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      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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    • 113 Shares199 Views

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      An Exhibition Celebrates the Self-Taught Immigrant Artists Shaping Chicago

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      Alfonso “Piloto” Nieves Ruiz, , born Querétaro
      Mexico, 1975, “In the name of progress,” (2017), mixed media, 69 5/8 x 26 x 24 inches. Photo by Photo by Lisa Lindvay
      . All images courtesy of Intuit Art Museum, shared with permission

      An Exhibition Celebrates the Self-Taught Immigrant Artists Shaping Chicago

      May 23, 2025

      ArtSocial Issues

      Grace Ebert

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      Built on the traditional homeland of the Sauk, Fox, and Potawatomi peoples, Chicago is a city of immigrants. Just 13 years after the city was incorporated in 1837, more than half of its residents were born overseas, having flocked to the region from across Europe and Asia alongside tens of thousands of others. Today, Chicago is home to 1.7 million immigrants, totaling 18 percent of the population.

      The inaugural exhibition at the newly renovated Intuit Art Museum celebrates this history by bringing together 22 artists with ties to the city. Comprised of 75 works across mediums, Catalyst: Im/migration and Self-Taught Art in Chicago highlights those who worked in the Midwest and established their practice outside the traditional art world models.

      Carlos Barberena, born Granada, Nicaragua, 1972, “Exodus” (2019), linocut on HW Rives paper, edition of 25, 24 x 19 inches

      Intuit is a longstanding champion of self-taught artists. Established in 1991, the museum has recognized the incredible creative contributions of those operating outside the mainstream due to economic, societal, or geographic reasons.

      One such artist is Henry Darger, who worked as a hospital custodian by day and produced an enormous collection of drawings, watercolor paintings, and cut paper works only discovered after his death. While Darger’s works now sell for prices in the high six figures, his story is unique. Historically, self-taught artists don’t often attain the critical or financial recognition of their traditionally trained peers.

      Catalyst comes at a particularly relevant moment in the U.S., as immigrants are under increasing threat. Spotlighting works with a wide array of topics and approaches, the exhibition creates a sort of contemporary tapestry of those shaping Chicago’s cultural landscape since the mid-20th century. The show intends to highlight “artists deserving of greater attention, while posing questions about access to the art world and how art comes to be defined and valued,” a statement says.

      Included are four impeccably detailed paintings by Drossos P. Skyllas (1912-1973), an Ottoman-born artist known for his enchanting hyperrealistic portraits. Charles Barbarena works with a similar devotion to precise mark-making in his portraiture. The Nicaraguan artist creates linocuts that frame instances of trauma and adversity with elaborate floral motifs, his depictions of people continually harnessing compassion and resistance.

      Drossos P. Skyllas, born Kalymnos, Ottoman Empire (now Greece), 1912-1976, “Greek Bishop” (c. 1967), oil on canvas, 65 x 41 1/2 inches

      Found object and mixed-media sculpture features prominently, too. The soaring miniature cathedral by Charles Warner, for example, interprets the sacred spaces of his childhood in Prussia through hand-carved wood and pastel paint. There’s also the figurative assemblage of Alfonso “Piloto” Nieves Ruiz, who sculpts a rendition of the Statue of Liberty. With a torso of unidentifiable hands caked in soil and detritus at her feet, Piloto’s “In the name of progress” complicates the symbol of freedom.

      Catalyst is on view through January 11, 2026.

