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Surreal in content and celestial in color, Shuo Hao’s paintings feature strange hybrid creatures and often nod to ancient mythmaking.
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Fahler’s slouched “flag” is one of a number of recent stained glass sculptures on view in his solo exhibition at Sebastian Gladstone.
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Image courtesy of the Haggerty Museum of Art
Bryana Bibbs On Weaving Through Trauma, Grief, and Loss
October 27, 2025
ArtConversationsSocial Issues
Christopher Jobson
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Feelings of love, loss, and nostalgia are deeply interwoven in the practice of artist Bryana Bibbs. While caring for two simultaneously ailing grandparents in her Chicago home, Bibbs chronicled the periods before and after their deaths in weavings that incorporate objects from their lives. Just as one might pick up a pencil and paper to write through the difficult and overwhelming feelings of losing a loved one, she instead incorporated their clothing and beloved objects into her work, directly confronting the materials that once filled their days by interlacing them with threads and fabrics. Imbued with memories and the catharsis of making, these iterative works became the Journal Series.
We first contacted Bryana last year about an upcoming exhibition we were working on in Milwaukee that would explore issues surrounding mental health and, more broadly, the wellness of society. In one of our conversations about her work, she mentioned that “no one knows all it takes” to care for loved ones in their final days. The phrase instantly encapsulated our feelings about the show, and No One Knows All It Takes opened late this summer at the Haggerty Museum of Art.
I spoke again with Bibbs recently to discuss her practice and reflect on a series of exhibitions that have pulled her from Chicago to Milwaukee to Indianapolis.
This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Jobson: Very recently, you’ve been involved with three exhibitions. You had a solo show at the Chicago Cultural Center. You now have a significant amount of work in the show at the Haggerty Museum of Art, and you have work on view with the Lubeznik Center for the Arts. I’m curious, as you were juggling these or approaching these different exhibitions, are they related in some way? Are they separate? How have you approached each one as you’ve been working?
Bibbs: I think that they’re all related to one another because I feel like the work that I have in each show is very much about the aftermath of my grandparents passing away. The Cultural Center show is so much about the caregiving of my grandparents, and the recent work with the mobile gallery in Indiana, there are two Journal Series works that were from when I was teaching at the Haystack Mountain School of Crafts. That was such a special time for me because I never thought I would be teaching at such a historical and wonderful place. Being in that setting, all I did was think about my grandparents, and being around the water and reflecting was really helpful for me. And now the work at the Haggerty is basically just the continuation, to me, of the work that was in the Cultural Center.
Jobson: You’ve spoken a lot about grief and trauma and loss and how it’s present at this time in the majority of your work. Obviously, nobody seeks trauma or grief and loss. But, is there something more to it for you? Are grief and loss something that you are interested in, and that you may continue to explore, or is it more of this is a response to the circumstances of where you’ve found yourself?
My work has always been a response to what I’ve been going through in my life.Bryana Bibbs
Bibbs: I think it’s a little bit of both. When I returned to my arts practice in 2019 from working in retail for a long time, I wasn’t making work related to the loss of a loved one. I was making work about mental health and my experience of going through domestic abuse. My work has always been a response to what I’ve been going through in my life. Did I ever think my grandparents would pass away? No, that’s not anything you think about in your day-to-day life. You don’t sit back and go, “this person eventually is never going to be here.” But now that they’re gone, it has unfortunately kind of consumed my brain. Now I’m like, oh, my parents, my dad’s siblings, my cousins, it’s become a reality now. And so because of that, I am interested in grief and trauma and what that means for me and what it also means for other people.
The way that my mom grieved her parents was so different than the way that I grieved her parents. She kicked into the “only child mode” of having to figure things out and make sure that everything was taken care of when they passed. But for me, I was like, oh my God. We just went through this crazy, traumatic, wild roller coaster for the last two years. And so I was able to sit in my grief a little bit more versus my mom. Whereas now that she’s had a little bit of distance between my grandfather’s passing and my grandmother’s passing, it’s starting to hit her a little bit more. Now she’s realizing she went through so much. So yeah, it’s a little bit of both. It’s about documenting my life but also trying to figure out why I grieve and respond to trauma in the way that I do.
Image courtesy of the Haggerty Museum of Art
Jobson: What do you do outside of the artwork to create balance in your life? I wonder if, in your case, the work itself is the way that you’re trying to find balance?
