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    In ‘Dripping Earth,’ Cannupa Hanska Luger Ushers the Past into a Speculative Future

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    “We Survive You—Midéegaadi” editorial photograph featuring seven mixed media bison regalia made of repurposed materials. All work © Cannupa Hanska Luger. Photo by Brandon Soder (2023). Image courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery, New York, shared with permission

    In ‘Dripping Earth,’ Cannupa Hanska Luger Ushers the Past into a Speculative Future

    November 17, 2025

    Art

    Kate Mothes

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    Upon entering Cannupa Hanska Luger’s new exhibition, Dripping Earth at the Joslyn Art Museum, visitors find themselves, in a sense, underwater. Frames of bull boats sail overhead, referencing the small vessels that some Plains tribes historically used and orienting us within the context of the Joslyn’s location in Omaha along the Missouri River, the museum’s art collection, and Luger’s Mandan, Hidatsa, Arikara, and Lakota lineage.

    Luger is known for his interdisciplinary explorations of his Northern Plains ancestry through clay, sculpture, performance, textiles, video, and more. For Dripping Earth, the artist took inspiration from a source with a close connection to both the Joslyn’s holdings and his own observations of art in his youth: the work of Swiss artist Karl Bodmer (1809–1893).

    “Thunder as Remarkable Landscape” (2025) from the series ‘Future Ancestral Technologies,’ eight-color lithograph, edition of 7, sheet: 38 x 26 inches. Photo by Wendy McEahern, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery, New York

    Between 1832 and 1834, Bodmer accompanied German naturalist Prince Maximilian of Wied on a North American expedition. Bodmer served as official documentarian, visually detailing the landscapes and people they encountered in numerous drawings and watercolors, many of which were later reproduced in Europe as lithographs. His portraits, which often emphasize ceremonial regalia, are a valuable record of Indigenous American tribal identity during this time.

    Drawn to the nature of artifacts—how, for instance, Bodmer’s work can become an artifact of an artifact within the context of printmaking and reproductions—Luger considers how narratives are both conveyed and received. When Bodmer’s paintings were translated into lithographs in the 19th century, the printmakers took liberties with “correcting” some of what they viewed as mistakes or incompletions, changing anatomical anomalies or missing details. But in some cases, these corrections weren’t actually a reflection of reality, which the original watercolors reveal.

    Luger is interested in how, over time, what is set into print becomes fixed, sometimes misconstrued, and inflexible. On the other hand, oral traditions like those of Northern Plains tribes are always evolving. For Dripping Earth, the artist focuses on this fluidity within the broader context of how American history is told.

    “As a Native person growing up in North America, you go to school, you learn the history of the country, and you have a contrary story,” the artist said during an opening talk for Dripping Earth. His ongoing series Future Ancestral Technologies is a way of collapsing time—of bringing both the past and the future together in a way that addresses how Indigenous American material and visual culture has been shown in museums—as something ancient, primitive, and dark, when in fact it is ever-present and always evolving.

    “Midéegaadi – Light” (2022) from the series ‘Future Ancestral Technologies,’ mixed-media bison regalia, installation dimensions variable. © Cannupa Hanska Luger. Photo by Brandon Soder, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery, New York

    For this show, Luger scaled up, making some of his largest work to date. A monumental figure of steel and black clay looms over a number of ceramic vessels, carved wooden objects, and multi-media installations. A socially engaged work comprising steel poles with handmade clay beads also evokes a giant, three-dimensional abacus in the shape of a buffalo, illustrating data of wild buffalo returning to the plains. A few workshops facilitated by the museum invite visitors to create their own clay beads, which are then added to the sculpture to complete the animal’s form over time.

    Central to Dripping Earth are a number of dancers sporting crocheted fabrics, padded gloves, and headdresses evocative of bison. These comprise Luger’s Midéegaadi series, the title of which is derived from the Hidatsa word for buffalo. A new group of limited-run prints combine these colorful figures—complete with Ben-Day dots that nod to the act of printmaking itself—with landscapes Bodmer sketched around the Missouri River region.

