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Category: features
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ART THAT TRANSPORTS
Three New Metro Stations Featuring Eight InstallationsThe Regional Connector will open June 16, and it’s really good news for those of us who take Metro, because it will reduce time and station changes in getting around on LA’s ever-expanding light rail. I’m also looking forward to the public art—some of the most ambitious projects yet—that will distinguish three new stations that connect Union Station to 7th Street/Metro Center Station.
Having lived in cities with extensive light rail systems (Washington, DC, Tokyo, Hong Kong), I love good public transportation. They are not only an efficient and affordable means of transportation in spread-out cities, they are also places for meeting and gathering, dissemination of information, and public art. The art provides pauses and markers of time and space, offering doses of visual delight, kernels of thought and reminders of local and regional culture and history. In this latter role, they can help elevate civic life and community.
The three new stations will feature eight site-responsive art installations commissioned by Metro and include a number of well-known artists from Southern California, as well as Ann Hamilton, the noted installation/performance artist based in Columbus, Ohio. To learn more about Metro Art, I spoke with Zipporah Yamamoto, senior director of special projects in the Metro Art program. She explains that 40 years ago the Board of Metro’s predecessor agency decided on a “percent for art” program; a program which sets aside a portion of construction costs for transit capital projects, to be used for public art.
“Under construction view (detail) of Clarence Williams’, “Migrations,” at Historic Broadway Station. “We try to make that half percent go as far as possible,” says Yamamoto. “We do that by getting involved early on in the project, and look at the project and how it’s evolving, and how we can work closely with the architects and the design team to get the most impact for riders.” In 2014 there was a call to artists to apply to get qualified for consideration. Then a panel of art professionals reviewed those qualified and ranked them according to a set rubric; the most highly ranked were invited to submit proposals for specific stations. At this point materials would be identified by Metro Art staff—materials like glass, porcelain enamel steel and mosaic which would withstand the wear and tear of exposure. “All of the artists who were finalists were also paid to develop those proposals, and to make a presentation to the panel,” says Yamamoto. “We don’t ask artists to develop proposals for things for free.”
Under construction view (detail) of Andrea Bowers’s, “The People United (“El pueblo unido jamás será vencido,” Sergio Ortega and Quilapayun; “Brown Beret 13 Point Political Program,” La Causa),” at Historic Broadway Station After a proposal was approved, artists would go into a more detailed design and development phase, with more time to get to know the community and geography. Artists Audrey Chan and Pearl C. Hsiung conducted outreach and workshop programs; Mark Steven Greenfield worked with the California State University, Los Angeles Alumni Association to send out a survey about the Red Car, an earlier light rail system that served the region that would be the subject of his project.
The results have been vibrant and varied. The Little Tokyo/Arts District station will feature Clare Rojas’ Harmony with its abstracted landscape and Audrey Chan’s Will Power Allegory made up of 14 panels with colorful vignettes of people from the Arts District, Skid Row, Bronzeville and Gabrielino/Tongva Tribe. The Historic Broadway station will feature Andrea Bowers’ “The People United (“El pueblo unido jamás será vencido,” Sergio Ortega and Quilapayun; “Brown Beret 13 Point Political Program,” La Causa),” Mark Steven Greenfield’s Red Car Requiem and Clarence Williams’ Migrations. The Grand Avenue Arts/Bunker Hill station will feature Ann Hamilton’s over-under-over with a pattern inside and outside an elevator tower, Pearl C. Hsiung’s 60-foot tall glass mosaic, High Prismatic and Mungo Thomson’s Negative Space (STScI-2015-02).
Under construction view of Mark Steven Greenfield’s, “Red Car Requiem,” at Historic Broadway Station Don’t forget the fun places you can go with the Connector—Little Tokyo boasts a slew of Japanese restaurants and shops—be sure to check out the Japanese sweets shop Fugetsu-do and popular ramen restaurants on First Street; the Japanese American National Museum, next to MOCA Geffen, is across from the metro stop and award-winning East West Players has its theater nearby. The Arts District with its art galleries, including mega-gallery Hauser & Wirth, are within walking distance. Grand Avenue Arts/Bunker Hill station will let you out steps from The Broad museum and Disney Concert Hall, with the Music Center and its three theaters only a couple blocks away.
Many more infrastructure projects are on the horizon. To learn more about opportunities with Metro Art, visit metro.net/art and click on Art Opportunities.
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Village Mindset
Innovative Community-Building at Art + PracticeIt has long been the rule for nonprofits of all kinds to create and maintain paternalistic relationships with the causes and communities they claim to serve. Unfortunately, there are several arts nonprofits that fit this bill. So it’s refreshing to catch up with an organization such as Art + Practice, which has directly contributed to positive and long-term impact in the majority Black community in Leimert Park, since its founding in 2014.
Art + Practice’s partnership with First Place for Youth is providing support to anywhere from 85 to 100 transition-age foster youth at any given time. Their collaborations with institutions such as the California African American Museum (CAAM) and the Hammer Museum bring free arts programming to South Los Angeles while promoting artists of color. Their most recent collaboration began in 2022 with PILAglobal, a nonprofit dedicated to providing educational support to children and families experiencing global forced migration. Partnerships such as these are noble and necessary, but they aren’t automatically effective just because all parties involved want them to be, or say they are. So then—in places where these collaborations have had true impact as intended—what has been the driver of these successes?
Installation view of “Thaddeus Mosley: Forest” exhibition at Art + Practice. It starts with how much honesty any business or nonprofit entity brings to its mission. Art + Practice is the brainchild of Black artist Mark Bradford, who still lives in South LA, where he grew up. From its very founding, A+P has been an extension of Bradford’s citizenship in South LA, demonstrating what it looks like to lead with a “village mindset.” “The village serves as another element of home,” says Thomas Lee, the director of First Place for Youth. “How do we create a greater sense of home with immediate services, but also expand that sense of home in the larger village of our communities and our society?”
This high level of intentionality present at every level of First Place’s operations is coupled with A+P’s provision of almost-free space for services right in the Leimert Park area and generous monetary backing: over $100,000 a year in scholarships and support for youth aging out of LA’s foster care system, most of them Black. This shows up for scholars as individual support in pursuing their education and employment goals; onsite job shadowing opportunities with A+P’s team to provide opportunities for First Place’s young adults to see what it’s like to work at a nonprofit arts organization; offsite job tours at large-scale businesses; roundtable discussions with leaders in their field of expertise and events celebrating their successes.
As a result, youth graduating from the transitional program go on to enjoy continued growth and success in just about every walk of life. In fact, anywhere from 10 to 15% of graduates go on to pursue the arts professionally.
Exhibition Walkthrough of
“Deborah Roberts: I’m”
at Art + Practice.Sophia Belsheim, who has been with Art + Practice since its conception and has worked her way up to the director position, feels that the organization’s very targeted mission and vision attracts similarly focused and welcoming people. “There’s this amazing connection to the community that’s very direct.” she says, referencing Bradford’s ties to Leimert Park and co-founder Eileen Harris Norton’s origins in Watts. “They understand it. They’re not just coming in from the outside but working within. That’s something that’s always captivated me since I’ve worked here,” she continued. New initiatives are launched only after assessing the needs of the community, taking care not to displace any existing businesses. The goal is for people to view the A+P gallery space as a conduit to engaging with world-class art while out and about grabbing coffee, buying books and doing the everyday things that people do—no pressure to purchase anything.
The main determining factor is the impactful partnerships A+P launches, treating them like genuine friendships you treasure. When speaking of the staff at the CAAM, who she’s working with on their five-year collaboration, Belsheim says, “They are incredibly thoughtful about how to conceptualize their programs and they bring us into the dialogue, and that feels like a true collaboration. I think where collaborations tend to not work out is when there is dictation—when it’s not about openness and welcoming.”
According to the US Supreme Court, corporate entities are people, and the Citizens United ruling by the same court has declared that money equals speech. There is a dark side to the consequences of these laws, and yet there can also be a light side—it’s simply a matter of choice. Accordingly, we can view A+P as a person who chooses to put their money where their mouth is, who embodies the characteristics of a respectful neighbor and thoughtful friend, and who uses their position and privileges to benefit the peers within their community. And this is all because A+P’s founders allow it to be an extension of their own village mindset.
