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    Punctured Photographs by Yael Martínez Illuminate the Daily Ruptures of Systemic Violence

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    “El Hombre y la Montaña” (December 31, 2020). All images courtesy of This Book Is True, shared with permission

    Punctured Photographs by Yael Martínez Illuminate the Daily Ruptures of Systemic Violence

    June 13, 2025

    ArtBooksPhotographySocial Issues

    Grace Ebert

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    The Mexican state of Guerrero lies on the southern Pacific coast and is home to the popular tourist destination of Acapulco. It’s also one of the nation’s most violent areas due to drug trafficking and cartel presence, and is one of six states that account for nearly half of the country’s total homicides.

    For artist and photographer Yael Martínez, the reality of organized crime became more pronounced when, in 2013, three of his family members disappeared. He began to speak with others in his community who had experienced similar traumas and to connect threads across the borders of Mexico to Honduras, Brazil, and the United States.

    “Itzel at home,” Guerrero, Mexico

    Luciérnagas, which translates to fireflies, comes from Martínez’s meditation on this extreme brutality that “infiltrates daily life and transforms the spirit of a place,” a statement says. Now published in a volume by This Book Is True, the poetic series punctures dark, nighttime photographs with minuscule holes. When backlit, the images bear a dazzling constellation of light that distorts the images in which violence isn’t depicted but rather felt.

    In one work, for example, a man holding a firework stands in a poppy field, a perforated cloud of smoke enveloping his figure. He’s performing an annual ritual on the sacred hill of La Garza, and the setting exemplifies a poignant contradiction between ancestral cultures and a crop that has been subsumed by capitalism and is essential to cartel power. A statement elaborates:

    We don’t see death in Luciérnaga, but its omnipresence is felt throughout, lingering in the shadows of each photograph. Each image painfully underwritten by the result of a calculated violence that visited unseen and undetected, leaving behind the immense void of a vanished loved one. And yet there is always a sense of hope that informs the making of this work.

    Luciérnagas is available from This Book Is True. Find more from Martínez on Instagram.

    “Toro” (2018), Guerrero, Mexico

    “Abuelo-Estrella” (December 21, 2020), Cochoapa El Grande, Guerrero, Mexico

    “Levantada de Cruz” (2021)

    “El Río de la Memoria y Mis Hijas” (2022)

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      in Art

      Amarie Gipson On The Reading Room, Houston’s Black Art and Culture Library

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      All images courtesy of Amarie Gipson, shared with permission

      Amarie Gipson On The Reading Room, Houston’s Black Art and Culture Library

      May 27, 2025

      ArtBooksConversationsHistoryPhotographySocial Issues

      Grace Ebert

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      One of Amarie Gipson’s many gifts is an unyielding desire to ask questions. Having worked at institutions like The Contemporary Austin, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Studio Museum in Harlem, Gipson has cultivated a practice of examining structures and pushing beyond their limitations. Her inquiries are incisive and rooted in a profound respect for people of all backgrounds, with a central goal of expanding art’s potential beyond museum walls.

      A true polymath, Gipson is a writer, curator, DJ, and founder of The Reading Room, an independent reference library with more than 700 books devoted to Black art, culture, politics, and history. Titles like the century-spanning African Artists sit alongside Toni Morrison’s novel Sula and Angela Davis’ provocative Freedom is a Constant Struggle, which connects oppression and state violence around the world. The simultaneous breadth of genres and the collection’s focus on Black life allow Gipson and other patrons to very literally exist alongside those who’ve inspired the library.

      One afternoon in late April 2025, I spoke with Gipson via video about her love for the South, her commitment to meeting people where they’re at, and her hopes for The Reading Room.

      This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity.

      Grace: I’d like to start at the beginning. Why start a project of this nature in Houston?

      Amarie: I am a student of so many incredible Black women writers, artists, curators, thinkers, and theorists, and I really take seriously the advice that I’ve gotten through reading their work. If something doesn’t exist, you should start it. I’ve moved and migrated through these great United States for some time, and when I moved back to Houston seven and a half years ago, The Reading Room didn’t exist. I needed it to happen. I wanted to experience my books somewhere outside of my apartment, and I also wanted to create a destination for folks when they came to town, so that my friends know that they have a cool place to land. Those are the two main reasons: it didn’t exist, and I wanted somewhere to go.

