaturization, much like directing a film or building a building, demands control—control over time, scale, narrative. It’s all about containing a world within a space. I recently gave a lecture on my practice. Initially, I thought I’d frame everything around control—but as that idea unfolded, it felt more suited to a therapy session than an auditorium full of students. Instead, I framed it around scale as a way of grappling with the contradiction of seeing the planet as both home and vast, unknowable space.

MORSE: Clearly, there is a deep connection in your work between domesticity/interiority and childhood, all of which appear as recurring themes within the realm of the scale miniature. Do you link it to childhood and rituals of toy playing? Can you elucidate on the pleasure that comes with the act of boxing or creating an atmosphere is? 

ERLANGER: I’m fascinated by the legacies of American craft, especially as we are in the midst of a crisis of content and craft. With the diorama sculptures, I wanted my work to move between the problematic lexicon of a natural history museum and the intimacy of a hobbyist’s world, like a train set built by a father and son. There’s something deeply evocative, bizarre, and sad about that tension. Maybe it’s because, in part, it speaks to how play—or, more specifically, make-believe—is often an attempt to recreate and mimic the structures seen around us. But I should clarify: I’m not interested in childhood itself; it’s adolescence that fascinates me. That specific moment in time when a person is neither fully a child nor fully an adult. I remember it as a time filled with a sense of dread, terror, and excitement. And the figure of the adolescent looms so large in the mythology of suburbia, especially in American pop culture.

MORSE: Adolescence, and particularly girlhood, seems to be present throughout your oeuvre, from sculptures like “Ida” (2017) and “Final Girl (Parallel Object)” (2021), which imagine some appendage of nymphean flesh, and pieces like “Home Is A Body” (2020) and “Shell” (2021), which are more theatrical and feel like the classic miniature tableaux of Narcissa Niblack Thorne or Frances Glessner Lee’s Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death, from the 1940s. There is also the recent “Fan Fiction” (2024), whose Lepidoptera-shaped fans suggest Nabokov’s decor for Lolita's suburban bedroom. All of these pieces illustrate a form of absence, whether it be via anatomical mutilation or a scenographic vacancy, that is inherent in the huis clos of domesticity. Something or someone has always disappeared. In what ways are girlhood/adolescence a form of ghosthood in your work?

ERLANGER: I was reading Speak, Memory, Nabokov’s autobiography, while creating those sculptures. Adolescence, in particular, carries a sense of danger—especially due to the sexualization of girlhood, as seen in Lolita, but also in the Nutshell Studies, where at least one of the proposed "victims" is a teenage girl. It’s easy to exploit the young, and even easier when they’re in an environment like suburbia, which is sold to us with the promise of safety. Yet, there is power in transformation. This is evident in the trope of the final girl, which influenced both my film Appliance and my sculpture, which takes its name from the theory. Barbara Creed’s concept of the final girl turns the “last man standing” trope on its head, replacing him with a girl who, though often running and evading, ultimately survives and overcomes the outside antagonist.

Adolescence is haunted by phantasms of the future—dreams shaped by society, our families, and ourselves—but it’s also weighed down by the stark, often banal reality of the present, which for me felt flabby, uncool, and underwhelming. I think both transition and adolescence, as well as horror, can bring forth their own "phantasms" in the mind. The in-between spaces and phases of life are some of the most terrifying things the human psyche has to endure.

MORSE: What also intrigues me about your Sky series is the way in which the various colored light sources create an imagined or artificial atmosphere, which dominates the objects themselves by their very immateriality. They become less about the visible schematic of a landscape and more about the immaterial coloring of the climate in which they are immersed. What results is a literal “climate control,” another theme that crops up throughout your work.

ERLANGER: The architecture of Blue Sky is based on Last Year at Marienbad (1961) and specifically this one shot from one of the gardens at Nymphenburg Palace in Germany. It’s fantastical in so far as the forced perspective warps the ability to truly “know” the location. My original intention with the dioramas was to explore the ways in which we express power through property. Each diorama has a different technology represented in terms of how those lines are drawn. Blue Sky is showing authority through a piece of publicly owned property in which nature is so thoroughly trained it appears alien. Green Sky depicts a speculative cityscape, with a skyline filled with empty apartments—none of which I can afford! In contrast, Orange Sky presents a desolate desert mesa, empty but for a distant, almost unreadable sign—a marker that perhaps this barren land is for sale, but it’s impossible to know for sure.