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Extra Flavor
Desert X Breathes New LifeIn another sign of an unusually wet winter in Southern California, the desert and foothills of Coachella Valley are painted a lush green, the tops of the San Jacinto Mountains dusted with a few inches of stark white snow. It is against this startlingly serene backdrop that the 2023 iteration of Desert X, a young and ambitious biennial, blossoms across the sun-kissed Fantasyland of Palm Springs.
Departing bright and early for the press preview day on March 3, I made the two-hour drive east from Los Angeles to the Desert X hub at the Ace Hotel & Swim Club to enjoy refreshments under the sun and hear opening remarks from this year’s organizers.
There’s a saying attributed to the Kwakwaka’wakw nation that artistic director Neville Wakefield used to frame the exhibition: “A place is a story happening many times.” In recognition of the force humans exert upon the natural world, the 12 international artists selected for this year’s presentation by Wakefield and co-curator Diana Campbell serve as documentarians of the stories and mythologies as historic and encompassing the desert holds.
To the curators’ credit, this year’s artworks move away from replicating the legacies of land artists like Robert Smithson and Walter De Maria who once dominated the American West. Instead, it foregrounds women and artists of color whose work recontextualizes our connections to the desert and amplifies issues of social and environmental justice in greater depth, breathing new life into the arid landscape.
One such work comes from Tshabalala Self in the form of Pioneer, my first stop of the day. In a provocative interpretation of a commemorative equestrian statue, a disembodied female torso with legs triumphantly splayed across the back of a kneeling horse displaces the classic image of a macho colonialist on horseback. The monumental bronze sculpture was built in homage to Black and Indigenous foremothers whose bodies and labor allowed contemporary America to develop. Its placement, nestled away in a shady grove at the end of a sandy, half-mile hike through Desert Hot Springs, echoes how the histories of women of color were shunned away from city centers—and thus, our collective consciousness. But here, the sculpture’s assertive presence celebrates the rightful place in the American landscape of all the marginalized groups it represents.
Next, I made my way a few miles north to Mexican artist Mario García Torres’ Searching for the Sky (While Maintaining Equilibrium). Another short hike from the parking area later, the desert gave way to a herd of mechanical bulls made of skyward-facing metallic sheets reminiscent of solar panels writhing out-of-sync on electric pedestals. I climbed to the top of a nearby dune and watched aerially over Torres’ clever commentary on cowboy culture, searching for patterns in the bulls’ movements but eventually settling on the futility of humans attempting to harness any semblance of control over these wild animals or the unforgiving environment we found them in.
In a cinematic experience activated by driving along Gene Autry Trail, I encountered an equally poignant sequence of billboards featuring photographs by Tyre Nichols, the 29-year-old Black man fatally beaten by Memphis police in January. Each photograph in the series titled “Originals” stands out within the desert empire of roadside signs, advertising unassuming and hopeful images of landscapes, sunsets and architectural spaces, yet tinged with reminders of the roadside violence that claimed Nichols’ life too early. Arranged at the last minute, the work is a nod to the curators’ commitment to centering social issues and a continuation of the biennial’s tradition of utilizing billboards as sites of artistic expression blended into the existing desert infrastructure.
Desert X 2023 installation view, Tyre Nichols, Originals, GoFundMe Tyre Nichols Memorial Fund, photo by Lance Gerber. Gerald Clarke’s Immersion is the installation most deeply rooted in the indigenous history of the region. A university professor and local Cahuilla tribal leader, Clarke has constructed a monumental maze-like gameboard atop a woven straw apparatus he describes as “like Native Trivial Pursuit.” The interactive piece comes with a set of custom playing cards with trivia questions based on indigenous intellectual tradition, a design that, Clarke conceded, would give the average American visitor a hard time and compel them to cheat—just as they have cheated Native peoples out of just about everything. As he predicted, I found it nearly impossible to navigate the walk-on boardgame in the manner Clarke intended and had to stop myself from giving in to my inclination to simply google the answers. But I was rewarded with new ways of viewing the landscape and brought home with me a reminder of erased local histories, as well as a desire to do better in educating myself.
After a quick detour for a poolside Spanish lunch, I embarked eastbound to Cathedral City for my next stop at Sunnylands Center, whose botanical gardens host Amar a Dios en Tierra de Indios, Es Oficio Maternal by Mexico City–based artist Paloma Conteras Lomas. The installation centers on a silver 1991 Chevy Caprice that has seemingly broken down among the cacti. A vibrant tangle of plush textile forms—including stuffed sombreros, phallic forms bearing stuffed guns, clumps of flowers and furry clawed limbs—erupt from the vehicle’s windows, windshield, roof and trunk, spilling onto the manicured lawn in absurdist fashion. I took a moment to sit in the car’s back seat, where
Lomas included an audio-visual component, and was overcome with the odd sensation that I was a hapless passenger being stewarded toward my impending doom by a playful cast of alien characters. In contrast to a softness that invites children to hug its billowing appendages, the work addresses heavy topics of class violence and colonial guilt with a tongue-in-cheek lightness.Located a five-minute drive east of Sunnylands came one of the most powerful installations in the biennial—British-Bangladeshi artist Rana Begum’s otherworldly No.1225 Chainlink. Responding to the ubiquity of the chain-link-fence pattern seen across Coachella Valley, Begum reclaims its dual associations of protection and exclusion: Her labyrinthine installation combines harsh industrial materials with the meditative, ritualistic experience visitors get from meandering through a concentric pavilion she has built out of chain-link fences painted bright yellow. What at first feels like a claustrophobic spiral proved to be an expansive rather than reductive structure, with the center giving way to a clearing that allows people to flow through the enclosure just as easily as wind, water, sand and sunlight filter through the repetitive metal slots. Flanked by rolling hills and miles of shrubbery dotting the desertscape, No.1225 Chainlink is unnervingly imposing yet gracefully sensuous. Begum smartly diffuses the material’s divisive connotations through rhyming geometric architecture.
Desert X 2023 installation view, Rana Begum, No. 1225 Chainlink, photo by Lance Gerber, courtesy the artist and Desert X. Throughout, Desert X 2023 centers the significance of water to desertscapes, and three key installations create instruments reflecting the physicality of water cycles and climate change in drastically different ways. Salt, in turn, features heavily as a counterpart to water and a marker of its dearth. New York–based artist Torkwase Dyson’s Liquid A Place—the southernmost installation located in Palm Desert—is a large-scale abstract sculpture taking an utterly unique and meditative form of a gigantic, matte-black arch with a womb-like cutout. It invites viewers (as our bodies are predominantly water) to be a part of the history of water in this space as we travel through and over the piece via an implanted staircase. At the northwest corner of Desert Hot Springs, a towering telegraph pole submerged in coarse salt emits sonorous “prayers” from trumpet-shaped loudspeakers flowering from its top. Created by the London- and Delhi-based duo Himali Singh Soin and David Soin Tappeser, collectively known as Hylozoic/Desires, the multimedia Namak Nazar broadcasts curious echoes and tales into the vast barren landscape, a humorous nod to the proliferation of conspiracy theories borne out of the desert.
Finally, The Smallest Sea with the Largest Heart by Lauren Bon and Metabolic Studio is a mesh steel sculpture in the form a life-sized blue whale heart that hangs suspended in a pool of water from the Salton Sea. But rather than serve as portent of climate disaster, the sculpture metabolizes the shallow saline pond into clean energy and water, reminding us that the desert we stand in was once a sea and fueling the potential for new life over the run of the exhibition.
Just off by the I-10 intersects with a cross-continental freight rail line lies LA-based artist Matt Johnson’s epic Sleeping Figure. The work comprises 12 shipping containers propped precipitously in a humanoid form lounging laconically at the base of a snow-capped mountain range, replete with a painted sleepy smile. Sited within eyeshot of the cars roaring down the freeway toward the Port of Los Angeles, the colossal sculpture speaks aptly to the fragility and inescapability of the global economy and supply chain. Just as I was about to veer onto the I-10 West ramp, a freight train towing countless dozens of shipping containers identical to the ones making up Johnson’s sculpture thundered through the background of Sleeping Figure and into the receding horizon. I paused to watch before following suit in my car, feeling utterly transformed by my day in the desert and ready to chase the setting sun back to Los Angeles.
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Commerce and Culture
Andy Freeberg’s Cheekily Captured Art-World InequalitiesEven when photographers are most concerned with mirroring reality, they are still haunted by tacit imperatives of taste and conscience.