      Charles Warner, born Prussia (now Poland), 1884-1964, “Cathedral III” (c. 1955) mixed media, 48 1/16 x 16 1/8 x 20 7/8 inches. Photo by Mark Widhalm

      Charles Warner, born Prussia (now Poland), 1884-1964, “Cathedral III” (c. 1955) mixed media, 48 1/16 x 16 1/8 x 20 7/8 inches. Photo by Mark Widhalm

      Photo by Lisa and Nick Albertson

      María Enríquez de Allen, American, born Allende, Mexico, 1907-1999, “Untitled (New life goat skull)” (1997), mixed media, 8 ¾ x 7 x 10 ½ inches. Photo by Lisa Lindvay

      Marion Perkins, American, born Marche, Arkansas, 1908-1961, “Untitled (Wire head)” (c. 1955), steel wire, 19 x 12 x 13 inches. Photo by Lisa Lindvay

      Bronislaw “Bruno” Sowa, American, born Lubomierz (Poland), 1915-1995, “Untitled” (1994), oil on board in carved pyrography frame with glass jewels, 33 x 24 x 1 1/4 inches. Photo by Lisa Lindvay

      Photo by Lisa and Nick Albertson

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    • 138 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      ‘Wonder Women’ Celebrates the Dazzling Figurative Work of Asian Diasporic Artists

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      Dominique Fung, “Bone Holding Fan” (2021). All images courtesy of the artists and Rizzoli, shared with permission

      ‘Wonder Women’ Celebrates the Dazzling Figurative Work of Asian Diasporic Artists

      May 15, 2025

      ArtBooksSocial Issues

      Kate Mothes

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      In February 2020, curator and gallery director Kathy Huang met artist Dominique Fung—a month before the COVID-19 pandemic shut everything down. Their conversations, which continued throughout quarantine, served as an impetus for what would become Huang’s Wonder Women exhibitions at Jeffrey Deitch.

      During their chats, Huang and Fung lamented “the uptick in violence against Asian American communities, particularly against women and the elderly,” Huang says in the introduction to her forthcoming book, Wonder Women: Art of the Asian Diaspora.

      Mai Ta, “mirror image” (2022)

      The two also found it difficult to pinpoint when the last major exhibition had been staged that thoughtfully presented Asian artists, and neither could think of an instance where women and nonbinary artists had been the focus. Both of Huang’s exhibitions and her new book are the fruit of that desire to highlight the remarkable spectrum of figurative work being produced within the Asian diasporic community today.

      A response to racism against Asians exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic, Huang conceived of the shows that went on view in 2022 in New York and Los Angeles as a means to highlight the incredible, groundbreaking work made especially by women and nonbinary artists.

      Forthcoming from Rizzoli, Wonder Women shares a similar title to a poem by Genny Lim, which follows experiences of Asian women through the lens of a narrator who observes their everyday routines and considers how their lives relate to hers.

      Huang expands on this view in her approach to showcasing the work of forty artists, each represented through at least four pieces and a personal statement. These artists “subvert stereotypes and assert their identities in places where they have historically been marginalized,” Rizzoli says.

      Sally J. Han, “At Lupe’s” (2022)

      Artists like Sasha Gordon or Nadia Waheed explore identity through sometimes fantastical self-portraiture, while others highlight family, community, and colonial or patriarchal systems in the West. Some address Asian myths, legends, and visual culture, like Fung’s exploration of antique objects or Shyama Golden’s otherworldly scenes in which hybrid human-animals interact with nature or urban spaces.

      Wonder Women will be released on May 20. Order your copy from the Colossal Shop.

      Shyama Golden, “The Passage” (2022)

      Chelsea Ryoko Wong, “It’s Mah Jong Time!” (2022)

      Nadia Waheed, “Bolides/ 852” (2022)

      Cover featuring a painting by Sasha Gordon

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    • 238 Shares129 Views

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      Five Years in the Making, an MiG-21 Fighter Jet Gets a Glow-Up from Tens of Millions of Glass Beads

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      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos. All images courtesy of Ralph Ziman, shared with permission

      Five Years in the Making, an MiG-21 Fighter Jet Gets a Glow-Up from Tens of Millions of Glass Beads

      April 15, 2025

      ArtHistorySocial Issues

      Kate Mothes

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      “We’re going to make stuff out of beads that is going to take people’s breath away,” says Ralph Ziman in the trailer for “The MiG-21 Project,” a military jet that he and a transcontinental team coated nose to tail in millions upon millions of glass beads.