I chose to title the pieces after the color of their skies because I wanted to engage directly with atmospherics, both literal and metaphorical. The sky, as a shifting environmental cue, offers a form of navigation—we understand the sky’s color as a guide to weather or ecological events: think of the green sky before a tornado or the orange glow from a wildfire. In the same way, I’ve always understood art as a way to navigate the world, to figure out my place in it. In Spinoff, the smaller planet sculptures are named after GPS coordinates, as if offering a direct connection to location itself. Meanwhile, Eros (when night was last dark), the installation of arrow sculptures, is a star map from the night before Edison patented the lightbulb—a map that shifts according to its installation site. It plays with scale—not just the inherent contradiction of a planet being “home,” but also the difference between space (no memory) and place (memory).

MORSE: I’m very happy to see your reference to Last Year at Marienbad, as I had thought of it, as well as the architecture of the suburban petite maison, which is a folly architecture based on urban fantasies of country life. Marienbad has been one of my favorite films for a very long time, and I always associate it with the dark interior fantasies of the suburb, despite it having little visually in common with the iconography of the suburb. I do wonder what it is about the atmosphere of that film, which evokes a particular fantasy of retreat, memory, and mystery that “feels” suburban.  Do you find the phantasmic elements of the film often popping up in your work?

ERLANGER: I’m drawn to Alain Robbe-Grillet’s writing, particularly the chiaroscuro in his descriptions. In Jealousy, harsh sunlight filters through the louvered blinds, and in Last Year at Marienbad, long, dark shadows stretch across the palace grounds. This interplay of light and dark is something that deeply inspires me, and it carries over into my own work. And light is a key element throughout the pieces in Spinoff, from the dioramas to the planet sculptures, even to the date determining the Eros installation.

To your point, I don’t think the film directly evokes a suburban atmosphere, but the narrative of a potential affair does echo a familiar suburban trope: “perfect house, imperfect marriage”—think The Stepford WivesThe Ice StormAmerican Beauty.

Film has always been a constant touchstone in my creative life—everything I know, I know through TV and movies. I’m fascinated by how, once a story is told—whether through a book, a TV show, or a film—it doesn’t just introduce new possibilities but often affirms them. I’m not talking about how stories predict the future, like how Neuromancer anticipated the internet. Rather, I’m interested in how stories gesture toward what could be and, in some cases, shepherd reality into existence. There’s something about how a story doesn’t simply reflect reality but begins to shape it, making certain outcomes feel more conceivable, even inevitable. The term conceptual prefiguration doesn’t quite capture this—it’s something deeper at play.

MORSE: Broadly speaking, Marienbad also falls within a haunted house genre that reminds me of your short film Appliance (2024), which takes from the suburban Gothic, body horror, and science-fiction genres. In the film, a homeowner becomes haunted by an old house’s appliances as they produce a coordinated series of radiophonic and biological signals that make the house both a shelter from the dangerous, outside world and an invader from within. It has hints of Freudian unheimlich and Antonioni’s Red Desert but could also be one of those ’80s suburban horror films like Poltergeist or The Changeling. What do you think is this nexus between the suburban interior, specifically, and the pleasurable experiences of the horror film?

ERLANGER: I think everyone is a little afraid of the dark and of empty rooms. My intention with Appliance, both as a book and a film, was to extend the classic metaphor of the home as a body and suggest something a bit different: if home is a body, then the body is an appliance. The film explores the terror of what happens when your appliance—your body—doesn’t function as it’s pre-programmed. In the story, the protagonist, Sophie, is undergoing fertility treatment, and in this context, her unease becomes a doubling of sorts. She’s terrified of the structure of her house, its domestic technologies, and her own body, all of which seem to be malfunctioning. There’s no peace for poor Sophie! But is it all in her head? Or maybe aliens are involved—after all, there’s always the possibility of aliens.

With Appliance, I wanted to delve into something very Freudian, yes, and maybe even suburban—the idea that we can haunt ourselves. Specifically, I wanted to explore how prototypically American aspirations—around homeownership, fertility, and fecundity—can manifest larger into distortions. 

MORSE: With your researched histories from Garage (2017) and The Modern Shower… (2019), you have continued to make a sort of anthropological field site of domestic spaces and technologies. One of the many things I learned when reading through Garage’s history is that Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian home design eliminated ceilings and attics, while its one-story elevation made staircases mostly unnecessary. It also eliminated nooks and strived for the open concept that became the schematic for the midcentury ranch house. To me, what’s so interesting about this is that such a design immediately rejected all the spaces of the home that Bachelard would highlight as the sources of daydreaming and mystery. There are no more “happy spaces” in his words because Wright had substituted a domestic machine for a psychic shell.

ERLANGER: Houses have always reflected the technologies of their time in terms of construction methods, materials, and even their layouts. The space of the home has been a site of labor much longer than leisure, as the concept of “leisure” is a relatively modern social construct. For much of history, homes provided respite primarily as places to sleep. Depending on one's social status, this rest was often limited and infrequent, and even the bedroom itself was primarily designed for heteronormative reproduction.