      Grace: There’s a thing that happens in Chicago all the time–I think it happens anywhere that is not New York or Los Angeles–and the ways artists think about their careers and what it takes to be successful. There’s often this perception that to reach a certain level, they need to go to one of those two cities. And I would imagine Houston has a similar feeling.

      Amarie: Absolutely. I think it’s important that everyone leaves home at some point. But don’t leave because you don’t think that anything exists here. Leave because you want to see what else there is and bring it back. Come back home and create the things that you want to see here.

      I don’t think I could have The Reading Room in New York. I don’t think I could have The Reading Room in Chicago. It’s not my home. I feel more empowered here. I feel safer to have created something like this, especially in a state that is so extremely suppressed, politically, socially. But culturally, we stand firm, especially in Houston. So, it felt natural.

      Grace: What area of Houston are you currently in?

      What more can we do to connect to the people? How can we bridge the gap between the folks who care about Black art and those who care about Black people and the things that affect us? Amarie Gipson

      Amarie: The Reading Room is currently located in north downtown, right across the way from the University of Houston’s downtown campus. Downtown is not the most exciting place in the city, but it is a meeting point for all different types of cultures. The Reading Room lives inside a hybrid art studio called Sanman Studios. There are two units. They function as an event space and production studio. There’s an art gallery, an artist residency work space, and The Reading Room. This is Houston’s creative hotspot.

      Grace: I’m wondering how your institutional training has influenced The Reading Room. How have those experiences pushed you to make something that is decidedly not institutional?

      Amarie: I was just thinking about this a week ago. I came into the curatorial field around 2016, and that was at the height of philanthropic institutions looking for ways to diversify. One of the solutions was to introduce younger, undergraduate-aged students from underrepresented communities to the field. I did the Mellon Undergraduate Curatorial Fellowship at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. I was a junior in college at the time, and this program really gave me a crash course on what museums are like; how the exhibitions are produced, where the art is stored, and how curators work with other departments. I spent two years at the MFAH in the Prints and Drawings department, and I was always looking for Black artists. I realized quickly that if no one’s here to advocate for this work to come out of storage, no one’s ever going to see it. I was trying to sift through the collection, find, locate, and make these works more visible.

      I also recognized early in my career that people are really important to me. I started asking questions: What are the functions and responsibilities of art institutions? What are we really supposed to be doing? I know what we have done, but what is the purpose? I eventually took those questions to Chicago and New York, and I moved around to different museums to try to find the answer.

      A turning point was when I got hired at the Studio Museum in Harlem, which, for any young Black person in the art world, is the pinnacle. It’s the place. It’s where a lot of careers start. Many folks’ first job in the art world is at the Studio Museum, and they’re being shaped and molded to continue in the field. However, shortly after arriving, I realized the Studio Museum was not the place.

      In 2020, I looked around at all the different institutions across New York sharing statements of solidarity and pledging institutional and systemic changes. I wanted the Studio Museum to do more than say, “We’ve been doing this. We’ve been committed.” Because what are we doing and does that commitment to care only benefit Black artists, or does it show up in our consideration for all Black people? There are real Black people who are being targeted and locked up for protesting the fact that police are murdering us. What more can we do to connect to the people? How can we bridge the gap between the folks who care about Black art and those who care about Black people and the things that affect us? What about the people working in and for the museum? What are we doing to support the struggle outside of working our lofty little museum jobs? The response that I got is that the institution is going to keep doing what it’s been doing. And that just wasn’t enough for me. I worked in my whole career to get there, but I realized that it was not the place I thought it was or hoped it could be.

      And so I left that job and found a way to connect my beliefs with my actions. I’ve taken all of the skills that I’ve learned—how to build relationships, how to listen, how to analyze and organize things, record keeping, data management, object management, storytelling—and do something totally different, something that prioritizes everyday Black people in a way that boosts our intellectual, cultural, and creative capacity. If it’s increased access to literature, if it’s increased access to culture, if it’s just a place that has air conditioning, a place where people can come and hang out, so be it. It’s making space for it all in a way that hopefully destroys the out-of-touch, elitist hierarchy that surrounds “the work.”

      Grace: That’s one of the things that I think is so powerful about The Reading Room and the work that you’re doing. Art books are notoriously expensive, and other than sporadic free days, museums generally are not cheap either. You really do balance such a strong aesthetic perspective and a critical rigor typically associated with institutions with the accessibility of something like a public library meant for truly everyone. I wonder, on a tangible level, what goes into making a space like that?