      For the past 12 years, the Los Angeles-based artist has examined the impacts of the Cold War Era and the global arms trade through a trilogy titled Weapons of Mass Production, motivated by his upbringing in Apartheid-era South Africa. More than half a decade in the making, “The MiG-21 Project” completes the series.

      The first installment, “The AK-47 Project,” reimagined the aesthetic of one of the world’s most ubiquitous wartime weapons, the Avtomat Kalashnikova 1947, by coating dozens of the guns in colorful glass beads. The second project revolved around the Casspir, a heavy-duty Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected Vehicle (MRAPV) introduced in the 1970s, which he likewise ornamented in vibrant geometric patterns.

      “The idea was to take these weapons of war and to repurpose them,” Ziman says, flipping the narrative about icons of violence and transforming them instead into symbols of resilience, collaboration, and collectivity. Vehicles and firearms morph into a theater of hope and strength in the face of a terrible 20th-century legacy.

      Apartheid, which in Afrikaans means “separateness,” is the name assigned by the minority white-ruled Nationalist Party of South Africa to a harsh system of racial segregation that began in 1948. The period lasted until 1991 and was closely linked within the context of international relations to the Cold War as tensions erupted between the U.S. and the former U.S.S.R. Spurred by the deterioration of the two countries’ WWII alliance and fears about the spread of Communism into the West, the war began in 1947 and also ended in 1991 when the U.S.S.R. was dissolved.

      During this time, the Russians produced a fighter jet called the Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21. The plane is “the most-produced supersonic fighter aircraft of all time,” Ziman says. “The Russians built 12,500 MiG-21s, and they’re still in use today—just like the Casspir and just like the AK-47s. But it’s one thing to say, hey, I want to bead a MiG, and then the next thing, you’ve got a 48-foot MiG sitting in your studio.”

      The MiG-21 cockpit

      “The MiG-21 Project” combines photography and costume design with historical research and time-honored Indigenous craft. The project encompasses not only the jet but a series of cinematic photographs and elaborate Afrofuturist regalia inspired by military flight suits, African tribal textiles, and space travel.

      Ziman’s team comprises numerous skilled artisans from Zimbabwe and Indigenous Ndebele women from South Africa’s Mpumalanga Province, who are renowned for their beadwork. For the Ndebele, beadwork is a means of expressing cultural identity and rites of passage, taking on powerful political connotations in the 20th century as it became associated with pre-colonial African traditions and identity.

      Tapping into the lessons of our not-so-distant past, Ziman addresses current conflicts like war and the global arms race, modern colonialism, systemic racism, and white supremacy through the lens of Apartheid. Funds raised throughout the process, part of the mission of the Weapons of Mass Production trilogy as a whole, are being donated to the people of Ukraine in support of the country’s ongoing conflict with Russia.

      You’ll be able to see the “The MiG-21 Project” later this year in Seattle, where it will be on view from June 21 to January 26, 2026, at the Museum of Flight. Explore more on Ziman’s website.

      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos

      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos

      “Hero Of Cuito Cuanavale,” Inkjet on Moab Entrada paper, 43 x 56 inches

      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos

      Detail of the MiG-21 cockpit

      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos

      “The Raider and Her MiG-21,” Inkjet on Moab Entrada paper, 43 x 56 inches

      Photo by Mauricio Hoyos

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    • 150 Shares179 Views

      in Art

      vanessa german Channels Metaphysical Healing Powers in a Series of Monumental Assemblages

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      “the siddhi of the soul” (2025), rose quartz, wood, plaster, plaster gauze, the shine of the full moon on my mother’s face while saving my sister’s life, pyrite, joy, the ecstasy of creativity, marble tile, astroturf, for how it is to know that you are but a splinter of the whole and also entirely whole the same time, a revelation of lapis, citrine, the way that clouds are creative, a loosing against old ways of power, a healing
      song sung just of breath and now-ness, amethyst, 3 quilts and the love of jill and Dev, the hands
      of dev, the hands of jordan, the hands of our collective soul, strawberry quartz, fish key chains, a mammy creamer in the eye, hematite, butterflies made by the artist, a muse against cruelty,
      for how it is to be alive inside of this holy soul, magic., 65 x 36 1/2 x 36 1/2 inches. All images © vanessa german, courtesy of the artist and Kasmin, New York, shared with permission

      vanessa german Channels Metaphysical Healing Powers in a Series of Monumental Assemblages

