On View

It’s not hyperbole to say that Michael Heizer’s City is a work of art unlike any other. 
Five ​​decades in the making, the Land Art pioneer’s magnum opus stretches out like an abandoned alien complex in the desolate Nevada desert, a crop circle without the crops—which some Google Earth users are sure to mistake it for, given that Area-51 is just one valley over. 
Groomed gravel paths give way to towering concrete shapes and massive mounds of earth. So primal and powerful are Heizer’s forms that they recall ancient structures—temples, pyramids, henges—more than they do modern industrial ones. The whole thing runs a mile and a half long and half a mile wide, making it among the largest artworks in the world—though few actually know where it is. Even fewer have seen it in person.  
“There’s no one else in the modern era that has taken on a project of this magnitude and then stuck with it,” said Emily Wei Rales, director of the Glenstone museum and a longtime supporter of Heizer.
Rales recently joined the board of the Triple Aught Foundation, a nonprofit formed 25 years ago to oversee City. “I would say the length of time and the amount of labor and resources that he’s poured into this—it’s on a scale of something people would do in medieval times.”
With City’s singularity comes a challenge: How do we begin to understand the achievement of this artwork? The years of anticipation, the artist’s unconstrained ambition, and the scale of its footprint make it big in every sense of the word—but is it also a big deal? In terms of art history, how will it be remembered?
Michael Heizer, City (1970 –2022). © Michael Heizer. Courtesy of the Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Eric Piasecki.
For the first time, we have a chance to answer that question. After 52 years of work, City is finally open to the public. 
And yet, in typical Heizer fashion, it remains almost as difficult to see. Just one group of six people is allowed to see the artwork per day. Reservations are required, and mostly spoken for (viewings are booked through the rest of this year). 
Those who have scored a viewing will be directed first to the tiny town of Alamo, Nevada—about 90 miles north of Las Vegas—and to the office of the Triple Aught Foundation. From there, a staff member will drive guests three hours—the last of which takes place entirely on bumpy dirt roads—to Heizer’s masterpiece. 
Those who have seen City don’t seem to regret the arduousness of the journey to get there. “There is no other sculpture, no other architecture, no other kind of art experience I’ve had that is like it,” said Kara Vander Weg, a director at Gagosian and a Triple Aught board member since 2018. 
Vander Weg knows City better than almost anyone, having spent five months at Heizer’s nearby ranch during the pandemic. She’s walked along the artwork, run around it, driven through it. “You don’t see the City project until you’re in the City project,” she said. “That’s one of the genius ways in which Michael has designed it.”
Comparisons have been made to other Land Art masterpieces, Vander Weg pointed out—works of art that, because of their size and destination status, have garnered a kind of metonymic relationship to their creators: Walter De Maria’s The Lightning Field (1977), Robert Smithson’s Spiral Jetty (1970), Nancy Holt’s Sun Tunnels (1973-76), James Turrell’s Roden Crater. 
“Each of [those] is a great artwork in and of its own, but this is different,” she said. 
Michael Heizer, 2015. Photo: Jesse Dittmar for The Washington Post via Getty Images.
Heizer began City way back in 1970, and has been chipping away at it—often literally—ever since. A mythology grew around the project and its creator, this dogmatic cowboy who, decades ago, decamped to the remote Great Basin to devote himself to his life’s work. Though he continued to make other forms of art, his presence in the art world all but evaporated, save for the occasional interview, for which he would offer anachronistic—and sometimes slightly offensive—statements that made him sound like a man who never left the 20th century.
“A decaffeinated, used-up, once-was quick-draw cowboy, a sissy boy who eats at Balthazar for lunch,” is how Heizer described himself in a 2016 New Yorker profile, lamenting the loss of his younger self’s id. “Chemical castration—doesn’t happen all at once,” he said. “It’s slow. You just wake up one day and you’re dickless.”
In a way, Heizer is living in another time. “Just imagine somebody who is just essentially working without any deep relationship to peers,” said Julian Myers-Szupinska a Land Art scholar who has written about Heizer on several occasions. “If he’s bouncing off of anything, it’s weird bunkers and architectural forms of that region, or it’s the archeological record of massive indigenous community-constructed architectures.” 