—Susan Sontag, “On Photography”Photographer Andy Freeberg has become something of an inadvertent cultural sociologist. Born in New York City and currently residing in Northern California, he began his professional career as a photojournalist working for publications such as Rolling Stone, Time, The Village Voice and Fortune, photographing the likes of Patti Smith, the Rolling Stones, Miles Davis, Liberace and many political figures. In 2007, he shifted his lens to capture the more circumscribed realm of art-world environs—it was something of a hybrid move to fine-art documentarian.
“When I began doing the color art-world photographs, I was looking at Bernd and Hilla Becher’s influence on Andreas Gursky, Thomas Struth, and Candida Hofer. I liked the German typology idea but wanted to add a humanistic touch and some American humor to that style,” said Freeberg at his San Francisco opening last March,
In the 2007 series, “Sentry,” Freeberg turned his attention to New York’s Chelsea commercial galleries: those white-walled sanctum sanctorums with their often intimidating Modernist interiors. The formal, nearly identical images depict tableaux of gallery staff seated behind imperious desks that obfuscate their identities. These are a different species of gatekeepers. Cheim and Read is one of several pictures in this mordant series of officious yet emotionally inert scenes.
Freeberg’s 2008 series, “Guardians,” is a complete visual detour. Here he captures Russian babushkas who, for a small government stipend, sit beside historic paintings at Moscow’s State Museums. The saturated, operatic images cast the sitters as willing protectors of a grand cultural chronicle. Michelangelo’s Moses and the Dying Slave, Pushkin Museum (2009), pictures an imperious woman, arms crossed, guarding her charge with implacable resolve.
Tiburon House artist: Edite Grinberga, 2018. Courtesy of the artist. In a contrasting juxtaposition, his next series, “Art Fare” (2009) captures the art consiglieri at work—fully exposed, lobbying and selling pricey art at a public trade show. To most of the public, it’s an obtuse and murky place, surrounded by the ambiguities of elitism, negotiation and commerce. Freeberg explains, “Gallery owners and their staff are usually hidden behind large entry desks and closed office doors. But at the major art fairs I’ve visited, like New York’s Armory Show and Art Basel in Miami and Switzerland, they’re in plain view in their booths. As if on stage, you can see art dealers meeting with collectors, selling and negotiating, talking on cell phones, working on laptops. I found the lighting, costumes and set design excellent for photographing these living dioramas, where the art world plays itself.” One photograph, Sean Kelly, Art Basel Miami Beach, 2010 artist: Kehinde Wiley depicts Wiley’s arresting work foregrounded by enervated dealers—the art business can be a bit of a waiting game.
Initiated in 2017, Freeberg’s most recent and somewhat cheeky series, “Advisor,” was recently on view at San Francisco’s Jack Fischer Gallery. Freeberg tracked and photographed an art advisory group whose raison d’etre is satisfying the aesthetic requirements of the region’s budding tech nouveau riche. The advisors are called in to source, install and sell artworks on needy walls of the Bay Area’s contemporary palazzos—call it turn-key cultural services. But what, exactly, is a so-called art advisor? As it turns out, they have their own rather homogeneous membership association (the Association of Professional Art Advisors), which, according to their website, is dedicated to “emphasizing integrity, connoisseurship and education as the foundations of professional practice.”There’s more, but you get the picture; within that definition, there are myriad business-model permutations. (Disclosure: I do art advising on occasion.)
Freeberg attempts to maintain a dispassionate distance from this exclusive cohort, but it’s difficult for a viewer not to draw voyeuristic narratives from the images. Russian Hill, 2017 artist: Joseph Adolphe captures an art advisor at work, the young woman lugging a oversized painting of a bull into an elite hillside dwelling. Qualitative considerations of the chosen painting aside, the image seems a quintessential marker of the irrational financial exuberance that permeated the Bay Area economy, whose balloon was recently punctured further by a major bank failure.
Cheim & Read, 2007, from the series Sentry. Courtesy of the artist. Freeberg doesn’t pose or “style” these scenes, yet Napa Pool, 2017 artist: Benjamin Anderson reads as surreal set-piece, with an advisor hauling a painting in the background while a youth languidly peruses on a technological device at poolside—an aloof yet illuminating domestic scene. Los Gatos Living Room, 2017 artist: Kim Simonson pictures the Finnish artist’s striking moss-green sculptures, plopped incongruously on the floor, awaiting the works’ final domestic placement.
The images are not as straightforward as they might seem, with the advisors as de-facto gatekeepers and attendant aides-de-camp to a niche demographic. But the picture that most jarringly captures this pecuniary arrangement is Tiburon House, 2018 artist: Edite Grinberga. In the foreground, a young Latino gardener is mowing a pristine lawn while the art advisor dutifully handles a painting in the background. It’s a somewhat disquieting mise en scène that confronts the socioeconomic rifts between client, advisor and gardener. In a state where wealth inequality is pervasive, the tableau is reminiscent of artist Jay Lynn Gomez’ paintings and public sculptural interventions of the “invisible,” largely Latino, labor force that tends to the bucolic gardens and homes of Beverly Hills. The purposeful and incisive color compositions bring the juxtapositions into stark relief—although the repeated tropes and scenes make for a numbing equivalence.
Freeberg’s photography wryly captures the confluence of money, art and the facility of convenience: the age-old reciprocity of commerce and culture, where the latter can scarcely survive without the former.
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Unknown Landscapes
Jessica Taylor Bellamy Explores the Wetlands“Can you smell the earth exhaling? I love the smell of moisture coming out of the ground,” exclaims artist Jessica Taylor Bellamy, inhaling the sweetness after the drizzling rain as we embark on our Sunday afternoon hike through the wetlands of South Los Angeles. As we descend the muddy hillside draped in bright yellow wildflowers, we share a moment of childhood nostalgia, recalling wild mustard flowers that flourished vividly in our memory. Looking down at the soles of my sneakers, already caked with dirt, I feel a sense of wonder, enchanted by the green, dewy world before me, as if I were 10 years old, my clammy hand nestled tightly in the palm of a friend.
Bellamy and I met as graduate students at USC in 2020. Our friendship blossomed around our shared interest in ecological theory, Mike Davis, Octavia Butler, and growing up in Southern California in the Y2K era. Our conversation about LA, art and ecology is ongoing and personal—it is an ever-evolving dialogue grounded in friendship and a mutual desire to care for the planet.
Guided by eco-phenomenology, Bellamy’s work is informed by the city’s shifting environment and ecological entanglements, her experiences, observations and familial history. The artist’s prolific practice spans painting, screen printing, film, sculpture and installation, all of which incorporate observational and scientific research, found images and a well of archival materials she has developed throughout the years. While her approach often involves figures and data, it is also experimental and poetic. Many of her paintings incorporate found text from popular media sources such as the Los Angeles Times hand-screenprinted onto her paintings, resulting in juxtapositions that expose tensions embedded in the city. Myths of sunshine and noir collide in her beautiful, almost sublime renderings of the California landscape overlaid with headlines about social and environmental devastation—situating her practice in a specific place and time.
Jessica Taylor Bellamy, Proving Ground, 2023. Our conversation took place in and around the Ballona Wetlands Ecological Reserve, located just down the street from Bellamy’s home in Playa del Rey and a short distance from where I grew up in Palos Verdes. With hundreds of acres of salt and freshwater marsh, the park’s meandering terrain feels both contrived and unruly. It exists in a constant state of construction and repair in coordination with the Ballona Wetlands Restoration Project (BWRP), which aims to reconnect the land and the sea, allowing fresh and salt waters to flow and support a healthy ecosystem.
“People don’t realize there is actually nature in Los Angeles; you just have to know where to go,” Bellamy states as she points toward a thorny vine of wild strawberries crawling along the trail’s warped wooden fence. The sound of bugs and critters trilling around us resembles a pulse—life and earth percolating with rambunctious vitality. White egrets graze elegantly at the water’s edge, seemingly unfazed by the flight path overhead or the sound of traffic from surrounding intersections. It’s as if the egrets decided to tune out the buzz of the city. This entanglement of life and death (human and nonhuman) and environment (built and natural) exemplifies the collaborative ecological thinking at the heart of Bellamy’s practice.
Bellamy points up at two hawks soaring across the murky skyline. She always seems to know when a hawk is nearby. Various animals and plant life operate like symbols in her practice, taking on particular meanings relating to the artist’s identity and environment. Hawks can be found throughout the artist’s work and tell a story about her father, who immigrated to California from Cuba in the late 1960s and eventually settled in Inglewood, where he learned to train red-tailed hawks to catch mice and other small critters. Bellamy has become attuned to the strange spaces where nature and culture interact.