Bibbs: Yeah, I think the work is the balance for me. When I was working on the Journal Series, especially during the time my mom and I were taking care of my grandparents, I found when I was not sleeping well, [or when I would be up] helping my grandfather get to the bathroom and all that, I would pull out and start working on a Journal Series piece. If he needed something, I would go upstairs and help him out, stay up here for a little bit until he was ready to go back to bed. My sleep pattern was so jacked up during that time, but I would just keep working on the series.
Jobson: Take us back a little bit to when you first started working with fiber. Was it an immediate attraction?
Bibbs: Fiber, for me, started in undergrad at SAIC. I went into undergrad wanting to do abstract painting specifically, and I didn’t have the best time in that department. When I was picking out my second-year classes, I saw Intro to Fiber was on the list, and my grandfather actually used to quilt with his mother and his grandmother, but he never taught me how to quilt.
It’s about documenting my life but also trying to figure out why I grieve and respond to trauma in the way that I do.Bryana Bibbs
Jobson: Your grandfather quilted. That just seems unusual to me?
Bibbs: It is, yeah! I remember we were in this house, in the room that’s now my studio space, and I asked him, “Did your sisters [quilt] with you?” He said yes, but he hadn’t done it in so long that he forgot the basics to everything.
In the Intro to Fiber class, that was one of the things they may have been able to teach us, but we didn’t learn that. We learned everything else, like how to knit and crochet. We did a little bit of embroidery, and then we got to floor loom weaving, and I thought I was going to hate it because there’s math involved. The assignment by our professor Jerry Bleem–who I love very much–was to do a 10-by-10-inch square. I remember that repetitive back-and-forth motion with the shuttle—something about it felt very different than painting. Painting feels very quick and sometimes abrupt, especially as an abstract painter.
Weaving slowed me down in ways that were necessary for me at that time in my life. So I just stuck with it and took probably all of the classes that Jerry taught. I took his Intro to Weaving class, and then his twist class, which teaches you how to apply yarns and spin yarns and all this other stuff. I think that slow processes of weaving and fiber in general clicked for me in some way.
Image courtesy of the Haggerty Museum of Art
Jobson: Can you tell us about the We Were Never Alone Project?
Bibbs: That started in 2020. I’m a survivor of domestic violence myself, unfortunately, and I started it right after a few really successful weaving workshops that happened in public settings and institutions. I felt comfortable and confident enough that I would be able to facilitate my own weaving workshops. The first one was at Compound Yellow in Oak Park. It was me and five or six other women. Although I didn’t know who the other participants were prior to doing the workshop, I wanted to create a free, open, weaving workshop where people could get together, and, if they felt comfortable enough, talk about their experiences.
After hearing how beneficial it was for those attendees, I decided to keep the workshops going, though I haven’t done one since early 2024 because I want to be mentally available for people. [Because of] everything that happened with my grandparents–and recently my dad went through a stroke–I needed to take a moment to reevaluate and find a space that aligns with the project to continue to host those workshops.
Jobson: Are the workshops instructional? Or does everyone come together and use it as a work, therapy, and sharing period?
Bibbs: The workshops are about two and a half to three hours long. I tell people why I started the project, my own personal experience, and remind them that they don’t have to share their experience if they don’t want to. They just need to be here and be present in the space with other people who are going through the same thing. I recognize there’s a lot of anxiety and maybe even a little bit of fear. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that, even though they signed up, they weren’t sure if they would come. Some people feel like their experience is not good enough or might be less than other people, which is really hard to hear. So sometimes we sit together and talk about things not related to our experiences. Sometimes we do talk about our experiences, and people ping off of one another and say, “That happened to me, too,” or “Something very similar happened to me.” All of these conversations are happening while they’re weaving.
The majority of the people who participate are first-time weavers. After I share my experience, I’ll demonstrate with a cardboard loom and explain the materials and how to plain weave. Some people bring found objects and materials that are significant to them, and while they’re weaving, they’re still actively listening to each other, not necessarily staring people in the face, but focused on working. Then they might pause and respond to whatever a person just said, which I think is really lovely.
Jobson: I was thinking about the act of making while working through trauma or working through whatever issues somebody might bring. Do you think it offers a sense of safety or a sense of comfort, or what do you think the weaving adds to that moment?