“Where you fit that into the contemporary I don’t know,” Myers-Szupinska continued. “I don’t think it does fit into the contemporary. And I don’t think he aims for it to. The scale on which this project is aimed is the long term. He wants it to be there in 500 years.”
“My good friend Richard Serra is building out of military-grade steel,” Heizer said in that same New Yorker piece. “That stuff will all get melted down. Why do I think that? Incans, Olmecs, Aztecs—their finest works of art were all pillaged, razed, broken apart, and their gold was melted down.”
“When they come out here to fuck my City sculpture up, they’ll realize it takes more energy to wreck it than it’s worth.”
Michael Heizer, City (1970 –2022). © Michael Heizer. Courtesy of the Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Eric Piasecki.
In 2022, erecting an artwork with the intention of it lasting hundreds of years feels almost comically ambitious. When Heizer began City, on the other hand, a sense of wonder and mythos remained in the American West—a vestigial glimmer of “manifest destiny.” Today, the once-sprawling landscape lives under permanent threat—of fracking, strip mining, or other forms of fossil fuel extraction; of corporate development or environmental calamity. What once felt abundant now feels precarious.
City itself has been embroiled in a political fight for years. A railroad for transporting nuclear waste to Yucca Mountain once threatened to disrupt the land surrounding Heizer’s artwork before longtime Nevada Senator Harry Reid urged then President Obama to declare the region a National Monument in 2015. (Two years later, President Trump considered undoing Obama’s executive order, which would have re-opened the land for development.)
Similarly, the size of City is sure to induce eye rolls from those who interpret Heizer’s project as an ego-driven exercise in artistic man-spreading. Couple that with the fact that City cost $40 million to build and it’s tempting to wonder whether it merited such vast resources.
But Myers-Szupinska warns against that line of thinking. The scholar points to the “scrawl of Las Vegas and the effort of the Hoover Dam and Lake Mead, the militarization of the [land], and all that generates the modernized American West. The scale of the earthwork that is Nevada is mind-boggling.”
“The relative scale of what Heizer’s doing, it’s just puny by comparison,” Myers-Szupinska went on. “There are all kinds of massive things that get constructed that cost more than this. So why is an aesthetic purpose any less valid?”
“Measurements are one way our culture tries to talk about artworks—the time, the size, the remoteness, the distance from a place,” added Vander Weg. “Those are measurements, but they are not the summary of this artwork.”
“Complex One,” City. © Michael Heizer/ Triple Aught Foundation. Courtesy of the artist and Triple Aught Foundation. Photo: Mary Converse.
William L. Fox, the founding director of the Center for Art and Environment at the Nevada Museum of Art, compared the experience of City to a kind of meditation. “When you are down inside it, it’s not that you can’t see the mountains. It’s just the mountains mentally disappear,” he said. “Everything arises around you and you’re powerfully enfolded.”
Fox wrote about Heizer in two books published in the early 2000s: Mapping the Empty, about artists and Nevada, and The Void, The Grid, and The Sign, about the Great Basin. Fox was close with Heizer then, spending time at his ranch and seeing City take shape. But the two men fell out shortly thereafter, partly because the artist despised what Fox had written about his creations.   
In 2019, Fox published a career-spanning—and occasionally critical—book about Heizer, who he has called a “highly problematic character.”
But when asked about his thoughts on City, Fox had no trouble putting his complicated relationship with the artist aside. “When Heizer’s at his very best, you experience reverence and awe,” Fox said. “That’s what he wants you to experience inside [City] and you do.”
“People are just dying to see it. And it’s going to wow them,” he said. “It’s not compromised in any way.”
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Earlier this week, David LaChapelle was giving a preview tour of his new exhibition to a small press cadre. He passed a wall of iconic big-budget glamour images that hung in chic cobalt-painted frames. The vamping models in heavy makeup were out-of-step with today’s post-2020 fashion landscape—and apparently with the photographer himself.
“Those are just fashion images they don’t mean anything,” he said, dismissively waving his hand, and without pausing lead the group to the next room.
Eminem: About to Blow (1999, New York), a detail from LaChapelle’s Vox Populi wheatpaste poster installation. Photo: ©David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
LaChapelle is best known as a celebrity photographer nonpareil. His shoots are high-concept (and high-budget) with lurid colors that pop like Skittles. The retrospective “Make Believe,” which opens today at Fotografiska New York, is a reminder that there is much more to LaChapelle than his Hollywood forays, and that he is in fact, a lot more interesting when he veers away from the glitz.