The mud beneath our feet grows stickier as we travel deeper into the wetlands, the dirt telling our bodies to slow down and look. “Los Angeles is an ongoing construction site,” says Bellamy, as we stumble upon a fence that appears to be sinking into the muddy water. Crooked and nearly half-submerged, the fence looks silly and trite, like an artificial boundary for the mouth of the marsh to swallow, for nature to devour. This image recalls the many variations of screens and portals that appear in Bellamy’s work—found and imaginary, natural and artificial. A recent painting titled Floods in a Desert (included in the artist’s inaugural exhibition with Anat Ebgi gallery) depicts a window that is warped by the ghostly impression of a Washingtona robusta leaf (Mexican fan palm), further abstracted by layers of cracks and fragments that resemble broken glass. Rays of kaleidoscopic light seep between the layers of reality, refracting and deflecting to further distort any sense of perspective. This underlying menacing beauty evokes the paradoxical feeling of living in Los Angeles. Bellamy exposes the tensions built into the city and considers how they are amplified by the clash of fantasies, mythologies and realities.
Jessica Taylor Bellamy, Ignorance and Nothing More, 2023. “We’re almost near the crazy-ass birds!” Bellamy announces with an eager giddiness, hurling her finger into the air to guide my eyes across the water toward a pair of resident Canadian geese that stand charmingly side by side at the edge of the marshland. She explains that they are grounded in the wetlands due to the disruption of their migration patterns, like nonhuman climate refugees. These geese make me think of agency (and oppression) from a multi-species perspective.
Bellamy reminds me that the LA wetlands undergo “rewilding” every year in an effort to remove invasive species that could potentially disrupt the ecosystem. The following stream of questions arises: What makes an invasive species invasive? Do invasive plants and critters have agency? Or is their invasiveness just a mode of survival? A reaction to their forced displacement? Should we consider ourselves (humankind) an invasive species? After all, aren’t we the ones choking the climate to death in the name of “progress”? Agency shifts and falters with every collision and collaboration or, in Karen Barad’s words, “Existence is not an isolated affair.”
Bellamy tells both macroscopic and microscopic stories about agency and oppression, collected and constructed from her lived experience and intimate observations. She helps instruct us on how we might feel the ground exhale.
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Of Murals and Mullahs
The Revolutionary Graffiti of IranIt began with marker on concrete: “Dear Zhina, you will not die. Your name will be a symbol.”
Zhina was the Kurdish name of Mahsa Amini. On September 13, 2022, the 22-year-old was arrested by Iran’s “morality police” for wearing her headscarf too loosely. While in custody, she was murdered. Mahsa’s grandfather wrote those words on her gravestone.
#MahsaAmini did become a rallying cry, igniting worldwide protests on behalf of “Woman. Life. Freedom”—“Zan. Zendegi. Azadi.” Protestors in Iran took to the streets—and continue to do so—despite lethal crackdowns, sexual assaults and poisonings. Women removed their hijabs and cut their hair. At the same time word of #MahsaAmini and #IranRevolution spread on social media and the protests expanded. Iranians expressed their exasperation over the repressive regime of President Ebrahim Raisi and Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei with its economic woes, corruption, floods, droughts and ban on dogs. The litany of woes was captured in Shervin Hajipour’s Grammy Award-winning protest anthem “Baraye” (For The Sake Of).
In the early days of the revolution—just as they had with previous uprisings—the Islamic Republic shut off the country’s internet, and the protests continued with spray-paint on bricks: “Resistance is life.” But the Islamic Republic was ready with buffers and white paint, because this is a regime that understands the power of words and images on a wall.
Public mural in Tehran defaced with paint. Photographer’s name withheld for their protection. Following Iran’s 1979 revolution, the Islamic Republic embarked on a propaganda campaign of polluting Tehran’s visual space with large-scale murals on public and private buildings. In the early 1980s, murals featured the supreme leader of the revolution, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. During the Iran–Iraq War, depictions of “martyrs” killed in the “Imposed War” headlined Tehran’s multi-story buildings, rendered in bright primary colors and Islamic green. Iranian-American anthropologist Roxanne Varzi said, “It was the war that ultimately defined the Islamic republic as an image machine.”
Regime-sanctioned muralists have kept the machine running. In 2020, a US drone assassinated Iranian General Qasem Soleimani for his key role in coordinating bombings and other hostile actions. On January 2, 2023—the third anniversary of his death—the country’s largest mural was raised above Enqelab Square in central Tehran: a 15,000-square-foot billboard of Soleimani flanked by other “martyrs of the devotees of the nation.”
Hijabs and walls are synecdoches for the regime. The Islamic Republic controls what is seen and covered; they regulate the heads of Iranian bodies and buildings. No wonder, then, that some of the first acts of revolution were Iranian citizens removing hijabs and knocking the turbans off of mullahs. And perhaps it’s not surprising that numerous Instagram photos of graffitied walls are accompanied by women posing without hijabs and, sometimes, with lifted shirts.
Mahsa Amini’s grave. Photographer’s name withheld for their protection. The regime had failed to recognize the tacit refinement of another image machine. These revolutionaries had grown up beneath a sky overcast with propaganda murals; and on phones and computers inside these decorated buildings, they, too, had mastered the power of words and images.
In response to the regime’s rapid erasure of graffiti, protesters began dating their messages: “Death to Khameni – October 16th.” When Iranian authorities whited out “Woman. Life. Freedom.” on a bank’s door, Iranian citizens painted over that with: “Blood cannot be cleaned with anything.” In honor of Mahsa Amini, and all she symbolized, Iranians invaded roofs and poured paint on those state-sanctioned murals, smearing Khameni with dripping blood-red color.
Mahsa and her generation grew up in the literal shadow of violent and repressive men. They are now coming into the light, removing their hijabs, hanging them from Tehran billboards, and reclaiming the country—and walls—for themselves.
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“Britt Ransom: Arise and Seek”
at Pitzer College Art GalleriesWhen stepping into Britt Ransom’s solo exhibition, you face an archway. This reproduction, created with 3D scans, prints and a CNC machine, revives a signature piece of the Tawawa Chimney Corner house in Wilberforce, Ohio. Today, only the arch’s stone pillars remain, but Ransom dug into her family archives to find a photograph suitable for reference. In “Arise and Seek,” Ransom amplifies her ancestors’ role in the civil rights movement, commemorating their activism with architectural forms, sculptures, photographs and ephemera.
On the second floor of the gallery, a large timeline stretches across the mezzanine, thoroughly detailing the legacies of Ransom’s great-great–grandparents, Bishop Reverdy C. Ransom and Emma Ransom, who are central to the exhibition. In the early 20th century, they were instrumental in advancing the civil rights movement; Reverdy, with famous activists such as W.E.B. Du Bois, co-founded the Niagara Movement, the precursor to the NAACP. Emma championed suffrage for Black women. The two spent many years residing in the Tawawa Chimney Corner house, where they held dialogues with prominent figures such as Du Bois, Ida B. Wells, Jane Addams and President Franklin D. Roosevelt.
In 2020, the house was added to the National Register of Historic Places, despite its deteriorated condition. The paint on its white farmhouse siding is chipped away, the wood is rotting and windows are boarded up. Ransom, with the help of her relatives, has acquired funding so they can repair the exterior. In the meantime, she can prototype its restoration and transform it into contemporary art.
Ransom utilizes digital fabrication techniques like laser cutting, photogrammetry, 3D modeling and printing, and computer-controlled milling to make detailed reproductions of living organisms. “Arise and Seek” is her first foray into building monuments, and she worked collaboratively with makerspaces, historians and archives across the country. They helped Ransom reproduce the Tawawa Chimney Corner house arch with sturdy recycled foam and employed digital-surface design methods to reconstruct the house’s old wallpaper, which blankets one wall. A column was sculpted from 3D prints and resin casts of Ransom’s hand-grip laser-cut steel plaques, which memorialize Reverdy’s speeches.
Ransom was not the first family member to test cutting-edge machines. An archival print, Emma Ransom Multigraph (all works 2022), shows many reflections of Emma’s body in a carousel of mirrors. Taken in the 1890s, the multigraph was a unique composition that embraced emerging technology, the camera and lens. Ransom repeats this technique multiple times. With Layering Sites, acrylic scale models of the Tawawa Chimney Corner house and abolitionist John Brown’s fort in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, are made infinite. In one corner, a section from the column Can a Nation So Soon Forget?—held by one of Ransom’s resin hands—blossoms five times in mirrored reflections. Both pieces fold the viewers into the work, urging them to consider their place in civil rights history.