MORSE: Going back over the long nineteenth century and early twentieth, we see this interesting interplay between the house as a shelter and as a laboratory. For the first time, the home pushes professional labor outside of its walls and becomes a shelter of family, leisure, and privacy. Yet, it also rapidly expands as the site of immersive and atmospheric technologies, from elaborate bedroom furnishings and indoor plumbing/heating/cooling to the earliest communications and electronic media, all of which increasingly recast the house’s atmosphere as that of a laboratory or greenhouse. How do you think this rapid technologization and hyper-interiorization of the home-as-laboratory has transformed our relationship to the house-as-shelter? 

ERLANGER: One of my favorite examples of this evolving relationship between technology and home is The Homes of Tomorrow, an exhibition at the 1933 World’s Fair. It featured early proto-modernist houses, including an all-glass house by George Keck, designed to showcase cutting-edge technologies such as central AC, dishwashers, and iceless refrigerators, as well as an attached garage. This exhibition laid the groundwork for The Town of Tomorrow, which debuted at the 1939 World’s Fair. There, homes were designed around different technological innovations. Notable examples include The Small Brick House of the Sheltered Workshops, a house where the wife performed all the housework while the husband maintained the exterior during his leisure time, and The Electric Home, which promised that electric “servants” would take over time-consuming domestic chores, allowing for a more efficient and less labor-intensive lifestyle. The tagline for the Electric Home was, “In the Electric Home, electric servants have taken over the tasks and time-consuming domestic drudgery of the old order”—an alluring vision indeed! And let’s not forget the “Magic Kitchen” that could move, talk, and tell a timely story—though, alas, it could not sing and dance. These homes and concepts are referenced in my research, particularly in Appliance, but I think they serve as a historical precursor to the modern-day single-family home. So, in summary, the 20th-century single-family home has always been at the intersection of home as both laboratory and symbol—both a financial instrument and a tool for propagating the American Dream.

Olivia Erlanger’s Spinoff is on view through April 19 @ Luhring Augustine Tribeca, 17 White Street New York

Olivia Erlanger
Eros (when night was last dark), 2024
Sixteen aluminum arrows
Dimensions variable
Image courtesy of CAM Houston. Photo: Sean Fleming

Borderlands: An Interview of Hugo Crosthwaite

Hugo Crosthwaite, La Anunciación (The Announcement), 2024
Courtesy of the artist and Luis de Jesus Los Angeles

interview by Karly Quadros

Ex-votos are a form of Mexican folk painting, part prayer, part diary, they are a dedication to the saints and a plea for guidance during difficult times. They’re sometimes crude, sometimes polished, sometimes funny, sometimes heartwrenching. Te pido perdon virgencita pues jugue con fuego (I ask you to forgive me, Virgin, because I played with fire) reads one on a painting of a woman with red skin and devil horns beckoning a man in bed while the Virgen de Guadalupe looks on. Another celebrates two luchadors who met in the ring and found love. Another thanks the Santo Niño de Atocha for surviving a late night encounter with two extraterrestrials.

Inspired by his own close encounter with death, Tijuana and San Diego-based artist Hugo Crosthwaite decided to take on the tradition of ex-votos with a new series of large-scale paintings. The show, Ex-voto, is a series of overlapping snapshots of the city of Tijuana, dense narratives of daily life at the border. Just as in the ex-votos, the physical and spiritual world mingle in scenes of border crossings, street vendors, and women at rest. The Tijuana of Crosthwaite’s paintings is not quite the real one and not quite the sin city of the American imagination. Instead, it is multilayered, a place that we tell stories about and are always returning to across the border fence.

KARLY QUADROS: Can you explain what an ex-voto painting is?

HUGO CROSTHWAITE:  Ex-votos are a tradition that happen here in in Mexico and in Latin America. It's this idea of painting agradecimientos, gratitude, miracles. They're usually painted by families, by common people. They place them on church altars. Usually this happens more in the central and south of Mexico. This doesn't really happen on the border here where I live in Tijuana, so I decided that I wanted to do my version of ex-votos that reference the situation here on the border in Tijuana and San Diego. I wanted to play with the narratives that happen usually in the ex-votos where you see angel characters or saint characters involved with people, the surrealism that's behind that.

Usually when you look at the ex-votos, you're looking at miracles, sometimes with extraterrestrial things or extra-sensory things. I love seeing some ex-votos that say, “Thank God, because I saw these aliens and they tried to abduct me.” They go from very extraordinary, fantastical things to trying to escape an abusive husband or “Thanks to San Virgencita because I was able to not get caught that I had an affair with my best friend's wife.” The narratives range from fantasy to strange things to things that deal with the problems of society in terms of poverty and violence. 