      April 8, 2025

      ArtSocial Issues

      Kate Mothes

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      Meaning “perfection” or “attainment,” the Sanskrit word siddhi describes a kind of powerful spiritual energy attained through meditation and mindfulness. To be a siddha is to be accomplished—to achieve a level of optimum spiritual wellbeing. For vanessa german (previously), making sculpture is a spiritual practice with the power to confront systemic social issues and conjure a sense of community.

      In GUMBALL—there is absolutely no space between body and soul, german’s solo exhibition at Kasmin, “the siddhi of the soul,” for example, lists rose quartz, wood, plaster, and marble tile along with “…the way that clouds are creative, a loosing against old ways of power, a healing song sung just of breath and now-ness…”

      “the emergence, or, on considering the transformative nature of the dragon fly as told by Richard Rudd.” (2025), we dance here don’t we bend out our bones and loose our spirts free in an agreement of birth and suffering, wood, plaster, plaster gauze, lapis, sodalite, blue kyanite, quartz, rose quartz, dyed howlite, turquoise, bottles, blue things at the bottom of the sea, languishing, morganite, blue amber eye bee—for seeing the unseen inside of your own self, the deep grief of it all , the light from the wound, blue pigments, a white snake for transformation, a solid fearlessness, grace, onyx, obsidian, rhinestones, cut glass, a host of possibilities, magic and loving that keeps making itself new, over and over again., 64 x 40 x 38 inches

      german’s monumental new series of sculptural heads are conceived as “cosmic maps, proposing a cartography for a sacred place that embraces the full creative potential of all people,” says an exhibition statement. Drawing inspiration from ancient Mesoamerican Olmec heads, which were carved from basalt and measure, in some cases, more than 11 feet tall, the artist channels heft and gravitas.

      The descriptions of her pieces are a far cry from standardized lists of raw materials; combining lyrical and autobiographical references, the accompanying texts complement each work’s inspiration, process, and inherent energy.

      Beads, glass, ceramics, wood, recycling, astroturf, found objects, and more are complemented by myriad emotions and memories like “joy,” “languishing,” and “the way that black girls—in my youth—could speak their own language by chewing and popping gum.” She incorporates minerals and stones like quartz, onyx, and obsidian, transmitting their metaphysical healing properties.

      The exhibition is organized into two complementary presentations, including the mixed-media heads and a series of fallen figures. The latter strike poses that reflect vogue dancers’ “death drops” in ballroom competitions, in which they fall to the floor as if mimicking death, then use one leg to bounce back up.

      Title TBD (2025), 36 x 24 x 14 inches

      The fallen figures’ heads are replaced with porcelain racist caricatures, “reclaiming power from their white counterparts,” says a statement. Mirroring the voguing technique, each dancer emphatically rebounds from not only the illusion of death but from bigotry, systematic oppression, and violence toward the LGBTQ+ community and those who interrogate social norms.

      GUMBALL—there is absolutely no space between body and soul continues through May 10 across two of Kasmin’s Chelsea locations in New York City. Explore more on german’s Instagram.

      Detail of “the emergence, or, on considering the transformative nature of the dragon fly as told by
      Richard Rudd.”