Much of the show mediates upon whose stories are told in monuments, and Ransom tries to fit her own family’s history into the gaps left by federal preservation. She gives prominence to Brown, who attempted to spark a slave rebellion in the pre–Civil War era. He was a hero to many civil rights leaders, and Reverdy channeled Brown’s tenacity in his speech “The Spirit of John Brown,” which he delivered at the second meeting of the Niagara Movement.
There are many monuments dedicated to Brown across the country, including the fort in Harpers Ferry, which are marked by institutional bronze plaques. One of these plaques, which Ransom has recreated with the work John Brown Fort Site Reconstruction, was funded by the NAACP. Ransom mounts a steel rod to connect this plaque to another replica, Tawawa Chimney Corner Plaque Reconstruction, to emphasize the connection between her ancestors and Brown’s fame. It’s difficult to measure just one person’s impact on any historical movement, but Ransom’s pieces suggest that Reverdy and Emma’s legacies should be treated with equal importance.
Installation views of “Britt Ransom: Arise and Seek,” January 28—March 25, 2023, at Pitzer College Art Galleries. Photos by Christopher Wormald. Another set of pieces, Arise and Seek (Series of 2), takes excerpts from two of Reverdy’s speeches made in Boston, A Philippic on the Atlanta Riot (1906) and On John Greenleaf Whittier, Plea for Equality, Centennial Oration (1907), and transcribes them on bas-relief to make them appear as historic plaques. Unlike many of the reproductions in the show, these monuments do not actually exist outside of the gallery, but Ransom has imitated the aesthetic to anchor Reverdy’s place in history. Both are adorned with Ransom’s resin hands. She literally carries Reverdy’s words into the present, fulfilling her responsibility of sharing her family’s story.
Even when people like Reverdy and Emma have been formally documented, their stories are still at a high risk of being forgotten. Many will never have their stories told at all. This is exemplified in another wallpaper Ransom created, Harpers Ferry (Wallpaper), which utilizes an image of those who gathered for the second Niagara Movement in 1906. This image is also adhered to informational markers at Harpers Ferry National Park. It shows 46 men, but only a few of their names are recorded on the monuments. Some men stick their head out of open windows, unable to fit into frame, and one man’s body, seated at the edge of his row, has been cut in half by the camera, making him anonymous. Ransom’s wallpaper uses a mirroring technique to make the photo infinitely expand, and it incidentally reflects this attendant’s half-captured profile, reconstructing his face in a distorted format. While his name remains unknown, Ransom has restored his place in the movement.
To be represented in history takes a lot of money and influence. Ransom’s National Parks Service grant to restore the Tawawa Chimney Corner house will prolong its life but won’t be enough to save it permanently. Family members need to find more support before they can realize their dream of turning the house into a museum and cultural center with a permanent library, an art collection by significant Black artists, and a community meeting space.
Before the home can be fully renovated, Ransom must recapture the public eye, commemorating Reverdy’s and Emma’s dedication to Black equality and suffrage. “Arise and Seek” is just another chapter in a long story that will continue through art, monuments, and activism.
Installation views of “Britt Ransom: Arise and Seek,” January 28—March 25, 2023, at Pitzer College Art Galleries. Photos by Christopher Wormald. -
Zak Smith and Making Art for A World That Is Falling Down
An Unburnt Witch: Zak Smith Drawings — Torrance Art Museum – March 25, – May 6, 2023Full disclosure up-front: I am well-acquainted with Zak Smith as an artist. Before we met (in 2010), I was aware of his work only because of his inclusion in the 2004 Whitney Biennial, and not incidentally because his work for that show had (what was for me) an irresistible hook: Pictures of What Happens on Each Page of Thomas Pynchon’s Novel Gravity’s Rainbow.
The Torrance Art Museum will be opening an exhibition of Zak’s recent work—An Unburnt Witch: Zak Smith Drawings—on March 25th, to run through May 6, 2023.
Before I get into that, I have an embarrassing confession: I’ve never finished Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. This is much more embarrassing than the reader might presume (although I’m guessing some percentage of Artillery’s readers have already turned away from their phones or laptop screens in disgust). I haven’t finished Middlemarch or The Brothers Karamazov or Moby Dick, either. Or, uh … Proust.
Okay, so now that I’ve surrendered all pretension to cultural credibility, maybe even literacy, allow me to explain how this should stand out as particularly egregious amid a sea (or at least a great lake) of such epic fails. Between my freshman and sophomore college years at U.C., Santa Cruz, Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow was the book of the moment. It seemed as if almost everyone in my class had read it and had something to say about it. I think there was a period of several months where if you hadn’t read or weren’t reading the book, you might just as well take your meals in your room alone. And physics exams were so not an excuse.
About two years later, I was working at The Rand Corporation (long story)—not exactly known for its literary scenesters or alt-cultural types—and it was exactly the same: everyone appeared to have read it. That said, this was a pretty literate group of professionals; also pretty obsessed with rocketry.
Flash forward … a lifetime—past the century mark to 2004, and another Whitney Biennial—one that drew attention from across the country, and not just because of its scope (104 artists)—but one that I missed. It seems even more ironic given how many of the Los Angeles-based artists I knew in it, and that only two years later the Biennial among so many other shows would be part of my routine. Zak Smith (then based in New York) was one of those artists. Pictures of What Happens on Each Page of Thomas Pynchon’s Novel Gravity’s Rainbow was the work exhibited in the Biennial—consuming an entire wall of the exhibition.
The very notion of such a project was inherently fascinating to me, but until 2009 or 2010, I had only seen a handful of the frames (or pages) that constituted this enormous installation (now at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis). I thought of them as frames at the time, though it was clear exactly how Zak had gone about making them. The novel (or what I remembered of it) registered as almost composited images or vignettes in my memory more than story threads or plot points; and it was interesting how some of these images picked up that quality. I wondered if the complete grid of the drawings and paintings taken as a whole might have a similar quality—less the page by page re-telling of the story than imagery akin to film footage thrown up in an editing room, where it’s both the screen story and a shimmering scan of almost random incident and sensation.
You could almost construct a different picture (or novel) out of it; and it’s not surprising that many of Zak’s more recent paintings—and really most of his work going back as far as 2004-05 seem to offer themselves up to spatial, pictorial, and narrative variations. It was actually quite a while before I caught up with another series that (I’m only guessing) may have been at least indirectly inspired by the world of micro-fantasies that seem to spontaneously explode throughout Pynchon’s sprawling narrative—even when one of those images made it to Artillery’s cover. By that time, Zak had pretty much captivated most of the people who write about art in Los Angeles. But, as I was only just learning at the time, Zak’s life had begun to change long before that cover. Out of an early and more or less constant fascination with girls in music, dance and strip clubs and variously random and deliberated social—and sexual—encounters with them, Zak had himself, no less randomly, crossed over into one of the many image-making domains of the ‘naked girl business’ (as he dubbed it at the time). It was a transition he might have drawn himself into (as, in one way or another, he eventually did)—as if falling out of one frame into another, landing him squarely on a porn shoot set.
“Discarding first one tarot, then another, I find myself with few cards in my hand. The Knight of Swords, the Hermit, the Juggler are still me as I have imagined myself from time to time, while I remain seated, driving the pen up and down the page. Along paths of ink the warrior impetuosity of youth gallops away, the existential anxiety, the energy of the adventure spent in a slaughter of erasures and crumpled paper. And in the card that follows I find myself in the dress of an old monk, isolated for years in his cell, a bookworm searching by the lantern’s light for a knowledge forgotten among footnotes and index references. Perhaps the moment has come to admit that only tarot number one honestly depicts what I have succeeded in being: a juggler, or conjurer, who arranges on a stand at a fair a certain number of objects and, shifting them, connecting them, interchanging them, achieves a certain number of effects.”