      If it’s increased access to literature, if it’s increased access to culture, if it’s just a place that has air conditioning, a place where people can come and hang out, so be it. It’s making space for it all in a way that hopefully destroys the out-of-touch, elitist hierarchy that surrounds “the work.”Amarie Gipson

      Amarie: I didn’t have a physical space when the idea first came to life. I started working on the concept in the summer of 2021. I passed by an old American Apparel storefront in this neighborhood in Houston called Montrose. I remember going to that American Apparel as a teenager. I never could afford anything, but I was always going in there to try stuff on. I looked inside, and I was like, what would I do if I had the space? At the time, I didn’t really know how anybody could afford anything outside of paying their rent. People who had small shops, coffee shops, small businesses, kitschy little stores, I was like, what do you need to do in order to make this happen? I eventually found my way to Sanman. I met Seth Rogers, the owner. I was working for a magazine, so I started asking him questions.

      I was also DJing at the time. I had been DJing for four or five years prior to moving to Houston, but my DJ career blew up when I moved back because the culture here is so rich. Nightlife is a huge part of the city. I started saving my money from my day job, gigs, and partnerships. I would be at the events that I would play, and I’d be yelling to people over the speakers, “I’m building a library. I’m building a library!”

      I lost my job at the magazine in the fall of 2022, and I had come upon enough money to focus fully on The Reading Room. I built the website to anchor the concept. I scanned the front and back covers of 325 of the books that were in the collection at the time. I built a strong relationship with Sanman and hosted a two-day, in-person experience after I launched the site. There were about 130 people who came that weekend just to hang out. Someone approached me and said, “I didn’t even know this many books on Black art existed.” That was the moment everything made sense, when I realized I’m on the right path.

      Because this is a reference library, where the collection doesn’t circulate, we’ve got to do programs. Every single program that we do is inspired by or connected to a book that’s in the collection. That’s bringing people in, and it’s leaving them with a reading list so that they can keep coming back. That’s been the formula so far. My ambition is to garner enough support and community response so that when I break out of a shared space, the traffic is steady and the impact deepens.

      Grace: When we think about meeting people where they’re at, so much of it is about creating multiple entry points into the work that you’re doing. When someone comes in, what does that process look like? How do you engage with them?

      Amarie: It depends. Most folks are just like, oh my god, I love this space. Some other folks will be like, I’m working on a project about Black hair. Do you have any books about hair? And I’ll go and pull books about hair. I’ll explain the relationships between the books on the main display and point out how I’ve selected and placed things, then give a crash course on where you can find what.

      So even if they don’t know what they’re looking for, pointing them in a direction, they’ll be able to wayfind. It’s a destination for discovery. You come in, and you fall down a rabbit hole.

      Grace: I think of curation primarily as a way of providing context. I’m wondering how the vastness of your collection—in that there’s history, politics, and culture, and you’re not focused on only having visual art or photography—manifests as part of your commitment to accessibility. What you’re doing in making these larger connections and providing context so that people don’t need to read an artwork or image through a traditional art historical, canonical perspective, but rather can approach it through music or politics or a cultural moment, feels like an accessibility move to me.

      Amarie: You said it so beautifully. Seriously, that’s it. The books that people are familiar with are what’s going to draw them in, and then they’ll see that the bulk of the collection is about visual art. Hopefully, what they know is a gateway to what they don’t know and what I want to share. If you open up Arthur Jafa’s monograph, MAGNUMB, I want you to know Hortense Spillers and Saidiya Hartman. You gotta know all these people. Their books live here because they’re in conversation with one another. The artist’s monograph lives alongside the anthologies or the novels that inspired the creation of the work. The collection focuses heavily on visual art, just because that’s what I collected. I’m thinking about visual culture at large, but also history. How do we situate these objects within a larger continuum? We live within that continuum, so it’s important to see everything in concert with one another.

      To your point about accessibility, it starts to tap into that more tangible effect, tangible impact, right? We can have conversations about politics in here, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be through the lens of an artist, but because the book lives in the collection, we can sit and talk about anything, right? We can talk about democracy or the lack thereof. We can talk about the American flag. We can talk about anything because there’s something here that’s going to help us situate it. We can listen to the music. There are so many intersections, and having collection categories that expand beyond art and design allows for that.

      Grace: I was reading an older interview with Martine Syms recently about her publishing practice. She talked about publishing as a way to make ideas public—and then to use that to create a public around an idea because you have shared reference points. That feels very similar to what you’re doing. The Reading Room, by bringing people together and allowing these conversations, is actually creating this collective idea and an opportunity to have this shared way of thinking about something.