Yes, there are cameos by Madonna, Lizzo, and Tupac in the show. But the exhibition utilizes the minimum of his vast celebrity fodder in the more than 150 works spread across Fotografiska’s five floors. It is the artist’s first solo New York museum outing and his largest-ever exhibition, and showcases work from 1984–2022.
Good News for Modern Man II (1984, New York). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
The show makes the argument that there is a vast difference between a “best of” and a “greatest hits.” “Make Believe” is more of the former and illustrates how far LaChapelle has come, but also in many ways, how he’s remained unchanged.
The show is only a few blocks from 303 Gallery, where LaChapelle had his first shows in 1984. “Angels, Saints, and Martyrs” depicted his East Village cohort posing in dramatic religious tableaux. At the heart of these works was a profound daily meditation of mortality.
“My friends were dying of AIDS so fast, I thought I was dying, too,” Lachapelle said. One of those early black and white works is on display, a triptych warmly printed with a saturated Man Ray metallic sheen. A female nude reaches for divine light. “She’s wearing a wig because everyone had short spiky hair,” LaChapelle said.
Behold (2015, Hawaii). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
As the press tour continued, we came across a recent image of a Christ-like figure in the woods. LaChapelle explained that the model is a dancer who is currently going through hardships, and then described how he makes the halo effect by using revolving LED lights and slow exposure.
A devout Catholic, LaChapelle frequently references Christ and during the tour he was dressed like a hip prophet, in nerdy black spectacles, orange Nike dunks and a shirt, hand-painted by his friend, the artist Stefan Meier, that was adorned with images of flaming doves, flowers, and hands with eyes. The words “Rain Stars Ultra Super Universe” were printed across the back.
LaChapelle revealed that he is again staging Bible-inspired scenes from his home base in Hawaii. He decamped there in 2006, escaping his gilded cage of celebrity success and excess in New York—and started cranking out a lot of work that critiques his former milieu.
Aristocracy: Private Pirates (2014, Los Angeles). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
A standout in the show are the still-life images from 2011’s “Earth Laughs in Flowers” series. Heady and romantic, LaChapelle was clearly inspired by Dutch masters and the photos look like oil paintings. But beauty camouflages decay. If you look closely, the sickeningly sumptuous blooms are beginning to wilt. Some are surrounded by cellophane, discarded cell phones, abandoned drugstore teddy bears, and other detritus.
“Vanitas traditionally are about the brevity of life,” LaChapelle said. “This one is kind of like our world today. Shopping online or for sex on apps—it’s like people shopping for body parts.”
Also of note is 2006’s darkly clever “Recollections in America” series, in which he sourced random vintage snapshots from eBay, inserted other characters and altered the final images.  Another eye-catching series from 2014 featured private planes haphazardly flung about and floating in surreal, gradient airspace.
Earth Laughs in Flowers: Wilting Gossip (2008–11, Los Angeles). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
And although many of the photographer’s usual celebrity subjects are absent, transgender nightlife icon and forever LaChapelle muse Amanda Lepore looms large. In one image, she snorts a line of diamonds through a cocaine straw (the artist mentioned that this was a statement on materialism). Elsewhere she poses as a garish fever dream of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn and Liz.
A shot of her breast-feeding in a hooded faux sable coat is perhaps the most poignant. “Everything in this photo is fake,” LaChapelle said. “The fur, the baby, everything. But Amanda’s tears are real.”
Towards the end of the tour, LaChapelle got emotional as we reached an image of Travis Scott’s Astroworld album art, and the ensuing concert tragedy last November, when 10 people died being crushed in the crowd.
“They had taken my gold heads and painted them into skulls without permission, without asking,” LaChapelle said of the festival’s decorations, which he helped design. “The love of money is the root of all evil… all of that greed. That’s what killed those kids. And [then] they had to walk through a skull and see all this dark imagery. If imagery doesn’t matter, then why bother doing it at all? If art doesn’t have impact then why bother with it at all?”
After the preview, we briefly sat down with the artist at the gallery’s Veronika restaurant to discuss the show and his work over the years.
Fly On My Sweet Angel Fly on to the Sky (1988, Farmington, Connecticut). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
The celebrity aspect of the show was pretty low-key. When people think of you, they often think of images like Eminem holding a stick of dynamite.