Bibbs: I think it’s the comfort. It goes back to why I enjoy weaving so much: the repetitive nature. You’re doing things with your hands. You’re responding to color in a different way and material in a different way, and it’s tactile. All of those things can be very comfortable for people, and I think it’s what makes the environment successful for people to share and respond.
Image courtesy of the Haggerty Museum of Art
Jobson: A newer aspect of your work is printmaking—specifically, pressure printing—which made an appearance at both the Haggerty Museum and the Chicago Cultural Center. Can you talk about the relationship or the juxtaposition of showing these two mediums together?
Bibbs: Yes, printmaking is super new. A friend of mine who lives in Milwaukee, Linda Marcus, inspired me to visit an open studio at Anchor Press, Paper and Print. At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to print. She suggested printing with my own weavings. But, for whatever reason, I thought about printing with my grandfather’s clothing even though I didn’t know if that was possible or not. I visited AP3 with Linda a few weeks before my grandmother passed away. I really enjoyed printmaking, though I had no idea what I was doing, but I enjoyed the idea of taking their clothing and archiving it before me and my mom decided what to do with their belongings. When a loved one passes away, people either give their clothes to friends or family or just donate them. I just want to go through as many of their clothes and try to archive them before that happens.
Another thing that I really enjoy about it—and very much feels like it relates to my work—is this idea of materiality. I love material. I love working with found objects, and so the fact that I can make prints and give the viewer an idea of what the whole object was before I cut it up or do something with it feels very new and exciting to me.
Jobson: When you’re working, do certain fibers or colors or textures carry symbolic weight when you’re thinking about memory or absence and that sort of thing?
Bibbs: I spent a lot of time in my grandparents’ house as a kid, while my parents were working full-time jobs. I was here in the morning and after school, Monday through Friday, and spent a great deal of time in a living room painted “Priscilla pink.” The pink has become this iconic color in our family. I wouldn’t get rid of it anytime soon.
You mentioned loss and absence—in my recent work that’s going to be in a show at the Indianapolis Art Center, I’ve been thinking about white and blacks and grays, and that has a lot to do with absence and loss. The texture that I tend toward in my large-scale works is an over-spun, coily, twisted texture. It feels very comfortable to me; there’s something very tactile and fluffy in a way I really enjoy. It also references when I was a painter and used thick body mediums and acrylic modeling paste. I loved using all those different forms in painting.
“Priscilla Made.” Photo by Tonal Simmons, courtesy of the Chicago Cultural Center
Jobson: Specifically with your weavings, is there an internal logic that you use when thinking about scale? A lot of the journal pieces are very small and page-like, but then you also make very large pieces. How do you treat scale when you’re conceiving a piece?
Bibbs: My most recent show [at the Chicago Cultural Center] is the first time I really thought about architecture. “Priscilla Made” references the seven front room windows of [my grandparents’] house. My piece titled “December182023 & August252024” references the doors to the bedrooms where my grandparents passed. Using those doors as a reference made a lot of sense to me and what I should do with the scale.
In more recent work, if I’m thinking about a certain story that I want to tell through colors and textures and forms, for whatever reason, I lean towards a 5 and a half to a maybe 7-foot piece. It still feels intimate like the Journal Series pieces do. But they can also feel slightly monumental, and the closer you get to it, there are all these textures, colors, and blends that viewers are sometimes attracted to when they view the pieces. I don’t know that I’ll necessarily get bigger. I like that kind of in-between.
Jobson: My favorite part of your current work is the fearlessness in incorporating found objects into your weaving–everything from a deck of cards, Disney ephemera, and things discarded in drawers. It seems like you can weave with anything. How do you pick what’s going into a work? And do you find it difficult to incorporate these things?
Bibbs: The objects I have used so far are from my grandparents. They’re discarded in drawers or cabinets and things like that, and they’re objects that I’ve forgotten about that maybe I used a lot as a kid, a little bit as a teenager, but haven’t used since. The deck of cards, for example, was so significant to me and our family history that it made sense to weave with. The same thing with the basement tile piece that’s in the Haggerty show. Not everyone thinks, “I can weave with a basement tile,” but it just made sense for me to use these materials as a way to mark time. [I want to] highlight my grandparents and their legacy and their story, and preserve their memory and my memories with them.