      “lover, lover, lover boi” (2025), arm trans women, existence cannot be non-existence, get over it, love, love, love, wood, plaster, plaster gauze, bottle cap chain, forgiveness, clear quartz, cut glass, titanium dyed geodes, onyx, obsidian, shungite, Smokey quartz, beaded glass trim, the grief always, the opposite of self loathing, a Native American beaded hat from a trading post near what we now call, “the Grand Canyon.” Heat, starlight, the dance of all ages, kissing and fucking for the peace and joy of it all, anatomical heart model, mammy note pad body with original pencil, cut glass ring holder, quartz points from the land we now call, “Arkansas”, cowboy salt shaker, a snake for the bite and shrugging off of the passage of time., 77 x 31 x 34 inches

      “you own soul is a true magic” (2025), wood, marble tile, love, red glass beads, rose quartz, onyx, obsidian, shungite, Smokey quartz, lapis, agate, candelabras, joy, a found wooden foot, ceramic birds, pyrite, sodalite, emerald with quartz, black beaded text, sitting down in the soul for a made-up song, mirror, amethyst, beaded key chains from guatamala, astroturf, agate, morganite, creativity as antidote, silence, dancing, forgiveness., 70 x 43 x 36 1/4 inches

      Detail of “you own soul is a true magic”

      Title TBD (2025), 26 x 16 x 11 inches

      “GUMBALL, or, Gloriously Underestimated Magical Bounty As Living Love. Or, An Invitation to Contemplation at the pace of One’s own Divine Soul.” (2025), gemstones and minerals: tigers eye, onyx, obsidian, rose quartz, morganite, lapis, aragonite, citrine, agate, dyed jade, titanium heated geode, spirit quartz. Cut glass crystal, fish key chains, a love song to the Soul of it all, a house in which to grow wise in a manner with allows no violation to the being, wood, hand blown glass gumball, ceramic figurine, pink prayer beads, prayers of grace and the intimacy of loneliness giving into the knowing of deep and true wholeness, light, astroturf, joyous angelic presence, the levity of the Buddha—HA HA. Love, memories of my grandmother, plaster, plaster guaze, cardboard, obsidian lucky foot, 3-4 bags of my/the artist’s recycling, a laying on of hands and a release into the grace of being held outside of one’s own mind, joy, ceramic butterflies, the way that black girls—in my youth—could speak their own language by chewing and popping gum, beaded flowers, hope, newness, porcelain tile, slow down, it’s going to be ok., 87 x 47 1/2 x 43 1/2 inches

      Detail of “GUMBALL, or, Gloriously Underestimated Magical Bounty As Living Love. Or, An Invitation to Contemplation at the pace of One’s own Divine Soul.”

      Title TBD (2025), 36 x 22 x 14 inches

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    • 175 Shares189 Views

      in Art

      ‘The Praise House’ Shares the Story of a Contemplative Installation on an Alabama Plantation

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      All images courtesy of 1504, shared with permisison

      ‘The Praise House’ Shares the Story of a Contemplative Installation on an Alabama Plantation

      March 6, 2025

      ArtFilmHistorySocial Issues

      Grace Ebert

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      On the site of the former Scott’s Grove Baptist Church, artist Tony M. Bingham has constructed a monumental work of contemplation and reflection. Two wood-paneled walls stand parallel in the serene clearing with stained glass windows, a Sylacauga marble floor, and a steel cutout depicting members who once worshiped on its grounds.

      A tribute to local history, Bingham’s work is titled “The Praise House,” which takes its name from the vernacular structures people who were enslaved often built on plantations throughout the Southern U.S. as a space for prayer. “My way of addressing the power and the legacy is to just begin to look at some of the possible sources of opposition that the enslaved community could have participated in,” the artist says.

      A new short documentary follows Bingham as he visits The Wallace Center for Arts and Reconciliation and installs the work. Located just outside of Birmingham in Harpersville, Alabama, the former plantation house is now a space for healing and reconciliation run by descendants of both the enslaved and enslavers.

      Today, the center hosts a variety of art and culture programming to reflect on its history, and “The Praise House” is one such commission. After learning more about the enslaved communities, Bingham wanted to create a work that honored their legacy. “Using organic, repurposed, and cast-off materials, I make art that tells the story of my cast-off people,” he says, adding:

      The house was being historically renovated, and planks of lumber were being replaced. I imagined that these old boards were the very surfaces enslaved people walked on or touched, and I sought to bring those materials back together in a way that could inspire reflection on the history of the enslaved people who once lived there.