Italo Calvino, The Castle of Crossed Destinies
Zak Smith, “Susie Predicts Tribulations Will End Partially Due To A Support System of Strippers and Porn Actresses” (2022) On a recent visit to Zak Smith’s studio, I was struck by a couple of recent paintings on paper. At the center of interiors that seem to approximate the back-bar or ‘back-stage’ area of a strip club or bar, dancer-strippers (presumably taking a breather from the front-of-the-bar action) sit at tables laying out decks of tarot cards. The scenes are variously what we would expect. Behind one dancer laying out a kind of tarot solitaire, we have a rear view of a dancer hoisting herself onto a bar-runway platform as seated patrons in newsboy or trucker caps gaze (seemingly with a slight reticence) into their drinks or towards the dancer’s spectacular anatomy. In another, the dancer seems to engage an unseen companion across the table in what might be a tarot card reading. To her right, only a few feet behind her, a dancer leans at a 45-degree angle over a blue banquette, a customer’s hand poised a discreet distance from her high-booted thigh, while another slightly more clothed figure attends to more mundane business. On the other side of the bar, just over the card-reader’s left shoulder, amid other banquettes, other dancers position themselves at shiny poles on their red-carpeted platforms, ready to playfully, provocatively shimmy, splay and spiral around them—childhood barre exercise ‘rond des jambes’ turned to Möbius strips with points of maximum return.
Zak’s work is all about intricate juxtapositions, though not always so straightforwardly laid out. Also strategies and stratagems—sometimes lost in a mosaic of feints, snares and traps, seeming lost in flickering luminescence and shadow, strobed, or picked out with a baby-spot—orchestrated on the artist’s terms but disclosed in a kind of conversation with the work’s viewer and, to one extent or another, his subjects. The first of these strikes a slightly neutral, introspective note amid a cacophony of distractions; the second, seemingly poised to turn over a fresh card, engages the viewer (or conceivably, a customer) more directly, her level gaze sizing us up frankly beneath a flipped-over shock of scotch-colored hair. I don’t know much about the Tarot (there are more than a few variations on the standard deck), much less its cartomantic readings or predictions. But I keep going back to the cards as they appear here—with the raven-haired dancer turning one row of cards towards the viewer, with her fingers on one of the picture cards (Prince or Magician—I can’t really tell); in the second, the dancer-dealer seeming to wait on our reading with her half-finished Negroni—a 10 of swords next to a Devil. Except as with most of the picture cards, the number is given in Roman numerals (with a Brueghel-ian figure appearing to punt up a stream)—and that number is ‘XII’.
It is said that a 10 of Swords represents “finality”; a point of “no turning back”; the definitive end of one thing and a signal to move on. Yet there’s an entire row—a table—of cards here, each card a door to a specific assignation, a multi-chambered vessel to carry the bearer to innumerable destinations.
I have to assume (or at least guess) that Zak has opened many of these doors—in clubs, hotels, all the porn film sets, stages and locations his work in that industry has taken him, in studios—both his own and those of artist-friends, even his own home. Which is why this ‘Tarot’ series has a double fascination. A Tarot pack or cartomantic reading is as much the subject-player presented with the choice of her/his/their own fortune and navigating—narrating—her/his/their way through it. Also a role—will the player be traveling as monk or midnight rambler, jongleur or judge—or that roving paladin, a chevalier d’epée? What about the tools, the signs and signatures? It’s easy to see how Zak (always a fan and player of games of all kinds) segued from porn performance to the world of game design, especially role-playing games.
Games are all about movement, placement, implicit or explicit bets. For all of the AI-robotic chess adversaries pushing their human opponents to their limits and occasionally besting them, I don’t see non-living, mortal players being easily displaced by AI OS ‘ghost-in-machine’ competitors. There’s a reason we refer to a recorded performance or even the performance space as ‘live’, that we take the sound ‘level’ of a room or its atmospherics. The physically actualized moment, the atmosphere, the inter-personal psychology, the ‘hunch’ is something hard to resynthesize. Notwithstanding the stillness that may inevitably envelop an image, a work or object of art—something that stops the eye, stops us where we’re standing. Duchamp thought of chess as a potentially ideal art form in its aspect of continuous movement and rearrangement of space (grid notwithstanding), yet was scarcely unaware of the eye-stopping moment of ‘illumination’.
Setting games—or cartomancy—to one side, Zak has a fine grasp of both aspects of this equilibrium in the visual arts. (The book he created a couple years back, Things At the Museum with illustrations of museum art works accompanied by his own witty and insightful pastiched ‘guidebook’-style text was a brilliant demonstration of this.) Not long after his appearance in the 2004 Whitney Biennial, a conversation with Whitney adjunct curator (and one of that Biennial’s curators), Shamim Momin, for a subsequent show of collected paintings (Pictures of Girls), elicited both facets of this far-from-linear-narrative dynamic. On one hand Zak acknowledged the speed and fluidity of his process. “… [Y]ou make a thousand choices per minute when you work the way I do.” Yet, prefacing his remarks about the images and the potential narrative around some of them (clearly some distance from the specificity of some of the imagery from Pictures of What Happens on Each Page of Thomas Pynchon’s Novel Gravity’s Rainbow): “I’ve always thought that any ‘story’ comes after the work. … I don’t think of a story and do it. I like what Francis Bacon called ‘the starkness of the image.’ It’s an image—you say to yourself, ‘This really gets to me,’ and then you can … figure [it] out. But that always comes second.”
This is something Zak has in common with any number of artists, designers, and creatives—people spinning a million ideas seemingly moving at the speed of light. The ideas and images swirl and rush headlong, and then, just as the flow approaches warp speed—stop—and another universe unfolds. So it’s not exactly surprising Zak has quite a few fans among similarly creative peers—some well-established, others freshly emerging. There’s a bit of blur and overlap here. Most of his peers have some awareness of his work in porn and game design as well as the fine art domain; but as the mid-20th century Hollywood film director and producer Joseph Mankiewicz once put it, ‘people will talk’…. They definitely have—Smith is the kind of artist you expect to hear has been undone by allegations of sexual impropriety and it’s certainly been tried. He’s successfully sued for defamation three times over the same claims—in LA, Australia and New Zealand—and hasn’t lost a case yet.
While at Zak’s studio, my eye fell on a number of other drawings and studies—clearly work in progress, but with detail and specificity that clearly marked them as portraits, or work that would eventually take shape into full-blown portraiture. One of them was of the artist, Emma Webster, who only three years ago had something of a break-out show at the Diane Rosenstein Gallery in Hollywood. Not too many years prior to that, and not unlike many artists, Webster had done a bit of everything from billboards to theatrical set design, which at a certain point involved working with miniaturized elements or maquettes. In graduate school at Yale (where Zak also did his MFA), she began to experiment with digital scans and modelling using various programs—which pushed her work in a myriad of fresh directions (or conceivably, dimensions). Between fantastic landscape, careering architecture, and games in the virtual sphere, I could see where there might be some connection. I looked her up.
“I was already a huge fan.” That is to say, even before her undergraduate stint at Stanford—aware of his published work and having seen his work at SFMOMA (one of a series of shows curated by Joshua Shirkey for the museum introducing the work of various North American artists). “I’d already thought a lot about his work much earlier on, but … when we first started hanging out in L.A., we talked about painting on a more level footing. I was so fascinated by his process, taking directly from photography—very different from my own process, which has more to do with computer photo-renderings—but with so much spontaneity, connecting with the back architecture of photography.”
Of course Webster was familiar with Zak’s game design activities, but her comments surprised me a bit—and they seemed to dovetail with her specific observations of his portraiture process. “What’s interesting about Dungeons & Dragons is that it’s all about narrative, not as much as how the characters move—the episodic aspect is so linked to the story-telling, which is linked to whoever is in the scene. My interest is more in the architecture of the space; and Zak’s very interested in the quirkiness of the characters—the people or the elves.”
As Zak sketched and photographed during a prep session for his portrait of her, Webster took note of “the way he noticed everything interesting through the mess and chaos of [the studio]; and he’s so athletic about it. He wanted to be sure certain things were in the portrait. He tries to incorporate chaos as a kind of prop. He gets into the weeds, into the dust-bunnies on a level that most people try to avoid.”
It was interesting to hear in light of my own recent conversations with Zak about his own approach to architecture—actual and virtual—of spaces depicted, recomposed or synthesized in his paintings, both old and new. On a certain generic level, we might refer to this simply as an architecture of the demi-monde. But Zak seems to be reaching for something far more ambitious and, well, sophisticated—an architecture of chaos.
In recent years, this has seemed more the province of biologists and climatologists, but as anyone with a passing familiarity with the front pages of the leading metro dailies (to say nothing of broadcast, cable and streaming outlets) could tell you, social, economic, cultural and political spheres are far from immune. And here’s another thing—even viewed through a very downtown/Brooklyn, alt-punk, death-metal, strip bar/sex club lens—before he even really arrived there—Zak could see it all coming.