Even now, my uncle and two cousins sent me and my mom this beautiful bouquet of flowers marking a year since my grandmother passed away. I’m looking at them now, and they’re beautifully dried up. And, of course, I’m going to save them and weave with them, because it’s sad for me to see dried flowers and realize it’s been well over a year since she’s passed away. The Disney World stuff I used in the Journal Series, a lot of people have shared stories related to those weavings. I’ve heard “Oh, we’ve taken so many family vacations,” or, “Oh yeah, our family would take Disney trips,” and things like that. And I’m always finding new belongings. Actually, this morning, I found a bag of letters that my grandparents sent back and forth to each other in the 1950s.
Photo by Tonal Simmons, courtesy of the Chicago Cultural Center
Jobson: Are these … spicy letters?
Bibbs: I think so! But, I’m not going to read them (laughs). I feel like that’s between them. I read only one of them. My grandmother was sick, and my grandfather said he hoped that she felt better. That’s as much as I need to know because my grandparents were very classy and private people. I always joke with my mom about how my grandmother could have been the queen because of how well she represented herself. And although I’m not going to read all of the letters, I keep thinking I need to do something with them because they feel so important to me.
Jobson: One last question, what do you have coming up next?
Bibbs: I have a show at the Indianapolis Art Center that closes December 14. Next, I’ll be doing a family day on November 8 with the Smart Museum for Theaster Gates’ Unto Thee exhibition, which I’m really excited about. And the following weekend, on November 15, I will be facilitating a weaving program for the Haggerty’s Wellness Retreat.
Find more from Bibbs on her website and Instagram.
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‘Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now?’ installation
view (2025). All images courtesy of the artist and the John Michael Kohler Arts Center, shared with permission
Detroit’s Heidelberg Project in Wisconsin? Tyree Guyton Transports His Magic
September 29, 2025
Art
Grace Ebert
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If you were to have visited the 3600 Block of Heidelberg Street in Detroit around 1986, you would have likely encountered a young artist beginning the project of a lifetime. Found object assemblages and painted patterns were quickly transforming a neighborhood that had experienced mass disinvestment, turning grassy lots and abandoned homes into an enclave of creativity.
Soon, an immersive, vernacular art environment emerged and was at once an amalgamation of everyday materials and what seemed to be a mystical translation from another realm. The creator behind the sprawling installation—which continues today—is artist Tyree Guyton, who dubbed what would become his most famous work in his home neighborhood of McDougall Hunt, The Heidelberg Project.
Site view of ‘The Heidelberg Project’ (1986–ongoing)
Spanning nearly four decades and several blocks, the ever-evolving environment has become a destination for tourists and locals alike as Guyton’s spiritual philosophies reach every inch of the property. There’s the iconic polka-dot house, another covered in long paintings of shoes, a collection of portraits on car hoods, and countless sculptures and assemblages that seem to take on a life of their own. Because the works are exposed to the elements, maintenance and upcycling occur regularly at the project, as the artist adds to an existing piece or transforms materials anew.
Several of Guyton’s standalone works are on view at the John Michael Kohler Arts Center in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. A large-scale presentation of the artist’s decades-long outdoor and studio projects, Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now? is rooted in what the museum describes as “the study of discarded material incorporated into the fabric and structure of a community and the effects on the community.”
Guyton, on the other hand, is much more abstract, offering the following in a phone conversation from Detroit. “That’s what this show is about, magic. Two plus two equals eight, Heidelbergology…There are people there that have not been here, and I came there to give them a reason to come. It’s an invitation.”
While exhibiting in a traditional white-cube gallery space, Guyton brings his community focus to Sheboygan. He invited locals to paint his beloved polka dots on the walls, providing a vivid and expressive backdrop for his expansive works. Looming in the entrance is Guyton’s version of Noah’s Ark, composed of crowd-sourced stuffed animals and children’s toys piled high atop a painted fishing boat.
“Auto World” (1998), mixed media and paint
Guyton makes an explicit connection to the divine—and Yahweh, in particular—throughout the exhibition and his work, more broadly. He considers The Heidelberg Project to be both a mirror to society and also a conduit to a higher power, one whose messages he translates and shares with anyone who might encounter the work.
“What I see happening in the world? I put it on those TV sets, put it in a museum, turn it into works of art, to give it back to the public and to say to them, look at what’s happening,” he says. “Like, can we see it? I see it through me.”