      Directed by Tyler Jones of 1504, the film is a poignant, enlightening glimpse into the lengthy process behind “The Praise House.” Bingham, who is a professor at Miles College in Birmingham, frequently invokes the historical realities of the location and returns to fundamental questions about the purpose of his work and art more broadly. “Who will speak for my people if not the artist?” he asks. “Who will help those outside of the art dialog to understand the creative potential they possess?”

      Watch “The Praise House” above, and find more from the artist on Instagram.

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    • 200 Shares169 Views

      in Art

      A New Documentary Traces How a Faith Ringgold Mural at Rikers Island Helped Women Break Free

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      Detail of “For the Women’s House” (1972). All images from ‘Paint Me a Road Out of Here’

      A New Documentary Traces How a Faith Ringgold Mural at Rikers Island Helped Women Break Free

      February 13, 2025

      ArtFilmHistorySocial Issues

      Grace Ebert

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      In 1971, Faith Ringgold (1930-2024) received her first public art commission. New York City offered the late artist a $3,000 grant to paint a mural at the Women’s House of Detention on Rikers Island. After going inside and speaking with those incarcerated in the notorious prison, Ringgold decided to base the work around a request from one of the women about what she hoped the piece would depict: “I want to see a road leading out of here.”

      In Ringgold’s characteristically bold palette, the resulting mural features more than a dozen figures, many of whom are employed in professions unavailable to women at the time. Vibrant and sliced into eight sections, “For the Women’s House” portrays doctors, bus drivers, basketball players, and the yet-to-be-realized vision of a woman as president. The large-scale work was a tribute to the deferred dreams of those who were locked up and a directive to reimagine the stereotypes put on incarcerated people.

      According to ArtNet, the artist continued her relationship with the detained women and returned to the facility each month to provide “courses in subjects ranging from mask-making and theater to career counseling and drug addiction prevention.”

      When Rikers Island transitioned to housing men in 1998, though, the Department of Corrections painted over the work, concealing it under a thick layer of white paint.

      A new documentary directed by Catherine Gund chronicles Ringgold’s fight to regain control over the mural as it tells a broader story about the injustices of the U.S. justice system. Paint Me a Road Out of Here, released by Aubin Pictures, features conversations with Ringgold before her death last year, along with artist Mary Enoch Elizabeth Baxter, who has been commissioned to create a new work to replace “For the Women’s House.”

      The film comes at a time when more artists who were formerly incarcerated are gaining attention as they point out the dehumanization and cruelty at the heart of the prison system. Jesse Krimes, for example, interrogates the material conditions of life inside as he incorporates soap bars, playing cards, newspapers, and bedsheets into his practice. And at a similarly infamous facility, artist Moath al-Alwi sculpts ships from cardboard, dental floss, and threads from his prayer cap while detained at Guantánamo Bay.

      “For the Women’s House” (1972)

      While the film shares the story of Ringgold’s nearly lost mural—which was relocated in 2022—it also speaks to the power of community and connection through art and making, particularly in places where despair and degradation are rampant. “Art gives us permission to imagine a world beyond what currently exists,” one interviewee in the film says.

      Paint Me a Road Out of Here is currently screening at the Film Forum in New York. Keep an eye on Aubin Pictures’ website and Instagram for additional locations.