QUADROS: To me, they’re similar to your paintings in two ways. One is that they’re both very narrative – there are stories in your paintings that you feel like you’re dropped into. The other similarity that I see is these paintings include the physical world and the spiritual world, layered on top of each other.

CROSTHWAITE:  For the longest time growing up here in Tijuana, I never really had access to culture in the [Mexican] South. It just happened after 9/11 when they closed the border and this influx of immigration happened. We started seeing culture from Oaxaca and from other places start to appear here in Tijuana because of migrants settling here, hoping to cross into the United States. For example, the Day of the Dead wasn't really celebrated here in Tijuana, but now you see that happening. So, one of the consequences of immigration that has happened with the city of Tijuana is that now we're being exposed to many of the things that usually, when I was growing up here in Tijuana, I wasn't.

Hugo Crosthwaite, Ricos Elotes (Delicious Corn), 2024
Courtesy of the artist and Luis de Jesus Los Angeles

QUADROS: Is that where all the skulls in the paintings come from?

CROSTHWAITE: Yes. Here in Tijuana we're in this area where we're not Mexican enough, but then also we're not American. It’s because Tijuana is the most northern city of Mexico, so there's a lot of cross-culturalization between San Diego and Tijuana, American culture and Mexican culture. 

In my case, I was born in Tijuana and I grew up here. My family is from this area, and I don't remember learning English. It just happened naturally because my father had a curio shop where we sold Mexican items to American tourists. My life was selling stories and selling this idea of a Mexican culture that Americans wanted to see.

I've been an artist for thirty years almost, and all of my work comes from my sketchbook. I just sit in a coffee shop or I sit waiting for the bus, and I draw people.  All of the narratives in all of my work comes from these sketches. I grab a lot of the faces and the environment of Tijuana. It’s not really portraiture because I’m drawing in a very clandestine way. Sometimes people think I’m doing something very suspicious, but then I show them the drawings. That’s the magic of art. Sometimes they share back. I’ve had people sing to me. I’ve had people recite poetry because they feel like you’re presenting something of art and they want to give some art back to me.

It’s not really like taking a picture or documenting something. It’s more being able to grab impressions of the city and expand these into the narratives that go into my paintings.

QUADROS: What are some of your earlier memories of art?

CROSTHWAITE:  All my life I was going to school in the morning and in the evening I was working in the curio shop. I remember growing up with a lot of visual stimuli surrounding me. I would just do drawings to pass the time. It was a way of playing around while I was waiting for an American tourist to come in.

Part of what we did in the curio shop was tell stories, and that was the way of selling things. It was an American tourist expecting to hear a story as part of the interaction. In these paintings, it's also this idea of a transaction that happened, like in the original ex-votos. A miracle happened, so you're obliged to return the favor by painting this ex-voto as a way of making amends or making a payment. As a child, I would sell this notion of Mexico to an American public that was expecting certain stories, something exoticized. I feel like this series of paintings is playing with this idea that Tijuana is selling itself to the United States.

QUADROS: So in your paintings, is it the real version of Tijuana or the exoticized version?

CROSTHWAITE:  It's somewhere in between because it's also playing with the fantasy. There is this notion of Mexico, especially in the city of Tijuana, because, during prohibition in the United States, Tijuana became this hub for bars. It became like a Sin City, like when you think of Las Vegas today. Tijuana was the place to come, have a drink or get divorced.

It developed this reputation, what they call La Leyenda Negra. I wanted to play with this idea of La Leyenda Negra, how Tijuana was seen as this place that's selling itself to the American tourists or what is expected by the American tourists seeing Tijuana.

For example, in the 1930s and ’40s, there were these Tijuana Bibles, which were these little pornographic books that were printed in Chicago. They were little comic books that had, like Mickey Mouse having sex with Donald Duck and that kind of thing, which were sold for five cents or whatever. This was a completely American invention, but they were called Tijuana Bibles. 

Again, it's this idea that they're not from here. They're not from America. They're coming from some other place, from Tijuana, from this lawless border. Going South, there's no law and order.

QUADROS: Some classic American icons like Mickey Mouse show up in your paintings, but there’s also this idea of Americans crossing the border to deposit their own sins. I think of those big liter jugs of Coca-Cola in your paintings, in a sense, reflecting American commerce going over the border to do their dirty work that they wouldn’t do at home.

CROSTHWAITE: Yes, exactly.

QUADROS: I was thinking a lot about commerce when I was looking at your work. The characters sell tickets, they sell fruit, they talk on phones. It’s hard not to see the work in light of these recently implemented tariffs that are, once again, straining the relationship between our two countries. What roles do commerce and trade play in your work and the lives of the characters that you depict?