That’s why its on the wall of the restaurant! It was a part of my life for a long time. I had that book called Lost and Found. There was a bit of getting lost after finding out that I didn’t have HIV around 1994. It coincided with suddenly getting contracts with Conde Nast Traveler, Vanity Fair, and Details.
I threw myself into that world, became a workaholic, and got lost. I really felt it was time to stop. And when I was young, I prayed for a cabin in the woods inside my little squat on 3rd Street. I’ve got that now.
It’s funny that your “wandering in the desert” period consisted of fortune and fame. You chose to leave fashion behind. 
I was questioning this idea of happiness coming with the next purchase. I knew it wasn’t true, yet I was working in a world where that was the promise. That was a paradox.
Listen to Her (1986, New York). Photo: © David LaChapelle, courtesy of Fotografiska New York.
So much about your work is showing different versions and definitions of beauty. I was surprised that at the root of so much of your work was a rumination of death.
I don’t fear death, but I have been aware of it for a long time. I feared it a lot when I was a kid. My first boyfriend died of AIDS when I was 21. I didn’t go to a doctor for 15 years. Then, I had experiences that really lead me to believe that there is life after death.
I know that there’s something more than the material plane. I’m not afraid of death anymore. I want to live—as best I can and do the best pictures I can, because art does mean something. Images do mean something. And this was what I knew I was gonna do since I was a little kid. I was gonna be an artist.
I didn’t know I was gonna be a photographer, but I knew I was gonna be an artist. That’s been a calling, and I want to make pictures that mean something, not just look good.
“Make Believe” is now on view at Fotografiska New York, 281 Park Avenue South. Admission is $20-$30. Monday to Sunday, 9 a.m.–9 p.m.

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In a new commission by the U.K. public art producer Artangel, the artist Marcus Coates investigates the stigma around mental illness with a new body of films now showing in London.
The films show Coates exhibiting five different types of psychosis, from intense anxiety, to isolation, delusion, depression and exhaustion. Each was directed by a different person recovering from mental illness, and shares their personal story. In one of the films, Coates experiences vivid hallucinations while riding on a bus. In another, his anxiety becomes so crippling he is unable to go downstairs to fetch a pack of cigarettes.
To help understand the experience of psychosis for the films, Coates started his research in 2017, with visits to the clinic of Dr. Isabel Valli, in Maudsley Hospital in south London, the country’s largest mental health institution. There, the artist sat in the doctor’s waiting room and made notes, eventually gaining the trust some patients, who agreed to help Coates make his films in order to counter preconceptions about people with mental illness.  
Installation view of The Directors—Lucy (2022). Photo: Hugo Glendinning.
Coates told Artnet News in a phone call that he thinks his work ultimately can help foster a “greater understanding and compassion” towards people with mental illness. “I learned from this experience that everyone has a different reality. At the core of my work is a struggle to relate,” he said. 
“At a certain level, my new films are an extension of these elements—anthropological, participatory, but also poetic and compassionate,” Coates added. “Art can be a useful tool in reducing the stigma around mental health.”
The films, varying in length from 16 to 26 minutes, are installed in various locations in the Pimlico neighborhood, near Tate Britain. A map to find all five works can be picked up at the Churchill Gardens Residents’ Association building. Screening times are between Thursday and Saturday, from 3 p.m.–8 p.m., and Sundays from 12 p.m. to 5 p.m. The project, which opened last Thursday, will remain up until October 30.
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We have finally received Ray Johnson’s dispatches from the other side. Last month, the Morgan Library & Museum opened “PLEASE SEND TO REAL LIFE,” an exhibition unearthing 200 never-before-seen photos by Johnson, the founder of the international mail art network know as the New York Correspondence School, who died in 1995.
After studying abstraction under Josef Albers at the famous Black Mountain College, Johnson left North Carolina for New York in 1948, along with professors John Cage, Merce Cunningham, and Richard Lippold.
Though he was set up for fame as a painter, he took Albers’s advice, according to the Morgan, and burned his early works between 1954 and 1956, to make room for the miniature mass media collages he called “moticos,” now hailed as precursors to Pop art.
Hazel Larsen Archer, Ray Johnson at Black Mountain College (1948), gelatin silver print. The Morgan Library &Museum, Purchased as the gift of David Dechmanand Michel Mercure, 2021.56. © Estate of Hazel Larsen Archer.