    Interestingly, although Bodmer made landscape paintings, too, the backgrounds of his portraits are typically left blank. Luger delves into how most 19th-century landscape painting of so-called “virgin territory” simply left out the presence of the Indigenous people who already lived there. “Oh, but we were there!” Luger says. Bodmer’s paintings are almost like the landscapes in reverse, with emphasis only on people. For a new series of Midéegaadi prints, Luger incorporates Bodmer’s landscapes into the background.

    Notably, many of the landforms the Swiss artist chronicled are now submerged in the Missouri River following the construction of major dams. But Luger considers this to be a part of a bigger story, in which these land forms—created by the river—weren’t “lost” but instead reclaimed by it. Which brings us again to how we approach Luger’s show, as though moving through a timeless, watery realm representative of the past, present, and future all at once—a speculative future that brims with the past.

    Karl Bodmer, “Leader of the Mandan Beróck-Óchatä,” watercolor and graphite on paper, 17 × 11 15/16 inches. Collection of the Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha, Nebraska, gift of the Enron Art Foundation. Photo © Bruce M. White (2019)

    Luger’s Midéegaadi dancers have made a number of appearances throughout 2025, including a large-scale installation for Times Square’s nightly Midnight Moment public art program. The video work took over more than 90 giant LED screens in the Manhattan intersection throughout the month of April, running for three minutes starting at 11:57 p.m.

    Last month, one character called “Midéegaadi – Fire” also debuted in an unsanctioned digital group exhibition called ENCODED in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s American Wing, during which the figure danced across Thomas Cole’s 1836–37 painting “View on the Catskills – Early Autumn” in an augmented reality performance.

    Dripping Earth continues through March 8, 2026, in Omaha. And ENCODED runs through December 21 in New York City. See more on the artist’s website and Instagram.

    “Bone as Remarkable Landscape” (2025) from the series ‘Future Ancestral Technologies,’ eight-color lithograph, edition of 7, sheet: 38 x 26 inches. Photo by Wendy McEahern, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery, New York

    “Midéegaadi – Fire” (2022) from the series ‘Future Ancestral Technologies,’ mixed media bison regalia, installation dimensions variable. Photo by Brandon Soder, courtesy of the Gochman Family Collection, New York

    “Light as Remarkable Landscape” (2025) from the series ‘Future Ancestral Technologies,’ eight-color lithograph, edition of 7, sheet: 38 x 26 inches. Photo by Wendy McEahern, courtesy of the artist and Garth Greenan Gallery, New York

    Karl Bodmer, “Rock Formations on the Upper Missouri” (1833), watercolor and graphite on paper, 12 1/4 × 7 3/4 inches. Collection of the Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha, Nebraska, gift of the Enron Art Foundation. Photo © Bruce M. White (2019)

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      in Art

      Bryana Bibbs On Weaving Through Trauma, Grief, and Loss

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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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    • 175 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      Vibrant Woodblock Prints Traverse a Bygone Japan in ‘Hiroshige: Artist of the Open Road’

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      “Tōkaidō Autumn Moon: Restaurants at Kanagawa, Musashi Province” (about 1839),
      color woodblock print. © Alan Medaugh. All images courtesy of The British Museum, shared with permission

      Vibrant Woodblock Prints Traverse a Bygone Japan in ‘Hiroshige: Artist of the Open Road’

      May 6, 2025

      ArtHistory

      Kate Mothes

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      Utagawa Hiroshige (1797–1858) was born in Japan on the brink of a national transformation. The Edo Period, characterized by the military rule of the Tokugawa Shogunate, had seen economic growth and sustained peace since its establishment in 1603. But 200 years on, the government’s staunch policies, hierarchical structure, and isolation from the outside world was beginning to erode. In 1867, just nine years after Hiroshige’s death, a new emperor restored imperial rule.