CROSTHWAITE:  Like I mentioned earlier, Tijuana is a very touristy city. Even now the tourism in Mexico has gone beyond restaurants or shops or beer. Now even medical tourism is very important in Tijuana.

The economies between Tijuana and San Diego are extremely interconnected. In the morning, hundreds of thousands of Mexicans cross over legally to work in the United States, and you see a lot of Americans starting to live in Tijuana because housing in San Diego is becoming too expensive. There's this interconnectivity between both cities. The border serves as an obstruction to this natural flow of people and commerce and ideas and culture. 

QUADROS: There’s a rich history of border art too – art that is sometimes literally on the border wall or fence, or art that is otherwise about the border. Do you see yourself in this tradition? What do you think defines border art?

CROSTHWAITE: I try not to define border art. I’m an artist, for example, that was born in Tijuana but I have American citizenship. I live in both Tijuana and San Diego. So to me, this area has always been this double identity. I grew up with this kind of schizophrenic notion. Both languages are in my head, Spanish and English. Both cultures are in my head.

When I was growing up, I would get to see all the American movies before anybody else in Mexico saw them. These films would travel to Mexico City, and then from there they would get distributed. When Star Wars came out, I saw it first in San Diego. Most of my family from further south wouldn't see it until six months later. 

My work is about this double identity and the struggles. How do you identify yourself when there is this very distinct line of culture that's being placed on the border? My family settled here way before the American border was imposed, way in the 1840s. My great grandfather fought in the Mexican American War on the American side because they were conscripted by the American army. Then he settled in Rosarito, in Tijuana, and then suddenly the border came up so my family, the Crosthwaite name, which is very old here in the Californias, was suddenly divided between Mexico and the United States.

What am I Mexican or American? Those questions of identity and history and memory permeate through the work, this surreal place in between two cultures, two languages. 

QUADROS: Frida Kahlo’s border painting [“Self Portrait Along the Border Line Between Mexico and the United States”] is like that too, right? She’s standing in the middle with America on one side and looking to Mexico on the other, and she’s in neither.

Hugo Crosthwaite, La Linea (The Line), 2024, Acrylic and color pencil on canvas
Courtesy of the artist and Luis de Jesus Los Angeles

CROSTHWAITE: It’s also the notion of the mestizo, the blending of the Spanish and the native.

QUADROS: And it comes back to the ex-votos, folk traditions and more pagan traditions mixing with Catholic imagery and traditions. There’s a few paintings with this imagery like “La Linea” and “The Woman Grabs the Snake.” Can you talk a little bit about Aztec imagery?

CROSTHWAITE:  In “La Linea” it’s the very important figure of Coatlicue, the Aztec goddess, mother of the Aztecs. She's basically the revered mother that gave birth to Huitzilopochtli, who is the god of war. Coatlicue was later replaced by the Virgen de Guadalupe when the missionaries came and tried to sell this idea of Catholicism to the Aztec people.

Even though it's a very strong image with skulls and snakes, to the Aztec people, she represented motherhood. She represented love. She represented birth. She represented all these things that were about life.

QUADROS: It’s similar to what you were saying before where Mexico is vilified or seen as darker and more sinful, but the things that actually seem sinister, like serpents and skulls, are actually very life-affirming and beautiful. And, on the other hand, the American exports that seem very wholesome, like Coca-Cola and Disney, are actually quite insidious.

CROSTHWAITE:  In this painting, you're seeing this idea of this double culture of Mexico and the United States. You're seeing images of Coatlicue on either side and in the center images of Mexican culture and American culture. You see the bottle of Diet Coke. You see Mickey Mouse. You see the cell phone. You see all these things that are an amalgam of culture on the border.

QUADROS: What was your experience like pulling together the show?

CROSTHWAITE: I've been an artist for almost thirty years, and funnily enough, all of my work was always in black and white because I never studied formally how to paint. I've always been making black and white drawings. But a couple of years ago, I was diagnosed with testicular cancer, and I went through chemotherapy. It was a very hard year and I couldn't work. So my sketchbook became the source of all my work, something that I could work on in my bed, small and not a lot of effort.

I had never contemplated doing color in my work. I decided I want to do an ambitious series, large canvases that just explode into color. As I was starting to do this, the idea of the ex-votos came about, giving thanks for regaining my health, being able to work again, being able to work big canvases. It was this gratitude that I felt towards life and towards my career and the people that supported me.


Ex-Votos is on display through April 5 at Luis de Jesus 1110 Mateo St., Los Angeles. Hugo Crosthwaite will be in conversation with Carolina Miranda at the the gallery  on March 22 2-3 PM.