Photography was always a cornerstone of Johnson’s practice, but it wasn’t until 1992—two decades after leaving Manhattan for Long Island—that he adopted a Fujifilm QuickSnap camera and told curator Clive Phillpot: “I’m pursuing my career as a photographer.” Johnson would go through 137 disposable cameras by December 1994.
Among his experiments with the popular medium, Johnson would snap works in photobooths, often bringing in his cutout collages in artistic cameos. Photography could also enrich existing works with new meaning, such as his “Movie Stars” series of large-scale collages on corrugated cardboard, which often featured famous faces. Outdoor Movie Show in RJ’s backyard (1 June 1993), for example, sees these works lined up as if ready to film a scene, surrounded by the semi-autobiographical bunny character that was Johnson’s calling card.
Ray Johnson’s Photo Booth Portraits (1960s). Courtesy of the Ray Johnson Estate. Digital image courtesy of The Morgan Library & Museum. Artwork courtesy the Ray Johnson Estate. © Ray Johnson / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
In January 1995, Johnson killed himself by jumping off a bridge in Sag Harbor, drowning in the water below. “I think Ray will become famous after his death, because he won’t be around to impede the dissemination of his work,” remarked New York art dealer Richard Feigen in the New York Times obituary that followed.
Although he bristled against institutions trying to show his work, there’s been an uptick in exhibitions culled from Johnson’s estate in the decades that followed his death, including shows last year at the Art Institute of Chicago and David Zwirner. Both focused mostly on Johnson’s collages and situating him among colleagues like John Cale and Joseph Cornell.
More than 5,000 color photographs by Johnson have survived, many kept off view in envelopes. The Morgan show’s curator, Joel Smith, told Arnet News that Johnson’s estate donated the 200 on view now to the museum’s permanent collection in 2019, courtesy of art advisor Frances Beatty. Research on the works carried on through early 2020.
Elisabeth Novick, Untitled (Ray Johnson and Suzi Gablik) (1955), gelatin silver print, Courtesy of the Ray Johnson Estate.
“The pandemic caused changes in scheduling that pushed [the show] back to summer 2022,” Smith said. “In the interim, we learned more about the photographs, and also acquired the 1948 photograph of Johnson by Hazel Larsen Archer that became the earliest (and first) piece in the exhibition.”
Still, no one knows for sure what Johnson meant to do with all the film he shot. “It would be trivial to hunt through this large, complex, often comical, always personal body of work for nothing more than a rebus suicide note,” Smith’s essay in the show’s catalog notes. “Ray Johnson never made himself that easily readable.”
Immediate and intimate, Johnson’s work is about the present moment. Taking a prototype selfie in a shop window mirror, Johnson holds up a bunny-eared collage reading: “PLEASE SEND TO REAL LIFE.” Maybe he meant the former New York magazine REALLIFE. Smith hears Johnson saying: “Here, Life, take this thing I’ve made; I’m going to the other place.”
“PLEASE SEND TO REAL LIFE: Ray Johnson Photographs,” is on view at the Morgan Library & Museum, through October 2.
See more images from the exhibition here.
Path of headshots and back steps (spring 1992). The Morgan Library & Museum. Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
RJ silhouette and wood, Stehli Beach (autumn1992). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
Headshot and Elvises in RJ’s car (February 1993). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the RayJohnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson / Artists Rights Society (ARS),New York.(ARS), New York.
Andy Warhol life dates on flowers (July 1992). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS),New York.
Jasper John (February 1993). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
Bunny tree in backyard (17 April 1993). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS),New York.
Harpo Marx bunny, headshot, and payphone (February 1994). The Morgan Library &Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
Shadow and manhole (spring 1992). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS),New York.
Four Movie Stars, Locust Valley Cemetery (31 March 1993). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.
Outdoor Movie Show on RJ’s car (February 1993). The Morgan Library & Museum, Gift of the Ray Johnson Estate, courtesy of Frances Beatty. © Ray Johnson/Artists Rights Society (ARS),New York.
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While preparing for her first public art exhibition—a series of paintings reproduced on bus shelters in New York, Chicago, and Boston—artist Wendy Red Star turned to museums for research. 