      Amarie: For sure. I think about that a lot. Art books, not only because of the price, are largely inaccessible to the public, but are also inaccessible to artists who deserve them. You have to go a long way in your career before somebody feels like they care enough to make a book for you. You usually have to wait for a major retrospective or survey exhibition. Or if you’re really young and hot and you’ve got gallery representation, they might make you a book.

      I’m also thinking about how The Reading Room can be a source, a bridge, or a doula that finds ways to amplify artists who are being overlooked or have been working for a really long time and still don’t have books, how their work can land in the hands of the public in a way that is accessible. I’m hoping to start a publishing branch of The Reading Room in the next couple of years. I’m going to start with zines this year and see what happens.

      I’m also thinking about the legacy of independent Black publishers across history, coming out of different cities, and what it means right now in the age of misinformation, to create a platform for truth. Yeah, it will be making art books. But we’ll also be making political pamphlets, recirculating ideas from the past. How many people know what the Black Panther Party’s 10-point platform really was? What if we made posters? How can we apply those things today? I’m interested in all of that. I want to do every single thing that I couldn’t do in those museums, that’s too taboo or too controversial to do in a museum.

      I feel way more present and clairvoyant than ever before. I realized that for the first year of running The Reading Room, I was like, I’m not reading enough. I was focused more on the structure of this thing, filling in gaps in the collection, all of that. Last summer, I made a summer reading list for myself, and I read ten books. It felt so good to just stop and read. I feel healthier, calmer, and stronger. I’ve been transformed. I want that feeling for everybody.

      The Reading Room is open from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Wednesday to Sunday at 1109 Providence St., Houston. Explore the collection in the online archive, and follow the latest on Instagram.

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      in Art

      Explore an Incredible 108-Gigapixel Scan of Johannes Vermeer’s Most Famous Painting

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      All images courtesy of Hirox, Tuur, and The Mauritshuis

      Explore an Incredible 108-Gigapixel Scan of Johannes Vermeer’s Most Famous Painting

      May 5, 2025

      ArtPhotographyScience

      Kate Mothes

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      One of the inimitable joys of visiting an art museum is being able to view paintings up close—to see their textures, frames, and the way the surface interacts with the light. But even if you had the opportunity to step past security wires and get within inches of an original canvas, you’d still never be able to see the work quite like the new, 108-gigapixel scan of Johannes Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring” (1665).

      The Mauritshuis has documented its most famous acquisition in unprecedented detail with the help of lens company Hirox, which has produced a video microscope capable of capturing the tiniest speck of paint with astonishing clarity. The outfit was also involved in an earlier reproduction of the same painting, creating an image composed of 10 billion pixels.

      This high-tech collaboration brings a 17th-century masterpiece to life with an interactive site inviting visitors to examine every micro detail. The new image is more than ten times as large as its predecessor—108 gigapixels translates to 108 billion pixels. A standard computer screen ranges from around four to six million pixels in its entirety. As Kottke notes, the resolution is very high, too, at 1.3 microns per pixel. (A millimeter is 1,000 microns.)

      Hirox, in tandem with a company called Tuur, produced a beautiful video and virtual tour. A three-dimensional tool for exploring the topography of the surface highlights Vermeer’s mastery of light, like reflections in the sitter’s eyes, the folds of her head scarf, and the minimal dabs of white paint on the titular pearl.

      This virtual exploration offers art historians and enthusiasts alike a chance to experience “Girl with a Peal Earring” like never before, regardless of where you are. But if you’re in The Hague, it’s also on view in the permanent collection of The Mauritshuis.

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      in Art

      Frank Kunert’s Uncanny Photos Chronicle a Surreal Miniature World

      by

      All images © Frank Kunert, shared with permission

      Frank Kunert’s Uncanny Photos Chronicle a Surreal Miniature World

      May 1, 2025

      ArtPhotography

      Kate Mothes

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      It’s hard to imagine a welcome mat being rolled out at the entrance to a Secret Service compound, let alone a table for two perched atop a diving platform in the middle of winter. But for Frank Kunert, these unsettling scenarios happen practically every day, albeit on a very small scale.

      Kunert’s photographs (previously) capture a range of structures and interiors that for myriad reasons, feel just a little bit “off.” Whether it’s a racetrack’s snack stand interrupting one of the running lanes, a solo dining table stuck out in the snow, or an idyllic yet impossibly narrow apartment complex, the artist’s hand-built miniature sets explore where familiarity and the uncanny meet.