Hugo Crosthwaite, Tijuacolor, 2024, Acrylic and color pencil on canvas
Courtesy of the artist and Luis de Jesus Los Angeles

Color Vision: An Interview of Master Printers Guy Stricherz & Irene Malli

William Eggleston 
Greenwood, Mississippi (red ceiling), 1973

interview by Oliver Kupper

Phillips is set to present Color Vision: Master Prints from Guy Stricherz and Irene Malli, a landmark series of auctions celebrating the unparalleled artistry of the dye transfer process. The first auction, happening on March 18, 2025, will feature the master prints of William Eggleston, including his Los Alamos portfolio and the highly sought-after "Magnificent Seven" large-format dye transfer prints. These works, crafted by Stricherz and Malli at Color Vision Imaging Laboratory, represent the pinnacle of color photography, offering collectors a rare opportunity to acquire the definitive prints from one of the most influential printers of the past four decades. I sat down with Guy and Irene to discuss the rare and fleeting magic of the dye transfer process in anticipation of next Tuesday’s auction at Phillips.

OLIVER KUPPER: When you first started, there was this explosion of color happening in culture from pop art to fashion, photography, cars, manufacturing. All this was happening in a relatively short amount of time, and you were both instrumental in the mastering of dye transfer printing. What do you attribute to this explosion of color and culture?

GUY STRICHERZ: Most of the advertising in magazines — Life, Look, Vogue, Esquire — that was in color. The rest of the editorial was in black and white. Newspapers were all black and white. And in photography, black and white was considered the only way to go as a fine art photographer.

I guess it was color television that brought color. It just exploded in the magazines. Everything was in color: Newsweek, Time, all the magazines. Young photographers like myself graduating from college in 1974, we all knew the history of Stieglitz, Steichen, Adams, Cartier-Bresson, Robert Frank, all black and white. But people of my generation were all interested in color.

KUPPER: How did you two meet originally?

STRICHERZ: I opened the lab in 1981 with a friend of mine in New York City on Prince Street in Lower Manhattan. We offered limited editions to fine art photographers. I had a partner. He left, so I put an ad out in the New York Times.

IRENE MALLI: I had worked in a commercial dye transfer lab from the time I graduated from college. After two and a half years, I was kind of tired of printing advertising photos and commercial work was already starting to go digital because of digital retouching capabilities. So, I was getting ready to go to graduate school and do something different. My mother talked me into looking in the newspaper one more week for a new job. And there it was: Fine Art Dye Transfer Printer Wanted. And I thought, Well that might be fun. I’ll apply for that job. And here we are, thirty-five years later. So, we did meet in the workplace, and we ended up falling in love.

KUPPER: Who were some of the photographers that you grew up admiring?

MALLI: A lot of them were black and white photographers: Bruce Davidson, of course, Eggleston. My tastes are pretty wide ranging. Nan Goldin was very big when I was in college, but she was never a client. I never did Cibachrome. That was very big in the eighties. Cindy Sherman and Richard Prince were using that a lot.

KUPPER: Can you talk a little bit about the dye transfer process? What makes it so stunning?

STRICHERZ: The process is a color separation and assembly process. So you have a film original and then you make separation negatives. You separate the color of the original transparency in three layers: cyan, magenta, and yellow. You separate them using a red, green, and blue filter. 

The assembly part of it can be for metal plates, for offset lithography, for silkscreen, for gravure, or for intaglio. But in this case, we’re not making a metal plate or a silkscreen, we’re making a matrix. A matrix film is the film made by Kodak for dye transfer. The process is about 150 years old, it's the same process as the Technicolor movie process. That’s why when you see these old Technicolor movies – Gone with the Wind, Wizard of Oz, all the way up through Apocalypse Now – you see that brilliant color that has not faded. You see movies from the ’50s that are Kinemacolor, there’s been a severe fading frequently of the yellow, the magenta. None of the movie processes hold up like Technicolor..

Dye transfer could be lower case ‘d’ and lowercase ‘t,’ but when we’re talking about what we do, we use a capital ‘D’ and a capital ‘T’ because we use all original Kodak dye transfer materials. They stopped making them in 1992. They’re almost gone. We have just a little bit of material left, but we acquired a large stock of materials from Kodak when they stopped manufacturing them and we bought stock from several other labs that had materials left over. So we’ve had a large stockpile over time.

 
 

KUPPER: Is William Eggelston still using your printing services?

STRICHERZ: The last batch that we did was the last show at the David Zwirner Gallery [The Last Dyes, 2024]. 

MALLI: That’s his last project in dye transfer. It had some works from [William Eggelston’s] Guide. And it also had works from other projects, maybe ten or twelve from Outlands.

It’s the only analog color process that’s on fiber-based paper. The paper has no silver in it. It enables the paper to absorb a very large amount of dye, giving you an extremely wide range of tone and an extremely wide color palette. The dyes are not layered like they are in all other color processes – Cibachrome, Type C chromogenic, Ektacolor. It doesn’t matter which one you roll first. It has a lifespan of 500 years in dark storage, the longest of any color process. And it has excellent light stability.