      The artist with the mural

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    • 113 Shares159 Views

      in Art

      Timo Fahler’s Stained-Glass Sculptures Question Symbols and Curtailed Freedoms

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      “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door” (2023), chain-link fence, steel, stained glass, lead, and aluminum, 48 x 38 x 6 inches. All images courtesy of the artist and Sebastian Gladstone Gallery, shared with permission

      Timo Fahler’s Stained-Glass Sculptures Question Symbols and Curtailed Freedoms

      February 5, 2025

      ArtSocial Issues

      Kate Mothes

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      The creation of stained glass can be traced back to ancient Egypt and Rome, but we most often associate it with its popularity in Western Christianity, as in the biblical narratives adorning chapels and cathedrals. For Timo Fahler, this tradition forms the foundation of a multimedia practice influenced by Mesoamerican codice imagery, national symbols, and motifs found in older European churches.

      Stained glass is a “storytelling medium in which I get to draw from everything I experience, everything I study, read, believe in, and even distrust,” Fahler tells Colossal. “We are floating in a unique era of questioning reality, the last gasp of the living generation before automation integrates itself via AI, ChatGPT, and digital interface.” He views his practice as depicting this era and even, in a way, immortalizing it.

      “topos haliaíetos for the bald eagle; topos chrysaetos for the gold eagle/Mexico” (2023), steel, cast iron, stained glass, lead, tin, and obsidian, 27 x 41 x 2 inches

      Fahler first worked with lampworking glass while studying ceramics at the Kansas City Art Institute, which sparked an ongoing interest in the medium. Recently, he began incorporating it into what he calls “rebar drawings,” which form the foundation of much of his work. “I was curious about letting the unpredictability of light become a part of the ‘materials’ I work with,” the artist says.

      Many of Fahler’s sculptures are framed or supported by heavy-duty metals like rusted steel, iron fences, and gates. Stained glass hovers a few inches from the wall, casting colorful shadows. For his most recent works, Fahler places barriers atop the glass to consider not only the viewer’s relationship to the image but also the implications of people being barred from freedoms and knowledge. “I draw from a lot of different sources—historical, mythological, and fantastical—all of which encompass my ‘heritage,’” the artist says.

      In a piece titled after the poem “New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus, which is carved in bronze on the Statue of Liberty’s pedestal, Fahler uses a gate to frame a detail of Lady Liberty’s arm constructed of tiny glass squares soldered to the facets of a chain-link fence. Historically a potent symbol of welcome, amnesty, and inclusiveness, the statue in this context references how today, new immigrants’ access is more troubled and often blocked.

      Serpents, dragons, eagles, and landscapes merge with realistic portraits and references to historical moments and national emblems, like Mexico’s crest featuring a golden eagle on a cactus with a snake in its talons. The image centers on the nation’s flag, representing the resilience, bravery, and spirit of the Mexican people. Echoing his representation of the Statue of Liberty, the icon is barricaded, merging with iron bars.

      “I against i” (2024), found fence, steel, stained glass, grisaille, glass, and lead, 53.5 x 53 x 7 inches. Photo by Nick Massey

      Fahler is currently working on a solo presentation with Sebastian Gladstone this autumn. He and his family just moved to Amsterdam, where he shares he’s beginning from a “zero-point/clean canvas” in a new studio, and he plans to explore ideas around the complexities of sovereignty, expatriation, and a quickly evolving global society.

      “The world is changing so quickly that we cannot collectively understand, let alone keep up with it!” he says. “I’m excited to be working on all of that and look forward to the body of work that depicts it.”

      Find more on Fahler’s website and Instagram.

      “two-headed serpent” (2023), mirror steel, cast iron, stained glass, copper, and lead, 30 x 45 x 4 inches

      “fever dream” (2024), found gate, steal, stained glass, grisaille, and lead, 32 x 84 x 6 inches. Photo by Nick Massey

      “twin serpents” (2024), steel, stained glass, lead, and rebar, 70 x 64 x 64 inches. Photo by Nick Massey

      “Space Shuttle Challenger (OV-099)” (2023), fence, steel, stained glass, and lead, 64 x 59.5 x 3.5 inches

      “copper zen mountain” (2023), rebar steel, stained glass, lead, and copper, 30 x 40 x 6 inches

      “code switching” (2024), found chain-link fence, steel, stained glass, and lead, 64 x 48 x 8 inches

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