She was looking into parfleches, or painted rawhide bags that tribes of the North American Great Plains used for transporting food and other personal belongings. For their makers, typically tribal women, the cases were utilitarian. But for Red Star, who is Apsáalooke (Crow), the objects represented something more: a shared tradition that kept these women’s stories alive, even when historians didn’t bother to do so.
But not every museum the artist turned to was eager to help. One, she said, initially denied all access to the Crow objects in their collection, citing fears of cultural appropriation. Another required authorization from the Crow Tribe’s executive office—which might be akin to, say, asking for Congressional approval to study a Civil War flag. 
“It just causes me such anxiety,” Red Star said of her experience negotiating with these institutions, which she referred to as “gatekeepers.” 
“Maybe the fear is rejection,” she went on. “But to me, that rejection is so heavy because ultimately, it’s lost knowledge. And that’s what’s happened to Native people. Our knowledge has been taken away from us. It’s a terrible feeling.”
Wendy Red Star, Buffalo Woman and Shows Going (2022). Photo: Nicholas Knight. Courtesy of the artist and Public Art Fund, NY.
Eventually, Red Star received the support she was looking for, and the results of her effort make up “Travels Pretty,” her new Public Art Fund-sponsored show of paintings installed across bus shelters in three cities. It’s on view now through November 20. 
Information gathering at museums was just one stage of what the artist considers her research process. The other was more experiential: recreating the designs of Crow craftswomen past, often to meticulous effect. 
“It was a way for her to learn and study these objects in a more tactile way,” said Public Art Fund associate curator Katerina Stathopoulou, who curated the show. “She was almost retracing the hands of the artists who painted these parfleches hundreds of years ago.”
Wendy Red Star, Walks Pretty (2022). Courtesy of the artist.
In their two-dimensional form, Red Star’s designs scan more as painterly abstractions than reinterpretations of tribal craftwork. But accompanying each of the artist’s parfleches is a series of phrases that provide additional context clues—and a hint of poetic flair: “Rose and Soft Violet,” “Packing Case,” “Mother Taught Her Daughter,” “Double Funneled Diamond.” 
The phrases were culled from the artist’s own research into the bags at museums, but also elsewhere—in textbooks, online articles, and so on. Most carry an air of cold institutional description: “Antedated Painting,” “Symmetrical Design.” Some even feel steeped in colonial gaze: “Industrious Apsáalooke Women,” “Parading In Style.”
That Red Star would be drawn to these descriptions makes sense. Her own work often makes liberal use of labels, captions, and annotations, appropriating the kind of taxonomical language so often used to portray her culture. Sometimes, the goal is satire, as in her photo series “Four Seasons” and the “The Last Thanks,” both of which found the artist recreating the doll-filled dioramas of museums. 
Other times, the strategy is more equivocal, as was the case with her 2019 series “Accession,” which paired her own photographs of an annual Crow parade with Works Progress Administration era-card catalogues that depict, in stunning watercolors, Native objects from the Denver Art Museum’s collection. One set of materials imagined tribal culture; the other showed it in all its contemporary vibrance.
Wendy Red Star, Brings Together (2022). Photo: Mel Taing. Courtesy of the artist and Public Art Fund, New York.
“Travels Pretty” no doubt falls into the latter category of Red Star artwork, fusing anthropological rhetoric and rich tribal design into a complex message about how heritage is shared across lines of time, geography, and culture. And Red Star, for her part, does not let the institutions have the last say. Each of her parfleches is named after a woman from the Apsáalooke tribe mentioned in the 1885 Crow Census. 
“In one way, I am trying to build this counter-archive that is accessible and makes sense of my own living experience,” Red Star said. “I feel like I am the counter-archive.”
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As its title tells you, “The Clamor of Ornament” is a raucous explosion of color and pattern. The Drawing Center’s summer show throws pretty much everything that might plausibly be fit in the category of “ornament” into its mix. As a result, there is truly something for everyone here.
The title of the show is an art history joke: It riffs on Owen Jones’s famous Victorian style manual, The Grammar of Ornament. But while Jones tried to create a system that connoted taste and decorum, this show—curated by Emily King with Margaret-Anne Logan and Duncan Tomlin—is anti-systematic and wildly eclectic. From William Morris wallpaper to Japanese woodblock prints, and from graffiti tags to scrimshaw, the show is like a stream of consciousness riff on its subject, breathlessly channel-changing between centuries and media.