      Tapping into the absurdities of everyday life, Kunert plays with architecture, quotidian objects, customs, and our associations with home or public spaces. His elaborate models appear realistic enough at first glance, but upon closer inspection, we notice things that challenge our sense of scale and material, like chalk lines on a racetrack or powdered sugar-like snow.

      Kunert meticulously designs the lighting, furniture, wall coverings, and outdoor settings to give the impression of a reality turned sideways—sometimes literally. His compositions possess a dark, ironic undertone, prompting us to pause and suspect, for example, whether what’s on the other side of the nondescript door labeled “FUN” is actually as advertised. People are never present, but we can imagine customers having just left a restaurant or a homeowner sitting just inside a closed door.

      Kunert is currently working on a series titled Dreams Come True, some images from which are shown here, which will be compiled in a book or exhibitions down the line. And later this month, Hatje Cantz releases a new monograph, The Best of Frank Kunert, now available for pre-order. Explore more on the artist’s website and Instagram.

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      in Art

      In Vivid Reliquaries, Stan Squirewell Layers Anonymous Portraits and Patterned Textiles

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      All images courtesy of Stan Squirewell and Claire Oliver Gallery, shared with permission

      In Vivid Reliquaries, Stan Squirewell Layers Anonymous Portraits and Patterned Textiles

      March 28, 2025

      ArtPhotography

      Grace Ebert

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      Through intimate, mixed-media collages, Stan Squirewell excavates the stories of those who might otherwise be lost in anonymity. The artist gathers images from the Smithsonian’s archives and from friends and family that he then reinterprets with vibrant prints and patterns. Layering unknown pasts with present-day additions, Squirewell explores how everyday traditions and rituals remain through generations.

      His new body of work, Robitussin, Hotcombs & Grease, invokes ubiquitous items like the over-the-counter decongestant and hair care. “Growing up, I was shaped by elders around me, and everyday objects like Robitussin, hotcombs, and grease became vessels for the rituals that anchored me to my heritage,” the artist says. “These items transcend their mundane uses: they embody traditions passed down through generations, grounding me in a collective identity.”

      “Girls on Saturn” (2025)

      Squirewell cuts and collages images and fabrics from his collection before photographing the composition, which then undergoes a digital editing process. An elaborate frame complements each piece with charred shou sugi ban edges—a Japanese burning technique—and hand-carved details. The sides bear various inscriptions connecting past and present, including lines from Langston Hughes’ poems and glyphs from ancestral African languages that have fallen out of use.

      Because the identities and histories of many of the subjects are unknown, Squirewell’s work adds a new relevance to their images. How have daily, domestic practices and the legacies of previous generations informed the present? And how do these traditions create a broader collective experience? Rooted in these questions, the dignified works become reliquaries that honor what’s been passed down and how that continues to inform life today.

      Robitussin, Hotcombs & Grease is on view through May 24 at Claire Oliver Gallery in Harlem. Find more from Squirewell on Instagram.

      “Teddy” (2024), artist-printed photos collaged with paint and glitter in a hand-carved shou sugi ban frame, 43 x 35 x 3 inches

      “Teddy’s Lil Sisters” (2024), artist-printed photos collaged with paint and glitter in a hand-carved shou sugi ban frame, 29 x 24 x 2 inches

      “Girls on Saturn” (2025)

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    • 150 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      Charles Gaines Maps the Meanings of Ancient Baobab Trees in Meticulous Charts

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      “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #4, Maasai”
      (2024),
      acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen. All images © Charles Gaines, courtesy the artist and Hauser & Wirth, shared with permission

      Charles Gaines Maps the Meanings of Ancient Baobab Trees in Meticulous Charts

      February 17, 2025

      ArtNaturePhotography

      Grace Ebert

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      Since the 1970s, Charles Gaines (previously) has been charting the sprawling, unpredictable forms of trees onto numbered grids. He began with walnut trees in 1975, which he photographed while barren and then plotted onto hand-drawn graph paper.

      A leader in the Conceptual Art movement, Gaines’ works ask viewers to explore the relationships between what something appears to be and what it means as it shifts from one context to the next. He also argues for a greater divide between subjectivity and aesthetics, instead emphasizing culture’s immense role in shaping our experiences.