      Hiroshige: artist of the open road, which just opened at The British Museum, traces the remarkable variety of locations the artist portrayed, from cherry trees and gardens to pleasure boats in the Ryōgoku district of Edo (modern-day Tokyo) to sweeping views of iconic Mt. Fuji. His woodcuts capture everyday life, landscapes, and culture in 19th-century Japan in vibrant color.

      “Pleasure Boats at Ryōgoku in the Eastern Capital” (1832-34), color woodblock print triptych. Photo by Matsuba Ryōko. © Alan Medaugh

      Along with his contemporary peers like Hokusai, the artist witnessed immense change throughout his lifetime, which he chronicled in thousands of woodblock prints. “As Japan confronted the encroaching outside world, Hiroshige’s calm artistic vision connected with—and reassured —people at every level of society,” the museum says.

      Hiroshige often assembled his prints into collections or folios, and artist of the open road includes examples from 100 Famous Views of Edo (1857), The 69 Stations of the Kiso Highway (late 1830s), and more. The exhibition also marks the artist’s first solo show presented by The British Museum and the first in London in more than a quarter-century.

      Hiroshige: artist of the open road continues through September 7 in London. You might also enjoy perusing this fantastic ukiyo-e print archive.

      “Awa: The Rough Seas at Naruto” from ‘Illustrated Guide to Famous Places in the 60-odd Provinces’ (1855), color woodblock print. © Alan Medaugh

      “Seba” from ‘The 69 Stations of the Kiso Highway’ (late 1830s), color woodblock print. © The Trustees of the British Museum

      “Evening View of the Eight Scenic Spots of Kanazawa in Musashi Province” (1857), color woodblock print triptych. © Alan Medaugh

      “Nihonbashi – Morning Scene” from ‘The 53 Stations of the Tōkaidō’ (c. 1833-35), color woodblock print. © The Trustees of the British Museum

      “Mt. Fuji and Otodome Fall” (about 1849-52), color woodblock print. Photo by Matsuba Ryōko. © Alan Medaugh

      “The Plum Garden at Kameido” from ‘100 Famous Views of Edo’ (1857), color woodblock print. Photo by Matsuba Ryōko. © Alan Medaugh

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    • 150 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      In ‘I’m Listening,’ Barry McGee Celebrates Positivity in Amid Distress and Overwhelm

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      Installation view of ‘I’m Listening’ at Perrotin, Paris, 2025. Photos by Claire Dorn. All images © Barry McGee, courtesy of the artist and Perrotin, shared with permission

      In ‘I’m Listening,’ Barry McGee Celebrates Positivity in Amid Distress and Overwhelm

      April 30, 2025

      Art

      Kate Mothes

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      “Barry McGee lives in San Francisco—he was born there and he lives there,” critic and curator Richard Leydier opens in an essay accompanying the artist’s current solo exhibition, I’m Listening, at Perrotin. “This fact is important because his art would be profoundly different had he chosen to move to another American city.”

      McGee draws inspiration from the West Coast subculture he grew up within, surrounded by skaters, surfers, and street artists. He has long been interested in marginalized communities, societal outcasts, and those seen as subversive.

      The artist is a key figure of the Mission School, which emerged in the early 1990s through the work of a number of artists who were connected to the now-defunct San Francisco Art Institute. Other influential artists include Margaret Kilgallen (1967-2001), Ruby Neri, Claire Rojas, and more, all of whom explore the intersections between urban realism, graffiti, American folk art, and “lowbrow” aesthetics undergirded by social activism.

      McGee adopted monikers like “Twist” and “Lydia Fong” in his own graffiti writing and also explored painting and printmaking, which he still taps into in his expansive, multidisciplinary practice. He explores “dynamic panel assemblages, complex patterns reminiscent of op art, and immersive installations that explore the human condition,” the gallery says.

      I’m Listening erupts with color, pattern, and texture through a bounty of sculptures, paintings, prints, and assemblages that reimagine everyday objects. Surfboards are cloaked in optical geometric patterns in acrylic paint, and McGee’s signature grimacing, cartoonish faces appear on collages or in place of labels on glass bottles.