The exhibition also nods to the artist’s own history and his grandfather, Sam Mackey, who first introduced Guyton to art as a child. A collection of Mackey’s drawings made at the end of his life is suspended in a house-shaped structure at the center of the museum. These familial works aren’t typically on view in Detroit and offer special, often-unseen insight into the artist’s background.
As Guyton and the project’s team prepare for the future, they intend to transfer The Heidelberg Project to the community, who they hope will steward the enormous effort and further invest in the neighborhood. “I’m here to do something that when I die, it’s going to live on,” the artist says. “I believe that what I have done here is so philosophical, it’s teaching me, and I love making mistakes.”
Site view of ‘The Heidelberg Project’ (1986–ongoing)
While hoping to secure support for the project, Guyton isn’t precious about his work and easily embraces change. When the exhibition in Sheboygan wraps, for example, the sculptures and paintings that have been so meticulously cared for in a museum setting will be returned outdoors, although they might find themselves in a new spot if the artist filled the previous location with something new.
In this way, The Heidelberg Project is always in motion, presenting new messages for Guyton to learn and share through a graffiti-covered television set or a collaged work on panel. When asked how he feels a piece is complete, he answers clearly: “My work is finished when I’m dead.”
See Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now? through February 15, 2026. And while you’re in the area, be sure to check out the truly impeccable environments at the Art Preserve just a few miles away. You can find more about the project on the website and Instagram.
‘Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now?’ installation view (2025)
‘Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now?’ installation view (2025)
‘Heidelbergology: Is It Art Now?’ installation view (2025)
Site view of ‘The Heidelberg Project’ (1986–ongoing)
Site view of ‘The Heidelberg Project’ (1986–ongoing)
Site view of ‘The Heidelberg Project’ (1986–ongoing)
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Misato Sano, “なるほど！ / Oh, I see!” (2025), camphor wood and oil paint
‘Companions’ Celebrates Our Animal Friends and Colleagues
September 22, 2025
ArtPartner
Joy Machine
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“Play between humans and pets, as well as simply spending time peaceably hanging out together, brings joy to all the participants. Surely that is one important meaning of companion species.” –Donna Haraway, ‘Companion Species Manifesto‘
Companions is a group exhibition celebrating our closest animal friends and colleagues. Featuring works across media by Lola Dupre, Debra Broz, Roberto Benavidez, Misato Sano, William Mophos, and Nicolas V. Sanchez, this show revels in the ways we share our lives with non-human species.
Debra Broz, “Horse Boxer” and “Boxer Horse” (2025), secondhand ceramic figurines and mixed media
Each artist translates their furry and feathered subjects in a distinctively human way: Dupre and Broz distort any realistic likeness in favor of surreal, exaggerated amalgamations, while Benavidez translates a small kitten into the celebratory form of a piñata. Sano similarly gouges small pieces of camphor wood to carve a range of expressive pups, which she then paints in oils.
Although their renderings take a more realistic approach, Sanchez and Mophos utilize substrates embedded within human life, the former gravitating toward the blank pages of a sketchbook and the latter scouring the streets of São Paulo for architectural remnants that become small jagged canvases.
In this way, these artists present companionship as a bridge between nature and culture. They see their companions as being both of their own making–in that any relationship is influenced and created by both parties– and as independent beings with big personalities all their own.
Companions opens on September 27, 2025. RSVP to our opening reception from 6 to 8 p.m. on Saturday.
Roberto Benavidez, “Medieval Kitten” (2025), paper, paperboard, wire, glue, crepe paper, fallen cat whiskers, 5.5 x 6 x 3 inches
Lola Dupre, “Geordi” (2025), paper collage, 12 x 16 inches
William Mophos, “Tom Tom” (2025), acrylic painting on wall fragments in an acrylic frame with cement board backing, 16.6 x 21 x 7.5 centimeters
Nicolas V. Sanchez, “Mariana with lambs” (2018), color ballpoint pen on paper, 5.5 x 10.5 inches
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“LoFi Girl” (2024). All images courtesy of the artist, shared with permission
Stéphanie Kilgast’s Book ‘Utopia’ Chronicles Ten Years of Vibrant, Post-Apocalyptic Sculptures
September 22, 2025
ArtBooksNature
Kate Mothes
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In Stéphanie Kilgast’s vibrant yet poignant pieces, a speculative future without humans gives rise to unusual relationships. “In my artwork, humanity is absent, leaving behind its legacy of objects, buildings, and trash,” the artist says. She continues:
Flora and fauna are taking over. Animals, mushrooms, lichens, plants, and corals are inhabiting every nook and cranny, thus creating new habitats. This symbiosis between the object and the growing environment reflects the balance and respect that humanity has lost, and that I symbolically recreate in my work by expressing hope, joy, and the beauty of nature in an explosion of color.