KUPPER: How did you initially meet William Eggleston?

STRICHERZ: Through our friend Rose Shoshana at the Rose Gallery in Santa Monica.

MALLI: Might have been ‘95 or ‘97. The first big project we did was in ’98 for the Hasselblad Foundation when he got that award.

STRICHERZ: I discovered William Eggleston’s Guide book in 1976. I thought it was just tremendous. I had been photographing natural light outside, and the book really impressed me. I loved the way he roamed the world free and captured what was before his eye. 

MALLI: I’ve always appreciated his ability to find beauty in humble surroundings. Beautiful light can fall on anything. His knack for composition is always amazing.

KUPPER: Through this process that you’ve mastered, do you think you’ve allowed photographers to broaden their horizons in terms of what they’re able to achieve with their images?

STRICHERZ: Our goal has always been to assist the photographer in realizing their full vision that they had for that image, whatever that might be, to interpret their work in the way that they want us to interpret it. We always have a very personal relationship with the photographer in regards to what they’re visualizing. It can be very emotional.

MALLI: And it can just be personal taste. Especially if it involves the color red. The color red is the most difficult color to get exactly right. In other processes, you don’t have the same control as in dye transfer to get the exact shade of red that a photographer might want.

STRICHERZ: I will say this about dye transfer: you have an incredible amount of control while you’re making these prints.

KUPPER: I’ve spent time in the dark room. It’s not fun after a while getting things exactly right.

MALLI: You learn to not make mistakes. (laughs)

STRICHERZ: The first big project we did at the CVI in New York was Bruce Davidson’s Subway project. After that, we did some work for Irving Penn. We did quite a bit of work for the photographer Hiro, Evelyn Hofer, Arnold Newman, and Larry Burrows, who’s the greatest photographer of Vietnam. He died in a helicopter crash in Cambodia. We printed the Magnum retrospective in 1989. That was at the Palais de Tokyo in Paris at the International Center of Photography. We’ve worked for over sixty-five photographers. We did over a hundred images for Ernst Haas. Mitch Epstein – we did his project called Recreation. Mark Cohen, Graciela Iturbide, Zoe Leonard. We did a fair amount of work with Annie Leibovitz.

MALLI: Every photographer that we’ve worked with is a different artist with different preferences. It’s rewarding to be able to make a variety of different kinds of dye transfer prints. With Bruce Davidson’s Subway, his idea was to have it very intense, everything printed very dark, very saturated, very contrasting. And Zoe Leonard wanted everything to be very delicately printed with softer colors, except for the reds. Evelyn Hofer wanted a classical look to her work, very refined. It made it interesting over the years to do things a little differently for different photographers.

KUPPER: Do you have a personal favorite of William Eggleston’s?

STRICHERZ: I like the boy with the shopping cart.

 

William Eggleston
Memphis (supermarket boy with carts), 1965

 

KUPPER: That’s his first photograph in color.

MALLI: I like the girl on the grass with the brownie camera [“Untitled” c.1975]. I first saw a very small print of Green Shower [better known as “Memphis,” c.1971] when I was a teenager. I grew up in Connecticut, and I was visiting the Museum of Modern Art and I saw the photograph. That always made an impression on me. I had no clue at the time when I was 15 or 16 years old that someday I’d be printing that image.

KUPPER: The girl in the grass is amazing. Apparently she was zonked out on quaaludes in that image.

MALLI: I don’t think I knew that story until after we printed it. To me, there’s a quality of innocence in that. I don’t know if in today’s world, a young woman would be that open. I relate it to my own childhood of growing up in the country. We had a big field next door and we would go out there and lie on our backs, and look up at the sky, and have these long conversations. So, I view it as a more innocent picture. Someone being zonked out, it almost ruins it.

William Eggleston
Memphis, Tennessee (Marcia Hare), circa 1974

KUPPER: What do you think the future of color is in the digital age?

STRICHERZ: The problem with digital is there’s no veracity there. When you look at a classic photograph made with film you feel that it has captured something in the real world as it was. This is a picture of something from the real world that hasn’t been manipulated. Film photography definitely has a verisimilitude that is deeply embedded into the filmic process. Prior to digital, you didn’t have that many choices. You could have chromogenic type c print like Ektacolor, you could have a Cibachrome made, or you could have a dye transfer made, or maybe a Polaroid. Cibachrome was just too high contrast. It was fine for some people’s work like Cindy Sherman. The plastic base, a substrate, had a very high-gloss surface. It was extremely delicate and the type c chromogenic or Ektacolor print had a more muted tonal range. It was difficult to get a good blue sky and it didn’t have the same lustrous surface as a dye transfer. None of them could really compare to a dye transfer. One will notice a dye transfer side-by-side with a digital print right away. I think photography has changed. I don’t think that we look at photography in the same way that we did in the past.