      “I focus on everything that is shitty on our little planet right now,” McGee says. Expressions of disgust or surprise are paired with playfulness, though. He adds, “I also celebrate all these incredible things that humans invent to stay positive and healthy.” I’m Listening continues through May 24 in Paris.

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    • 138 Shares109 Views

      in Art

      Daniel Martin Diaz Encodes Cosmic Questions into Geometric Paintings and Prints

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      “Celestial Harmonics.” All images courtesy of Daniel Martin Diaz, shared with permission

      Daniel Martin Diaz Encodes Cosmic Questions into Geometric Paintings and Prints

      April 2, 2025

      ArtIllustration

      Kate Mothes

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      In his ongoing “quest to articulate the ineffable,” Arizona-based artist Daniel Martin Diaz (previously) creates large-scale works that merge metaphysical, scientific, and technological phenomena into vibrant geometric compositions.

      Diaz’s current solo exhibition, UNIVERSAL CODES at the Everhart Museum of Natural History, Science, and Art, presents recent work drawing on a wide range of influences, from Mexican religious iconography and arcane religious sigils to Early Netherlandish painters and Gothic decorative motifs.

      “Cross Species Interface”

      Diaz’s work often investigates concepts of death and religion “as he seeks to pose questions but not answer them,” says an exhibition statement. Juxtaposing esoteric symbols and messages with scientific diagrams and spiritual iconography, the artist explores the surreality of cosmic forces.

      UNIVERSAL CODES continues through April 27 in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Find more on Diaz’s Instagram, and peruse a range of prints, apparel, and home accessories in his shop.

      “Temporal Soul”

      “Chrono”

      “Beyond the Self”

      “Astral Projection”

      “Conscious Universe”

      “Codex”

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    • 150 Shares129 Views

      in Art

      Tropical Flowers and Prickly Cacti Leap from Lili Arnold’s Vibrant Block Prints

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      “Strelitzia Reginae, a.k.a. Bird of Paradise III.” All images courtesy of Lili Arnold, shared with permission

      Tropical Flowers and Prickly Cacti Leap from Lili Arnold’s Vibrant Block Prints

      March 26, 2025

      ArtIllustrationNature

      Kate Mothes

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      Every year, Lili Arnold’s mother would block-print holiday cards to send to family and friends. When she was old enough to wield a carving tool, Arnold began to make her own, too. But it wasn’t until college, when she took an Intro to Printmaking class, that she became enthralled with the practice’s myriad methods.

      Block printing specifically captured Arnold’s attention because of its relatively simple components and technique—no giant presses required. The block can expand in scale, incorporate different colors, or be layered with numerous pressings.

      “Strelitzia Reginae, a.k.a. Bird of Paradise”

      “I think what I love most about the process is seeing my first print after so many hours of sketching, planning, carving, and troubleshooting,” Arnold tells Colossal. “There’s a lot of thought and time invested in the steps before the actual print becomes real, so when I see that first reveal, it’s both terrifying and thrilling.”

      Arnold’s compositions often revolve around natural subjects, especially botanicals like cacti and tropical flowers. She is fascinated by the environment’s infinite interaction of colors, textures, patterns, and symmetry.

      “There’s such vast diversity of plant life out there, each ecosystem encapsulating unique details and wonders,” she says. “We as artists and botanical patrons have the pleasure of translating and expressing our appreciation of this beauty through our artwork, writing, gardening, exploring, and beyond.”

      Follow updates on Arnold’s Instagram, and browse prints available for purchase in her shop.