Kilgast’s lighthearted, vivd, post-apocalytpic sculptures often include objects we tend to find discarded along the side of the road, like aluminum cans or glass bottles. Uncanny habitats also emerge around outmoded items like VHS tapes, portable CD players, or alarm clocks, which people rarely have a need for anymore thanks to smartphones or streaming services.
“Cycle” (2025)
The artist has also recently announced a new book, Utopia, which chronicles the last ten years of her work. The volume brings together a decade of sculptures, paintings, and sketchbook pages, complemented by essays and a complete catalogue of her pieces.
Utopia will print if at least 150 pre-orders are made by October 3. Dibs your copy today via Dashbook. Orders are anticipated to ship in December. Explore more on the artist’s website and Instagram.
Front view of “Plastic Play” (2022)
“Alice Following the White Rabbit” (2023)
“Chemical Candy Dragonfly” (2024)
“Snapshot” (2024)
“Moving Pictures” (2024)
“Copper” (2024)
Rear view of “Plastic Play” (2022)
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“A Quarter” (2021-2024), interactive installation of steel, mirrors, collected daily objects and furniture from different
households, lighting fixtures, small stools, and carpets. All images © Song Dong, shared with permission
Song Dong’s Monumental Installations Mirror Memories, Globalization, and Impermanence
September 5, 2025
Art
Kate Mothes
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Mirrors, lights, and household furnishings converge on a grand scale in the luminous installations of Song Dong. The Chinese artist’s interdisciplinary practice often combines performance, sculpture, painting, video, and calligraphy to summon memories and create monumental immersive experiences.
Themes of transition and ephemerality often appear in Song’s pieces, like a series of installations and performances in which tabletop constructions reminiscent of metropolitan skylines were constructed from edible treats, dismantled brick by brick—or biscuit by biscuit—as visitors passed by. Playful and saccharine on the surface, these works examine the artist’s own childhood experiences of food scarcity along with themes of ephemerality and globalization.
“Waste Not” (2009), installation performance, Museum of Modern Art, New York
“Waste Not” —which was shown initially at Beijing Tokyo Art Projects before being exhibited in major institutions in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Germany—explores related themes of consumption and impermanence. Incorporating more than 10,000 items his mother had accumulated over the course of five decades, the installation-performance became “an act of physical and psychological unpacking,” says Pace Gallery, which represents the artist. Viewers were presented with “a veritable landscape of commodities, ranging from bottle caps, shoes, blankets, toothpaste tubes, metal pots, and toys.”
Through the use of old wooden windows, bed frames, doors, mirrors, lamps, color-coated glass, porcelain, and other found objects and “daily necessities,” Song composes elaborate, structural installations. These evoke dreamy notions of home, belonging, security, and migration while exploring the relationships between memory and fact, humor and trauma. He culls his materials from the streets of Beijing, sourcing discarded furniture, architectural elements, and quotidian objects.
“These collaged remnants of people’s homes carry with them the history of a city and the lives of its people,” Pace says. “As viewers are invited to peek inside, they are transformed into voyeurs: imagining their homes, their stories, and perhaps identifying shared experiences, and primed to think of the future.”
Now on view as part of the vibrant 36th São Paolo Biennial, Song’s work appears among ambitious installations by dozens of artists from around the world. His commissioned piece “Borrow Light” takes the form of a mirrored world brimming with lamps that reflect from every surface, not unlike one of Yayoi Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms.
“Borrow Light” (2025). Installation view of the 36th Bienal de São Paulo, ‘Not All Travellers Walk Roads – Of Humanity as Practice’ © Levi Fanan / Fundação Bienal de São Paulo
The artist considers the concept of “borrowing” in terms of its inherent temporality. He positions it as something of an ethos for understanding our short time on Earth, whether life’s cycles or even the presence of humans at all over the course of millions of evolutionary years.