It’s not without its critics either. In the New York Review of Books, critic Jed Perl unleashed a 3,000-plus word attack on the show, declaring it emblematic of the degeneracy of contemporary taste. But even Perl admitted, “There’s real fun to be had here.”
See some of the highlights of “The Clamor of Ornament,” below, and judge for yourself.
Installation view, “The Clamor of Ornament: Exchange, Power, and Joy from the Fifteenth Century to the Present” at the The Drawing Center, New York. Photo: Daniel Terna
Installation view, “The Clamor of Ornament: Exchange, Power, and Joy from the Fifteenth Century to the Present” at the The Drawing Center, New York. Photo: Daniel Terna More

At age eight, artist Guadalupe Maravilla was among the first group of children to flee from El Salvador when it was divided by a violent civil war. He arrived, undocumented, in the United States, both alone and not—separated from his family but surrounded by strangers bonded by a shared journey. 
As a “way to distract myself from the real harsh reality and make a connection with the people I’d just met,” Maravilla turned to Tripa Chuca, a Salvadoran children’s game, the artist told Artnet News. 
“I played with the coyotes who were hired to bring me over; I played with the grandmothers that would watch me and take care of me in their houses in New Mexico,” he said. “It’s always been a way to bond with people.”
In the game, participants scribble pairs of numbers on a piece of paper while their opponents connect the pairs with a single stroke, making sure that no lines touch in the process. Emerging eventually is what Maravilla calls a “labyrinth, a topographical map of sorts.” 
“To me,” he said, “it starts to feel like a fingerprint between two people that had similar journeys.”
Installation view of “Guadalupe Maravilla: Tierra Blanca Joven,” 2022. Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
As most of his shows do, Maravilla’s new exhibition at the Brooklyn Museum began with a game of Tripa Chuca. The results of the game, played between he and a frequent collaborator who similarly emigrated from El Salvador, greets visitors on a wall at the show’s entrance, teasing the artist’s own transnational perspective. 
The show’s title posits an altogether different metaphor. “Tierra Blanca Joven,” as it is called, refers to a volcanic eruption from the fifth century C.E.—among the largest in recorded history—that blanketed a several-thousand-mile stretch of present-day El Salvador with ash and debris, uprooting entire communities of Maya people in the process. 
The goal, Maravilla explained, is to draw a connection between the “many different types of displacement” that have occurred in his home country: those induced by an ancient environmental calamity, by a civil war four decades ago, and by ongoing violence in the region today.
Installation view of “Guadalupe Maravilla: Tierra Blanca Joven,” 2022. Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
The idea is echoed, too, in Maravilla’s choice to integrate nearly two dozen ancient Maya figurines, vessels, and other sculptures from the museum’s collection into the show. 
“What are these objects doing in Brooklyn?” he recalled thinking upon seeing the Maya artifacts in the institution’s storage rooms. “They were somehow taken from El Salvador in Central America and brought, through multiple hands, to the Brooklyn Museum.”
Maravilla was also drawn to the objects for their one-time connection to customs of healing and ceremony, which is an important aspect of the artist’s own artistic creations.
“My sculptures are an evolution of these ceramics and these objects,” he said. “That’s what has influenced me the most over the years, looking at these ancient rituals from my ancestors.”
A decade ago this December, Maravilla was diagnosed with colon cancer. He ultimately beat the sickness, but the experience—and the rituals he turned to in the process—had a profound impact on his work.
Guadalupe Maravilla, Disease Thrower #0 (2022). Courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
Included in the show are three examples of Maravilla’s Disease Thrower series of large, elaborate sculptures inspired by various indigenous healing practices he researched at the time. The most recent of the bunch, Disease Thrower #12122012, was named after the date he was diagnosed.
Made of myriad found materials both organic and man-made (rocks and ropes, animal bones and medical objects, metal gongs) the artworks look imposing, occasionally even monstrous. But they act as sites of rehabilitation: Maravilla frequently employs the sculptures for his own healing rituals with others.
Over the last two years, in particular, the artist held hundreds of healing ceremonies with his work, many for undocumented immigrants in his own New York neighborhood. The pandemic “opened up these doors [making] everyone… aware of how much healing we need to do.”