      “Zantedeschia Albomaculata, a.k.a. Spotted Calla Lily III”

      “Palm Study III”

      “Emergence of Spring”

      “Opuntia Ficus-Indica, a.k.a. Prickly Pear”

      Blocks ready for printing

      Pulling “Opuntia Ficus-Indica, a.k.a. Prickly Pear”

      Block for “Banksia Prolata”

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    • 175 Shares139 Views

      in Art

      ‘Little Beasts’ Is a First-of-Its-Kind Museum Collaboration Reveling in Art and the Natural World

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      Jacopo Ligozzi, “A Groundhog or Marmot with a Branch of Plums”. (1605), brush with brown and black wash, point of the brush with black and brown ink and white gouache, and watercolor, over traces of graphite on burnished paper, sheet: 13 x 16 5/8 inches. All images courtesy of The National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., shared with permission

      ‘Little Beasts’ Is a First-of-Its-Kind Museum Collaboration Reveling in Art and the Natural World

      March 21, 2025

      ArtHistoryNatureScience

      Kate Mothes

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      During the 16th and 17th centuries, major developments in colonial expansion, trade, and scientific technology spurred a fervor for studying the natural world. Previously unknown or overlooked species were documented with unprecedented precision, and artists captured countless varieties of flora and fauna in paintings, prints, and encyclopedic volumes.

      Marking a first-of-its-kind collaboration between the National Gallery of Art and the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, Little Beasts: Art, Wonder, and the Natural World pairs nearly 75 prints, drawings, and paintings with around 60 objects from the NMNH collection.

      Jan van Kessel the Elder, “Insects and a Sprig of Rosemary” (1653), oil on panel, 4 1/2 x 5 1/2 inches

      “In major cities like Antwerp, artists such as Joris and Jacob Hoefnagel and Jan van Kessel created highly detailed drawings, prints, and paintings of these insects, animals, and other beestjes, or ‘little beasts’ in Dutch,” says the National Gallery of Art. “Their works inspired generations of artists and naturalists, fueling the burgeoning science of natural history.”

      Natural history has been a focus for scholars since ancient times, albeit early commentary was a bit more wide-ranging than its definition today. The largest single work to have survived from the Roman Empire is Pliny the Elder’s Naturalis Historia, which consists of 37 books divided into 10 volumes and covers everything from astronomy to zoology and mineralogy to art.

      Studying the natural world in ancient and early modern times was predominantly a philosophical pursuit until a discernible change during the Renaissance. By the 16th century, attitudes had shifted. The humanist learning tradition, centered on literature and the arts, began to give way to more advanced explanations for natural objects, describing their types and transformations and grouping them into classes.

      Private collections played a fundamental role in founding many natural history archives. The popularity of Wunderkammers, or “rooms of wonder,” transformed a pastime of the wealthy into exercises in scholarly prestige. By the late 17th century, more rigorous and formalized classification systems emerged as the philosophical component waned.

      Wenceslaus Hollar, “Shell (Murex brandaris)” (c. 1645), etching on laid paper, plate: 3 3/4 x 5 3/8 inches

      Throughout this time, artists like Albrecht Dürer, Clara Peeters, and Wenceslaus Hollar created works that responded to new discoveries. From biologically accurate renderings of shells and insects to playful compositions that employ animals and plants as decorative motifs, paintings and prints were often the only means by which the public could see newly discovered species.

      “Art and science have been closely aligned throughout the 175-year history of the Smithsonian,” says Kirk Johnson, director of the NMNH. “Even today, researchers at the National Museum of Natural History depend on scientific illustrators to bring clarity and understanding to the specimens they study.”

      Little Beasts opens on May 18 and continues through November 2 at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. Find more on the museum’s website.