      Detail of “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #4, Maasai” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen


      In his ongoing Numbers and Trees series, Gaines continues to chart differences. During a 2023 visit to Tanzania, the artist photographed majestic baobabs, which form the basis for a collection of triptychs that entwine the magnificent specimens with colorfully numbered grids. Gnarled trunks and spindly offshoots both layer atop and are masked by Gaines’ sequences, all viewed through sheets of plexiglass.

      The baobab is known as “the tree of life” for its longevity, myriad roles in preserving the savanna ecosystem, and ability to host entire habitats within its canopies. The specimens are often associated with folklore and myth and in the era of climate disaster, are some of the casualties of unrelenting drought. Depending on location, epoch, and community, the trees can serve a wide array of purposes and hold a multitude of symbolism.

      Icons of the African continent, baobabs also connect to histories of colonialism and slavery. In this context, they’re distorted and mediated by both Gaines’ organizing principles and the acrylic panes. “What you bring to the image, adds to the image,” the artist says.

      Numbers and Trees, The Tanzania Baobabs is on view from February 19 to May 24 at Hauser & Wirth West Hollywood.

      “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #7, Makonde” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Keith Lubow

      Detail of “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #7, Makonde” (2024), 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Keith Lubow

      “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #3, Tongwe” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen

      Detail of “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #3, Tongwe” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen

      “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #2, Zanaki” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Keith Lubow

      Detail of “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #2, Zanaki” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Keith Lubow

      “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #5, Rangi” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen

      Detail of “Numbers and Trees: Tanzania Series 1, Baobab, Tree #5, Rangi” (2024), acrylic sheet, acrylic paint, photograph, 3 parts, 95 x 132 1/4 x 5 3/4 inches. Photo by Fredrik Nilsen

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      in Art

      Watery Landscapes Set the Stage for Lachlan Turczan’s Ephemeral Light Installations

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      “Veil IV” (2024), water, light, silt, 15 x 15 x 3 feet. All images © Lachlan Turczan, shared with permission

      Watery Landscapes Set the Stage for Lachlan Turczan’s Ephemeral Light Installations

      February 14, 2025

      ArtNaturePhotography

      Kate Mothes

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      In the dreamy installations of Lachlan Turczan, natural and perceptual phenomena combine in otherworldly installations merging technology with aquatic landscapes. Water is central to the Los Angeles-based artist’s work and helps shape an ongoing series of immersive projects incorporating light and sonic phenomena.

      Turczan is influenced by the Light and Space movement, which originated in Southern California in the 1960s and is characterized by the work of John McLaughlin, Robert Irwin, James Turrell, Lita Albuquerque, and more. The movement focused on perception, employing materials like glass, neon, resin, acrylic, and fluorescent lights to emphasize light, volume, and scale.

      “Constellation Grid” (2024), water, light, and fog. A swamp in Upstate New York

      Many Light and Space artists created installations and immersive spaces conditioned by naturally occurring elements like Turrell’s ever-changing glimpse of the sky through a ceiling aperture for “Space that Sees.” Not only does the view change as clouds roll by or the weather shifts, but the light continuously transforms the entire room.

      “While my work shares this lineage,” Turczan tells Colossal, “it diverges in several key ways: rather than exploring the ‘nature of experience,’ I create experiences of nature that challenge our understanding of light, water, and space.” He describes his approach as “complicating” these elements, emphasizing the ever-changing fluidity of the environment.

      In Turczan’s ongoing Veil series, light installations unfold organically in locations ranging from Death Valley’s Badwater Basin to a flooded park near the Rhine River. Lasers and beams of light are projected and submerged, capturing the movement of wind, mist, and the water’s surface.

      Additional pieces also merge light and water, like “Aldwa Alsael,” which translates to “liquid light,” and was commissioned for the 2024 Noor Riyadh Light Art Festival.

      “Veil I” (2024), light, water, and salt. Death Valley, California

      “For the most part, these installations unfold organically,” Turczan says. “I may discover a location in nature that seems perfect for a new Veil sculpture, but when I return, the conditions have inevitably changed.” Evolving circumstances require the artist to proceed with an openness to chance encounters that strike a balance between preparation and intuition.