Shortly after “Tierra Blanca Joven” opened, Maravilla offered something similar for the objects in the show. He invited a Mexican shaman to perform a private ritual in the gallery cleansing both the Maya artifacts and his own creations from “all the weight they must carry.”
“Guadalupe Maravilla: Tierra Blanca Joven” is on view now through September 18, 2022 at the Brooklyn Museum of Art.
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Art lovers have a prime chance to get to know the work of Catalan artist Jaume Plensa this summer, in two exhibitions in two distinctive European holiday destinations.
First, head up to Yorkshire Sculpture Park in northern England, where the exhibition “In small places, close to home,” is taking place. Plensa is no stranger to the stunning 500-acre site founded in 1977: he held an exhibition here in 2011, and hosts two of his works permanently—including the serene, 23-foot tall sculpture Wilsis (2016), situated by the shore of the lake in the park. But rather than the monumental outdoor sculptures for which he is famous, this new solo exhibition, which runs through October 30, focuses on the artist’s drawing practice.
“Drawing is an incredible laboratory where you can develop intuitions—I feel much more free than when I am working with sculpture. Drawing is a place for freedom,” said the artist, born in Barcelona in 1955, on the importance of drawing in his artistic practice.
Spanning two locations within the park, the show features new works in addition to drawings from the archive. In the park’s Weston Gallery, Face (2008), a series of portraits drawing from the artist’s collection of old anthropology and geography books, is accompanied by excerpts from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights—”the most beautiful poem in the world,” according to the artist. Also on view for the first time is a group of 28 drawings titled April is the Cruellest Month (2020–21), created during the Covid lockdown and charting humans’ collective psychological reactions around the pandemic’s uncertainties.
The exhibition continues in the 18th-century chapel nearby, where two calm marble sculptures of girls’ heads with closed eyes are installed in the middle of the hall, in dialogue with 16 large-scale drawings of unknown faces from the series Anònims (2003), as if they were a community of souls gathering together in the meditative space, which is guarded by the 13-foot tall White Nomade (2021) erected outside the chapel.
Meanwhile, the Musée Picasso in Antibes—on the magnificent coast of southeastern France—is hosting exhibition “La lumière veille” (“The Veil Light”) through September 25.
Timed to the 10th anniversary of the installation of the artist’s monumental sculpture Nomade (2010) (a much larger version than the newly installed piece at Yorkshire Sculpture Park) on the terrace of the bastion Saint-Jaume, which has become a local landmark, the new museum show takes a deep dive into Plensa’s artistic practice. It brings together some 90 works created between 1982 and 2022. These rare drawings reveal Plensa’s artistic evolution, as well as his attachment to the use of alphabets and characters from different cultures and the depth of human psyche, which set the stage for the development of the sculptures that he is best known for today.
View the highlights of the two Plensa shows below:
“In small places, close to home,” Yorkshire Sculpture Park
Jaume Plensa, 2022. Photo © Jonty Wilde, courtesy Yorkshire Sculpture Park.
Installation view of Jaume Plensa, “In small places, close to home,” at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, 2022. Photo © Jonty Wilde courtesy Yorkshire Sculpture Park.
Jaume Plensa, Face II (2008). Courtesy the artist. Photo Gasull Fotografia © Plensa Studio Barcelona.
Installation view of Jaume Plensa, “In small places, close to home,” at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, 2022. Photo © Jonty Wilde courtesy Yorkshire Sculpture Park.
“La lumiére veille,” Musée Picasso, Antibes
Installation view of Jaume Plensa, “La lumière veille,” at Musée Picasso Antibes, 2022. Photo: François Fernandez.
Jaume Plensa, Aire (1988). Photo: Leopold Samsó @ Plensa Studio Barcelona © Adagp, Paris, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Musée Picasso, Antibes.
Jaume Plensa, Full Moon (2018). Photo: Gasull Fotografia @ Plensa Studio Barcelona© Adagp, Paris, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Musée Picasso, Antibes.
Jaume Plensa, Shadow study LXVI (2011). Photo: Gasull Fotografia @ Plensa Studio Barcelona © Adagp, Paris, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Musée Picasso, Antibes.
Jaume Plensa, Orphans (2005). Photo: Gasull Fotografia @ Plensa Studio Barcelona© Adagp, Paris, 2022. Courtesy the artist and Musée Picasso, Antibes.
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