The dye transfer print has an intrinsic value. It has substance. The paper is heavier than all the papers used for digital inkjet prints. When you pick it up, you can hold it like this. It’s an object of art.

 

Guy Stricherz and Irene Malli, circa 1994

 

Energy From The Underground: An Interview of Mikio Sakabe

Mikio Sakabe is a designer, a teacher, and an experimenter. He runs two labels, MIKIOSAKABE and the footwear brand grounds, creating style that comes to life from Tokyo to the world. He is also a mentor for young Japanese designers, founding MeSchool, a fashion school that provides the same education opportunities in Japan that have been historically limited to Europe.

 

interview by Abraham Chabon


In a cold, concrete garage, buried behind metal fences and dusty staircases dimly lit by glowing exit signs, a crowd gathered on thin benches. Gold and silver emergency blankets distributed upon entry caught and refracted the light from camera flashes and the fluorescent whites that beamed from above. With the shrieks of a piano and the hums of a deep bass, the grounds Fall/Winter 25-26 show began.

grounds is known for its avant-garde and vibrant designs. Shoe’s understated uppers burst into large, cloud-like soles — a rejection of expectations and mass-market footwear. Sakabe has said he wants to “defy gravity.” With grounds, this has two meanings: the inflated, bubbling soles let the wearer float above roads and floors, but in fashion, gravity is not only physical, gravity is the pull of trends, the temptation to do what’s expected. Sakabe resists this, breaking new ground.

Sakabe continues his experimentation with his latest collection by taking the brand in a new direction. Previously, grounds could be best described as playful, fantastical. But in that sub-level garage the collection was industrial, festering, wonderfully unconventional, and pushing the limits of footwear. Styled by Betsy Johnson, the models began to march down the runway. The shoes where violently oversized, rubber layered on rubber, shoe melting with shoe, the bulbous clouds signature to grounds’ designs erupted out from under thin socks. Cables hung off from shoes like bungie cords wrapped around luggage. Leg warmers scrunched onto sneakers, and padded high socks wrapped around legs like medieval armor. There where large rubber soles like the treads on a tank, and some toe boxes curled upwards like a jester's boots.

The clothes were just as unconventional. Flowing wide legs spilled onto shoes, shoulder pads jutted dramatically from coats. Leather gloves, stacked belts, and oversized sunglasses adorned models with matted hair. Everything was unusual, dark — a collision of industrial and organic — yet, true to Sakabe’s touch, remarkably fun.

I caught up with Sakabe after the show for an interview.

ABRAHAM CHABON: How do you continue to innovate and push boundaries in an industry that not only constantly changes, but changes so quickly?

MIKIO SAKABE: I never start with the design of the shoes or clothes, I think about what will be the next experience, what's the future of the human being, what can be different, what will become interesting, what will be humor in the future.

CHABON: Previously you experimented with 3D printed shoes and clothes. With this collection, you continue this DNA of experimentation with materials. What draws you to that?

SAKABE: For me, the process of design is experimentation, not only using the existing ways of the making. I want to be an experimenter. If we try new methods then we can make new types of shoes. 

 
 

CHABON: How is the process of designing footwear different from designing clothing? 

SAKABE: I try to put away that relationship. I think I am a little bit of an architect. An architect of fashion, both shoes and clothes.

CHABON: This collection is different from things you've done before. What were your motivations for moving in this direction? 

SAKABE: I want to be always changing. With this, I just wanted to make more. More movement, more power, energy from the underground. That was a new feeling I wanted to try. 

CHABON: How do you balance the things you are working on and continue to put your best effort into everything? 

SAKABE: Even busy people can be more busy. There is much more I want to be busy with. 

CHABON: You talk about learning from others, from Walter Van Bierendock to everyday people you see in the street, how do you find inspiration?

SAKABE: I'm inspired by everything, not only fashion, I am inspired by an ordinary day. 

 
 

CHABON: What role did Betsy Johnson play for you as a collaborator? 

SAKABE: So much, because she has a really different way to design. So, it was very exciting because I cannot be like her. I want surprises, I surprised her, and she would surprise me.

CHABON: At MeSchool you are a teacher and a mentor, do you think you have learned from your students as well?

SAKABE: Yes, so much. It is 50/50. I learn as much as I teach. Young people can show you new ways to look at things, they know the world differently, they can show you new ways to know fashion.

CHABON: Is there anything you want to talk about with this collection, things you want people to know? 

SAKABE: I don't want to tell things. I hope people feel something from it, and then they will know what it means.