Consider this tidbit:
“Antifacts were manufactured until every truth had a twin across the line of scrimmage. Entirely alternate realities were posed and men and women were bribed into talking them into being….”
Or further on, in some proximity to this passage—
“A great trade in openly pseudodemocratic TV shows arose, where vast voting audiences eagerly waited for the weekly results of talent contents between warring morons that viewers doubted they’d actually participated in. These offered the thrill of dinging yourself a victim of electoral fraud without the disappointment of realizing it might matter.”
These are from a chapter of his 2009 memoir, We Did Porn; but you could almost open the book randomly and find similarly diamond-brilliant observations or reflections on any page.
“I haven’t actually read his memoir yet.” I was talking with Swoon—which is both the artist, Caledonia Curry’s professional name, and the name of her studio (as most readers will be aware, a number of her projects are fairly large-scale team efforts). “I think in a way maybe everyone thinks they’re an outsider. I think some people are more outsiders than others, making their own paths. And I think Zak really has that and that’s one of the things we tend to chat about.”
L.A. audiences may be more familiar with Swoon from her participation in Jeffrey Deitch’s 2011 MoCA extravaganza, Art In the Streets. But for some of us, she had already made a ‘bigger splash’ (so to speak), with her Oldenburg/van Bruggen-scale invasion of the 2009 Venice Biennale by way of a parade of her trademark junk rafts making their way through the Grand Canal—really the culmination of a number of similar projects executed with Deitch Projects’ sponsorship. For a number of critics (including New York Magazine/Vox critic, Jerry Saltz), the Swimming Cities of Serenissima eclipsed almost everything else exhibited at the Biennale.
“The big thing that stands out for me as far as the interconnection between my work and Zak’s is that we’re from a generation that came up in the shadow of this kind of Conceptual generation. There was this sense that aesthetics were finished, that everything in painting had already happened before people came in with Minimalism and Conceptualism.
“When I started to draw, I almost thought it was slightly taboo. Or that my elders wouldn’t respect me. And I had this belief that we could kind of reinvent this space to draw and depict our world, and that a new sensibility could emerge. I perceived Zak being part of that same initial push—that this was a new era and we believe we can draw that new era.
“Depiction isn’t dead and this ability to look and draw and see and feel and really be in the mix with life remains relevant no matter what other media or what other modes of working are available to us.”
Zak Smith, “Brante Predicting We’ll Have Sex A Lot, Go To Portugal, and I Will Have My Shoes Stolen in Japan” (2022) But that “mix with life” can be a very tricky business. It’s what frequently has us going a ‘thousand choices per minute’. We make those choices and those choices change us—and reveal us to ourselves. At one point in his 2006 conversation with Momin, Zak makes reference to an observation of Martin Amis’s about one’s “talent or taste” knowing “more about your subject than you do.” Momin extrapolates on this a bit, commenting, “The idea of things being made that know more about you than you do is exactly right, it’s more about the viewer, too, about what you’re engaging and why…” This, one thinks (not unlike Momin), is what all good art does. But the ‘second’ sight, certainly the insight, comes after the sometimes fraught moments of actual making. Zak talks about this a bit in We Did Porn—with unguarded, even brutal honesty.
“My drawings are often people, and they’re by and large not me. So they are social. But I am not so social, really, though I can put up a great fucking front. We can all put together a great fucking front, because we all have our reasons.”
But the ‘fronts’ change and so do the reasons, the rationales. There are contradictions and complications, there is confusion, there is consideration and reconsideration; and it always shows up—and not just in the art. Zak has seen this unfold in life as well as well as the studio—in the clubs, bars, porn sets, and other places public and private. He goes in for the deep dive, the cliff’s edge jump, and it can be bruising.
It helps, as we’ve rediscovered in the years since Zak’s prescient memoir, to have the truth on your side; and we see that in his portraiture—and all his art. It’s not just the architecture, the orchestration. It’s about looking closely and parsing the truth about a person’s reality. Webster described part of his approach to portraiture. “When he came to my studio, he was just looking at everything. He wants to see you in your space, in your house, while you’re working. He must have taken a thousand different photos. He’d look at something and say, ‘That object is so strange, it could only belong to you—so that belongs in the painting.’ Any portrait is personal. His are hyper-personal.”
Zak still takes the deep dive. “I think I should probably say a thing or two about the drawings. I keep making them. I do all these things and sometimes sit and draw during them and sometimes draw them later.”
You open one door and you close another. You take a card and place your bet. (Yeah, maybe you sip a drink as you consider it.) You take another. You play your hand. The odds are never exactly in your favor. But—we keep our eyes open—there’s always magic to be made and to behold.
Zak Smith, “Yams Predicting Success and Escape from Confinement After Legal Tribulation” (2022) An Unburnt Witch: Zak Smith Drawings will be on view through May 6, 2023 at the Torrance Art Museum — 3320 Civic Center Drive, Torrance 90503.
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All That Glitters
The Transformative Portraiture of Jamie VastaOne of my favorite paintings is a portrait of myself at the age of five or so, composed by my father. Along with my siblings’ pictures and beyond the sentimentality, these portraits have become distinctive family emblems and historical markers, wrought at a time of optimism and possibility. That singular ability to capture transitory moments and ephemeral character is the essence of portraiture, the subject perpetually reanimated. Portraiture raises notions of conditional identity and, even when not flattering or mimetically precise, is curiously alluring. It has been a fixture in non-Western art for millennia, along with the belief that a person’s physiognomy provides insights into their persona—imagined or factual. Our fascination with countenances permeates culture, and our acquiescent relationship to them via painting, photography or selfies, is ubiquitous. Contemporary artists have taken on the technique anew—although engaging with “portraiture” does not necessarily align them as “portraitists.”
Jamie Vasta, an Oakland-based artist with a BA from Tufts Museum of Fine Arts, Boston and an MFA from California College of the Arts, San Francisco, operates on such a continuum—her work straddles notions of representation and more recently, landscape or “environmental portraiture.” She has a particular interest in reframing LGBTQIA+ narratives, posing her circle of friends and collaborators in often foreboding historical tableaux. The clincher is that all of her works are created utilizing glitter and glue—pedestrian materials that utterly transform both context and allusion. Composed on flat panels with painstaking subtlety, it’s a physically onerous creative process.
Glitter has a particularly American history, invented in the 1930s by Henry Ruschmann, but the artistic use of shimmering substances can be found in antiquity. The stuff is often associated with queer culture, drag queens and rockers alike—“glitter bombing” is frequently employed as a political tactic. Use of lustrous materials by contemporary artists isn’t particularly new, Andy Warhol’s Diamond Dust Shoes (1980) is embellished with a shimmering glass-based powder and emerged at a cultural moment of extreme disco and concomitant bacchanalia. Notorious bad boy Damien Hirst went a step further with his fully diamond-encrusted skull, For the Love of God (2007) and ancillary diamond-dusted prints. Artist Ebony G. Patterson takes a more considered approach—her lush works employ glitter, but it’s a bit of a subterfuge: “Beneath all of the layers, beneath the shine, beneath the patterns beneath the embellishment sits an uneasy question. The question is whether or not you choose to look for this,” she states.
Vasta works in a similar vein; she adroitly compels the viewer to consider the nature of the human condition: desire, joy, sexuality and death all play roles in her multiple mise en scènes.
Jamie Vasta, Narcissus, 1603, 2010. Private Collection. Courtesy of the artist. “The Hunt,” an early suite of paintings, depicts female hunters celebrating in what is often controversial territory, but the series doesn’t purport to be a visual treatise, quite the contrary. The amiable portrait, Virginia (2007) depicts a young, proud girl hunter, hoisting a formidable rifle while imbibing on a juice carton. The materialism of glitter and the familiarity of the imagery both honor and assuage a provocative, sociological juxtaposition: This is America.
The “After Caravaggio” series is a contemporary reframing of Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio’s historic paintings. The original Narcissus, depicted in the Mannerist style, illustrates a young boy in 16th-century garb, languorously gazing onto his reflected image, the outcome ultimately tragic. With Narcissus, 1603 (2010), Vasta envisions an alternative narrative and inserts a tattooed T-shirt–clad male gazing into a cocaine-laden baroque mirror, rendered entirely with glitter. The resulting picture is beguiling and decadently glamorous, its calculation pushed into the 21st century with the consequences in question.