      Find more on Turczan’s website, and follow updates on Instagram. (via This Isn’t Happiness)

      “Death Valley Veil” (2024), water, light, and haze. Lake Manly, a temporary lake that formed in Death Valley’s Badwater Basin after Hurricane Hillary

      “Veil II” (2024), light, water, and steam. Mojave Desert, California

      “Aldwa Alsael” (2024), water, light, and steel tower, 25 x 25 x 50 feet

      “Veil V” (2024), water and light, 15 x 15 x 3 feet

      “Aldwa Alsael”

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    • 200 Shares159 Views

      in Art

      From Remedios Varo to Laurie Simmons, a New Exhibition Forwards a Feminist View of the Uncanny

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      Remedios Varo, “Tejido espacio-tiempo (Weaving of Space and Time)” (1954), oil on Masonite, 32 1/2 x 28 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Artwork © 2023 Remedios Varo/Artists Rights Society, New York/VEGAP, Madrid. All images courtesy of the National Museum of Women in the Arts, shared with permission

      From Remedios Varo to Laurie Simmons, a New Exhibition Forwards a Feminist View of the Uncanny

      February 4, 2025

      ArtHistoryPhotographySocial Issues

      Kate Mothes

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      In a 1906 essay, psychiatrist Ernst Jentsch coined the term “uncanny,” or unheimlich, meaning “unhomely” or “not home-like” in German. He defined the psychological phenomenon as the experience of something new or unknown that might initially be interpreted negatively.

      Austrian neurologist and founder of psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud popularized the word with the publication of his book The Uncanny in 1919, which elaborated on the idea as not just the sensation of the unknown but also something capable of bringing out other hidden or repressed elements. He even went so far as to describe the uncanny as frightening.

      Mary Ellen Mark, “Tashara and Tanesha Reese, Twins Days Festival, Twinsburg, Ohio” (1998; printed later), gelatin silver print, 20 x 24 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Image © Mary Ellen Mark/The Mary Ellen Mark Foundation

      During the 20th century, the Surrealists often turned to the concept to build a sense of mystery or tension in their works. Meret Oppenheim, for instance, famously created a teacup lined with fur, simply titled “Object” (1936), widely regarded as an iconic example of the movement.

      Oppenheim is one of more than two dozen artists whose work will appear in the National Museum of Women in the Arts’ forthcoming exhibition, Uncanny, featuring recent acquisitions and rarely shown pieces in NMWA’s collection, plus special loans.

      More than 60 works by renowned figures of modern art history like Louise Bourgeois, Remedios Varo, and Leonora Carrington will be shown alongside the likes of contemporary artists like Shahzia Sikander, Laurie Simmons, and Gillian Wearing. The large-scale presentation is the first to approach the concept through a feminist lens, organizing works around themes of safety and surreal imaginings.

      The show also plumbs the phenomenon of the “uncanny valley,” a term coined by robotics engineer Masahiro Mori in 1970 to describe the apprehension or discomfort one feels when confronted with something that is almost human but not quite, like video game characters that appear realistic yet still somehow seem “off.”

      Laurie Simmons, “The Music of Regret IV” (1994), Cibachrome print, 19 1/2 x 19 1/2 inches. © 2019 Laurie Simmons

      In Laurie Simmons’ “The Music of Regret IV” (1994), a female ventriloquist dummy sits in the center of a circle of six male dummy dolls, whose gazes are trained on her as she looked out into the distance. Tapping into a medium that has been used in the horror genre to instill a sense of creepiness or dread, Simmons’ central character is dramatically spotlit, her smile belying the reality that she is unsettlingly hemmed in.

      Along the theme of safety, or specifically unsafe spaces, Fabiola Jean-Louis’s elaborately staged photographs tell two stories at once. The artist portrays “seemingly innocuous portraits of close acquaintances wearing elaborate period costumes typical of upper-class European women, while disturbing images of racial and sexual violence are hidden within the background or details of a dress, reminding the viewer of the lineage of violence,” says an exhibition statement.

      Many works in the show address physical trauma or the body’s relationship to the unknown. Frida Orupabo’s photographic collages, for example, portray Black figures that evoke colonial histories, critiquing historical violence and injustices through a process of fragmenting, distorting, and multiplying body parts.

      Orupabo’s compositions echo the surrealist collaborative practice of cadavre exquis, or exquisite corpse, in which participants add to elements others have drawn without being able to see their work, producing intuitive and peculiar drawings.

      Frida Orupabo, “Two Heads (detail)” (2022), framed collage with paper pins, 58 1/4 x 41 1/2 inches. © Frida Orupabo, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Nordenhake Berlin/Stockholm/Mexico City

      “The enigmatic, darkly humorous and psychologically tense artworks in Uncanny give form to women artists’ powerful expressions of existential unease,” said NMWA Associate Curator Orin Zahra, who organized the exhibition. She continues:

      Rather than comfort and soothe, these ghostly and fantastical figures haunt the unconscious. Instead of picturesque images, artists offer disquieting spaces that unsettle the viewer. In focusing on the ambiguity between reality and fiction, artists explore increasingly blurred lines between the artificial and eerily human.