      Clara Peeters, “Still Life with Flowers Surrounded by Insects and a Snail” (c. 1610), oil on copper,
      overall: 6 9/16 x 5 5/16 inches; framed: 10 x 9 x 1 1/2 inches

      Robert Hooke, “Micrographia: or, Some physiological descriptions of minute bodies made by magnifying glasses. / With observations and inquiries thereupon” (1665), bound volume with etched illustrations height (foldout illustrations significantly larger): 12 3/16 inches

      Jan van Kessel the Elder, “Artist’s Name in Insects and Reptiles [bottom center]” (1658), oil on copper, overall: 5 5/8 x 7 1/2 inches; framed: 9 7/8 x 12 1/8 inches

      Jan van Kessel the Elder, “Noah’s Family Assembling Animals Before the Ark” (c. 1660), oil on panel, overall: 25 3/4 x 37 3/16 inches; framed: 32 3/4 x 44 1/4 inches

      An Elephant Beetle (Megasoma e. elephas) from the Department of Entomology collections at the Smithsonian Institution National Museum of Natural History

      Wenceslaus Hollar, “Two Butterflies, a Wasp, and a Moth” (1646), etching on laid paper, plate: 3 3/16 x 4 3/4 inches; sheet: 3 1/4 x 4 13/16 inches

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    • 113 Shares119 Views

      in Art

      Fleckled Offers 150+ Hand-Printed Letterpress Fonts for Digital Download

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      All images courtesy of Fleckled, shared with permission

      Fleckled Offers 150+ Hand-Printed Letterpress Fonts for Digital Download

      March 4, 2025

      ArtDesign

      Grace Ebert

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      As AI infiltrates every part of the creative process, those committed to human expression have found innovative ways to make craft and artistry endlessly appealing. Creative director Jason Pattinson is one such person. He’s behind Fleckled, a new online shop of hand-printed letterpress typefaces that have been digitized and are available as high-resolution downloads.

      Currently, Fleckled contains more than 150 fonts printed on an 1860s-era Columbian press, with more on the way. All are available in either uppercase, lowercase, or numeral sets with additional ornaments and borders across myriad styles. Retaining the signature graininess and warmth of the wood, each also comes in two versions: one with a thicker, more saturated ink and another with a lighter, more distressed feel.

      “The small flaws in the hand-carved wooden blocks are what give letterpress its distinctive character and enduring appeal,” Pattinson says. “Visible defects, woodgrain, planing patterns, and wear effects have been balanced through various levels of inking and pressure to achieve the optimal dense and distressed versions.”

      Pattinson and his team have been working on digitizing letterpress for more than two decades. He’s collaborated with printers and dealers across Italy, Sweden, Germany, Argentina, the U.S., and the U.K., where he’s based.

      “We’re in discussions with a few retired printers who own some truly remarkable private collections, exploring opportunities to digitise and sublicense their fonts and various assets to expand our online resource,” Pattinson told Design Week.

      As Fleckled grows, it makes the medium more widely available and offers an alternative to AI generation for those who might be interested in the letterpress aesthetic without access to a press.

      Pattison launched the shop because he wanted “to make these timeless assets available to a new generation of creatives.” He shares with Colossal, “It fills me with a great confidence that in a world being overwhelmed with AI, the design community is resolute in authenticity!”

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    • 138 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      Suspicious Animals Take Stock of Their Surroundings in Strangford’s Vibrant Prints

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      All images © Strangford, shared with permission

      Suspicious Animals Take Stock of Their Surroundings in Strangford’s Vibrant Prints

      February 3, 2025

      Art

      Jackie Andres

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      A posse of vibrant creatures slyly scope out their surroundings in prints by Jo Pearson, a.k.a. Strangford. From pigeons and rabbits to alligators and fish, the artist’s most recent creations expand upon her previous works featuring playful animals.

      In the last year, Strangford has gradually shifted her practice toward carving wood, contrasting her earlier techniques that largely focused on linoleum. “It might seem like a small change, but it makes a big difference to the character and texture of the print,” the artist explains. “The more handmade the finished print looks the happier I am.”

      As Strangford refines her woodblock carving skills, she also explores the possibilities of reduction printing, which refers to the act of gradually carving away more material from the same block after using it to print initial layers. This is one of the ways she can achieve such detailed expressions and more complex patterns.

      Strangford’s work is currently on view for the Lino Print 4 exhibition in the U.K. Follow the artist’s Instagram for peeks at her process, and check out her website for prints.

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