Song draws inspiration “from both a carnival’s house of mirrors and the traditional Chinese feng shui method of using mirrors and windows to expand interior space by ushering in the external world,” says an exhibition statement. “Borrow Light” becomes a participatory experience, where visitors’ movements are reflected and illuminated throughout the space. Chairs and lamps, all lent from private homes, provide places for rest and contemplation.
“Playing with fluid elements such as light, reflection, and illusion, Song’s installation immerses the audience into an infinite universe, where our images and minds become entwined in a silvery, glowing light,” the biennial says.
Explore more exhibitions and learn about the artist on Pace Gallery’s website.
Detail of “Same Bed Different Dreams No. 3.” Photo by Damian Griffiths, courtesy of Pace Gallery
Detail of “Same Bed Different Dreams No. 3.” Photo by Damian Griffiths, courtesy of Pace Gallery
“Borrow Light” (2025). Installation view of the 36th Bienal de São Paulo, ‘Not All Travellers Walk Roads – Of Humanity as Practice’ © Levi Fanan / Fundação Bienal de São Paulo
“Borrow Light” (2025). Installation view of the 36th Bienal de São Paulo, ‘Not All Travellers Walk Roads – Of Humanity as Practice’ © Levi Fanan / Fundação Bienal de São Paulo
Detail of “Same Bed Different Dreams No. 3.” Photo by Damian Griffiths, courtesy of Pace Gallery
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Installation view of ‘Yuji Agematsu: 2023-2024’ (May 10 to August 30, 2025), 101 Spring Street,
Judd Foundation, New York. Photo by Timothy Doyon, © Judd Foundation. Art © Yuji
Agematsu. All images shared with permission
Yuji Agematsu Arranges Street Debris into Tiny Daily Sculptures
August 26, 2025
Art
Grace Ebert
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Each day, Yuji Agematsu takes a walk for the explicit purpose of scouring the streets. The dried leaf, lost toy, and even the wad of gum discarded on a park bench are his treasures, which he retrieves and places in the clear cellophane that wraps a pack of cigarettes. Although Agematsu no longer smokes, this habit of wandering and collecting has been harder to break: he’s been committed to it since 1996.
Once tucked inside the thin envelope, the artist’s findings become an homage to the beauty of the mundane. He arranges trash and other findings almost like ikebana, using a glass shard or cracked stick to find balance and harmony. Objects others would barely notice are materials that represent the human condition and contemporary concerns. In Agematsu’s eyes, they reveal a whole host of insights about our individual and collective lives.
“Zip: 11.22.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
Judd Foundation presents two years’ worth of Agematsu’s sculptures in the aptly titled 2023–2024, an exhibition presented at 101 Spring Street in SoHo and Gavin Brown’s home on Lenox Avenue in Harlem. The Spring Street space is the former home and workspace of Donald Judd, a building Agematsu managed for two decades.
Presented chronologically, each piece is cleverly positioned on a white, aluminum shelf to resemble a monthly calendar. Given the artist’s decades-long dedication, the ongoing project has offered several revelations. As Agematsu told The New York Times earlier this year:
Found objects have more power. We can see so many varieties of how to change the shape and color. Weather makes change. Also human ego. Because of the chewing gum, I notice that laughing chewing gum, angry chewing gum, are all different. We make a different shape from a different mood.
While the “zips,” as the artist refers to them, are small—about 3.5 x 2.5 x 2 inches—they have the ability to capture conditions so much bigger than any one person. For example, a rainy spring day might leave a layer of mud and condensation pooling at the bottom of the plastic, while wrappers for particular kinds of candy might indicate the cultural makeup of a neighborhood.
“Zip: 3.14.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
In this way, the pieces are also a visual diary of what humans control and don’t, and how the innumerable forces impacting our lives appear in even the tiniest remnants.
2023-2024 is on view through August 30.