      Uncanny opens February 28 and continues through August 10 in Washington, D.C., highlighting painting, sculpture, photography, works on paper, and video made between 1954 and 2022. Learn more and plan your visit on the museum’s website.

      Fabiola Jean-Louis, “They’ll Say We Enjoyed It” from the series ‘Rewriting History’ (2017), archival pigment print, 33 x 26 inches. © Fabiola Jean-Louis, courtesy of the artist and Galerie Myrtis

      Gillian Wearing, “Sleeping Mask (for Parkett, no. 70)” (2004), wax reinforced with polymer resin, paint, 8 1/4 x 5 5/8 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Artwork © Gillian Wearing/Artists Rights Society, New York/DACS, London

      Julie Roberts, “Sigmund Freud Study” (1998), oil on acrylic ground on cotton duck, 84 x 72 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Artwork © Julie Roberts/DACS, London

      Gillian Wearing, “Me as Mona Lisa” (2020), chromogenic print, 24 1/4 x 19 1/8 inches. © Gillian Wearing, courtesy of the artist, Maureen Paley, London, and Tanya Bonakdar Gallery, New York/Los Angeles

      Leonora Carrington, “The Ship of Cranes” (2010), bronze, 26 x 14 x 42 1/2 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Artwork © Leonora Carrington/Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York

      Remedios Varo, “Fenómeno de ingravidez (Phenomenon of Weightlessness)” (1963), oil on canvas, 29 1/2 x 19 5/8 inches. © 2023 Remedios Varo/Artists Rights Society, New York/VEGAP, Madrid

      Polly Morgan, “Receiver” (2009), taxidermy quail chicks and Bakelite telephone handset, 9 x 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inches. Photo by Lee Stalsworth. Artwork © Polly Morgan

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    • 188 Shares199 Views

      in Art

      In London, an Enormous Exhibition of 500+ Works Roots Out the Creative Seeds of Flowers

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      Rebecca Louise Law, “Calyx” (2023). Image courtesy of the artist

      In London, an Enormous Exhibition of 500+ Works Roots Out the Creative Seeds of Flowers

      January 29, 2025

      ArtNaturePhotography

      Grace Ebert

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      In nature, flowers serve as an essential component of the reproduction process. But for humans, scented blooms are ripe with myriad meanings and symbolism that transcend their biological functions.

      During Victorian times, offering a bouquet to someone with your right hand indicated a non-verbal “yes,” while a yellow carnation would reject an admirer. Similarly in art history, wilting flowers rendered as a momento mori remind us of death’s inevitability, and for van Gogh, sunflowers were the perfect stand-in for gratitude.

      Aimée Hoving, “Compost” (2019). Image © Aimee Hoving, flowers by Brigitte Gentis van Dam Merrett

      A massive exhibition opening next month at Saatchi Gallery cultivates a vast repertoire of works that explores how blooms have become an omnipresent entity in human life and creativity. Flowers: Flora in Contemporary Art and Culture brings together more than 500 photographs, installations, sculptures, archival pieces, and other objects to create a rich landscape spanning millennia.

      Anchoring the exhibition is an expansive and immersive work of 100,000-plus dried flowers by Rebecca Louise Law. Smaller pieces include Xuebing Du’s ethereal photos of flowers in natural light, VOYDER’s streaky steam-laden compositions, and lush, vibrant gardens by Faye Bridgewater.

      Opening in time to usher in spring in London, Flowers runs from February 12 to May 5.

      VOYDER, “In Love with the Idea of You” (2024). Image courtesy of the artist

      Kasia Wozniak, “Anemoia #7.” Image courtesy of the artist

      Sandra Kantanen, “Still Life (Flowers I).” Image courtesy the artist and Purdy Hicks Gallery

      Xuebing Du, “Mother of Pearl” (2018). Image courtesy of the artist

      Carmen Mitrotta, “Geometric Leaves.” Image courtesy the artist

      Faye Bridgewater, “En Masse” (2025). Image courtesy of the artist

      Ann von Freyburg, “Floral Arrangement 1 (After Jan van Huysum, Still Life).” Image courtesy of the artist

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