“Zip: 10.25.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
“Zip: 11.10.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
“Zip: 4.19.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
“Zip: 4.3.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
“Zip: 12.7.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
Installation view of ‘Yuji Agematsu: 2023-2024’ (May 10 to August 30, 2025), 101 Spring Street,Judd Foundation, New York. Photo by Timothy Doyon, © Judd Foundation. Art © YujiAgematsu
“Zip: 11.16.24” (detail), mixed media in cigarette pack cellophane wrapper, approximately 2 1/4 x 2 1/8 x 3/4 inches. Photo by Reggie Shiobara, © Yuji Agematsu
Installation view of ‘Yuji Agematsu: 2023-2024’ (May 10 to August 30, 2025), 101 Spring Street,Judd Foundation, New York. Photo by Timothy Doyon, © Judd Foundation. Art © YujiAgematsu
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“Aguas De Libertad” (2012), graphite on wood, cardboard, pastel, 36 x 24 inches. All images courtesy of Adrián Viajero Román, shared with permission
Found Objects Hold Puerto Rican Lineage in Adrián Viajero Román’s Layered Portraits
August 13, 2025
Art
Grace Ebert
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“The objects I use often serve as memory keepers,” says Adrián Viajero Román. “Sometimes they find me—objects with history, decay, or presence—and I build a piece around them. Other times, I begin with a story I want to tell and seek materials that can hold that narrative.”
Román finds an intuitive balance between object and idea, allowing each to influence the other as he melds two-dimensional portraiture with three-dimensional forms like wooden frames, religious iconography, frayed chicken wire, and even an empty can of Goya black beans. These found—and seemingly mundane—items hold stories that reflect the artist’s ongoing interests: memory, migration, and the genealogies we can trace through the objects that accompany us or that we leave behind.
“Picking Up The Pieces” (2018), portrait of Maria Kerialys Aldea de Jesus of Las Piedras, Puerto Rico, graphite on wood, terry cloth, plastic bottles, newspaper, 24 x 18 inches
Based between Brooklyn, New Jersey, and Puerto Rico, Román frequently reflects on the experience of the Puerto Rican diaspora and the bifurcated way of living that can emerge when people leave their homelands. He’s deeply interested in the correlations between belonging and displacement and how preserving the past is essential to telling honest stories about ourselves and communities.
The artist’s works often feature children, who appear as both innocent and supremely knowing. Staring at the viewer with serious eyes, these youthful protagonists might be steadfastly engaged in a game or otherwise posed in a way that suggests impermanence. The child in “Picking Up The Pieces,” for example, grasps a white terrycloth towel in her pudgy hand while sitting atop crunched plastic bottles, a precarious seat that will only hold for so long. Román shares:
The children become physical, dimensional presences, symbols of possibility and resilience that inhabit our space as reminders of hope and imagination… I often depict children because they carry both the innocence of potential and the clarity of truth. In these works, the children aren’t passive. They’re dreaming, resisting, surviving. They become living monuments, carrying the weight of history while pointing us toward the future.
In his solo exhibition titled Archivos Vivos at The National Puerto Rican Museum in Chicago, the artist presents his mixed-media sculptures and installations as a sort of journey through Puerto Rican identity. As its name suggests, archival imagery and objects appear frequently to illustrate the various influences on this collective experience.
“Niño Santo” (2011), graphite and charcoal on wood, window frame, wire, rope, iron claw foot
As part of this exhibition, Román facilitated a pair of workshops that invited community members to reflect on their own experiences and encounters with Immigration and Customs Enforcement and then create either a paper airplane or boat. Participants also responded to a more profound, enduring question: “What does citizenship mean—especially for Puerto Ricans, whose U.S. citizenship was imposed, not chosen?”
“This workshop came at a time of heightened urgency,” Román says, noting that just days before the gatherings, federal agents visited the museum unannounced. “It was a chilling reminder that our communities are still being surveilled, targeted, and threatened. This is why we must keep telling our stories—why we gather in these spaces to remember, create, and resist.”
Archivos Vivos is on view through January 17, 2026. A new installation in his Caja De Memoria Viva series will open this October at the National Portrait Gallery, with a replica to follow for Puro Ritmo at the Smithsonian Latino American Museum in April. Until then, keep up with the artist’s work on his website and Instagram.
“Mi Caridad” (2010), charcoal and graphite on wood, vintage objects (trunk, photos, toys, washboard, and books), 24 x 36 x 24 inches
“Caja De Memoria Viva II, Sobrevivientes: Digna Quiles” (2018), charcoal on wood, 48 x 49 x 48 inches
Interior detail of “Caja De Memoria Viva II, Sobrevivientes: Digna Quiles” (2018), charcoal on wood, 48 x 49 x 48 inches
“Si Yo Sueño,” graphite on wood, vintage suitcase, wood frame, book, twine, wood toy, 17 x 29 x 6 inches
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