Don’t haul on the rope don’t (2009) from the “Sea Shanties” series presents an altogether darker narrative, the forces of nature subsuming a young man drowning in a pall of darkness, glitter confounding his plight. “This series was decidedly vague and foreboding,” says Vasta. Even so, it’s impossible not to be mesmerized by the pictures; light plays an outsized role in their hypnotic appearance. With Elyse Elaine (2012), a work in the “Burlesque” series, a formidable Black woman proudly sashays as a radiant performer, her confidence, desire and focus beyond reproach, glitter propelling her portrait into superstar status. As the artist says, “I was interested in the ways that both burlesque and drag play with camp femininity, and in what’s similar and different about how each do so, and how that might relate to the connotations of glitter as a material. I wanted to give the portraits some art-historical gravitas, so the models and I utilized a lot of poses drawn from John Singer Sargent’s society portraits.”
Jamie Vasta, Elyse Elaine, 2012. Courtesy of the artist. The artist’s most recent work has taken a bit of a turn from her staged portraits; the 2020 series “Fire” posits destruction as metaphor for cultural implosions—glimmering conflagrations of a collapsed world. “The fires seem more personally relevant now that I’ve been living in California for almost 20 years, and then when COVID happened the fire paintings suddenly became very much about the pandemic to me.”
Vasta deftly resurrects splendor from moments often bleak or inconclusive; her considerable forte is imparting an astute sense of erudite and seductive spectacle. In her hands, the medium is only part of the message.
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Brilliant Veils
Amir H. Fallah Creates Vibrant Artworks That Question Cultural BoundariesEntering a room of portraits by Amir H. Fallah, the first thing you’ll notice is that you can’t see their faces: the figures are cloaked. In one, the subject sits draped in a richly patterned blue-and-purple shawl, cradling what looks like a gilded African head in its lap. In another, a figure with purple arms strikes a pose seemingly drawn from ancient Near Eastern art, swathed in a lustrous cloak with a dragon design, the creature’s snarling face overlapping the subject’s.
“I think of all of my work as kind of psychological portraits, and not literal portraits,” Fallah says. “Is a portrait someone’s physical likeness, which really doesn’t tell you anything about who they are? Or is a portrait like someone’s experiences, their personality, their beliefs? So with the veiled figures, you have to focus on everything else to try to figure out who this person is, from the fabric that they’re covered in, the objects they surround themselves with.”
Yet these veiled portraits constitute just one facet of Fallah’s oeuvre. A new solo survey show at UCLA’s Fowler Museum—known for its ethnographic holdings—demonstrates just how far the artist’s omnivorous vision has expanded over the past decade. Titled “The Fallacy of Borders,” the exhibition includes painting, sculpture and even a set of stained-glass windows. No less significantly, it also reveals the breadth of Fallah’s interests, which span from skateboard culture and textile design to scientific illustration; from Persian miniatures and modernist abstraction to obscure ephemera. Melding elements of high and low, East and West, ancient and modern, his works doggedly question boundaries that separate people, cultures and genres. At times it almost looks as if he took elements from various wings of an encyclopedic museum and threw them into a blender, then laid out the results into a dreamlike rebus.
That sense of drawing from a medley of sources is embedded in Fallah’s biography. Born in 1979 in Tehran during the Islamic Revolution, Fallah and his family first moved to Turkey and Italy before coming to the US as refugees. He got his graduate degree at UCLA before settling in Los Angeles, where he was steeped in a rich Latino culture. “Yeah, I’m all over the place,” he says. “I’m a cultural mutt. My wife is Puerto Rican, and my son is half Iranian, half Puerto Rican and American, you know? And he looks white. Also, I’m very dark-skinned for an Iranian, so nobody ever thinks I’m Iranian. My wife happens to look Irish. So none of us looks like who we quote-unquote ‘are.’”
Amir H. Fallah, Protector 1, 2022; acrylic on canvas; Courtesy of the artist and Ginsberg Family Collection. In 1996, Fallah started Beautiful/Decay, a DIY zine, which grew into a full-color publication and attracted a wide cult following (and is featured prominently in the show). In the decades since, his practice of sampling snippets of disparate imagery and design has expanded through the use of online digital archives, from which Fallah liberally gleans to discover elements for his works. “A lot of times I don’t even know the origins of a lot of them,” he explains. “So I don’t care about its initial context. I’m seeing it as the raw ingredients, that I’m giving new life to.”
In combining images from far-flung sources, Fallah is only building on the sort of fluid cultural exchanges that are rooted in history. As an example, he notes how dragons, often regarded as a Chinese motif, can also be found in Persian artwork. Sitting before the largest painting in the show, he points to a pair of angels on the left half of the canvas. “They look Asian, but they’re actually Persian, they’re from a Persian miniature,” he says. “So am I appropriating something that’s Asian? Or am I appropriating something that’s my own?”
The wall-sized work also includes the image of an Alpine maiden from an old-time matchbox cover, a pair of mirrored flamingos, and a hand holding out a pigeon like a peace offering, laid out across a grid-like armature. The mirror patterns suggest a Rorschach print, with dualities of good and evil, or opposing perspectives, while a Rubik’s Cube hints at the need for addressing puzzle-like challenges. But the title, Break Down the Walls (2022) reveals a darker reality, alluding to the policy of separating migrant children at the border during Trump’s presidency. The issue holds special relevance to Fallah, himself an immigrant, with a son the same age as many of those detained.
“I want to visually seduce the viewer with ornamentation, decoration, bright colors, patterning, and make them spend time with the work,” he elucidates. “And the more they spend time with the work, they realize that it’s not just like a candy-coated sugary snack. It’s very much about reality. It’s a way to make the dark realities of the world more swallowable.”
In recent years, he has expanded the range of sources that inspire him to include evocative lines of text, and themes from children’s stories that he reads to his young son. But although his dazzling colors and designs may look psychedelic, Fallah himself has no interest in drug culture. “The irony is I don’t even drink,” he laughs. “I’ve never smoked a cigarette, never smoked pot.” Instead, they draw from his fascination with graffiti and skateboarding, and with digital imagery. “These are also the colors of advertising, or of illustration,” he reflects. “I feel like I’m just using the palette of our time. Which is loud, bold and in-your-face.”
The effect tilts into the realm of the sublime in his stained-glass windows, which employ modernist geometries and primary colors as a scaffold for cryptic tableaux of veiled figures, posed amid natural history elements like lizards and mollusks and eerie anatomical illustrations; illuminated from behind, they lend the gallery the mystical aura of a chapel.
Amir H. Fallah, Silent Sounds, 2021-2022. Courtesy of the artist and Dio Horia Gallery. Beyond the Fowler exhibition, Fallah will also be having two other visible projects around LA to coincide with Frieze week, making the winter something of a Fallah-palooza. In February he’s opening an exhibit of new paintings at Shulamit Nazarian, called “A War on Wars,” which he sees as a “meditation on all the horrible things of war, not just in Iran.”
On the building’s façade, he’s installing a large neon artwork, created with the neon artist matt dilling, inspired by the current protests in Iran. Titled Chant, the piece depicts a female-faced sun encircled by the words “Woman Life Freedom” in English, Farsi and phoneticized Farsi. The sun had long been a Persian national symbol; when the Pahlavi dynasty took over the country, they removed the female face from its depictions. In restoring it in his radiant public artwork, Fallah honors the Iranian women who are currently protesting with such bravery and resolve. When it’s sold, 100% of the funds will be donated to human rights charities.
This attests to one final aspect of his practice: that beneath Fallah’s curiosity lies compassion. Not merely an act of eager cultural mixology, for all its crafty flair, his work feels like a private assertion of hope. It’s all about the possibility, and durability, of cross-cultural dialogue. Rooted in Los Angeles, with its irresistible amalgam of cultures and visual stimuli, but impelled by a fascination with the visual expression of diverse peoples and geographies, he’s both an LA artist and a global one. Which makes him perhaps uniquely qualified to address some of the issues of nationality and identity that confront us today.
“I want to make work that’s about this period in time that we’re living in—the good, the bad, the ugly,” he says. “I want people to like look back and be like, oh, this work marks this period in human history. It’s not nostalgic for a period in time that he wasn’t in. It was exactly about the time that he was in, right now.”
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On the Nose
Helen Chung Talks AnatomyThe afternoon we agree to meet for a quick Q&A over drinks, Helen Chung arrives at the restaurant slightly late (though not much later than me)—fittingly enough, from a commissioned portrait sitting. Engaged by the process, conversation and the resulting portrait itself, the subject has kept her somewhat longer than originally anticipated—commissioning a second portrait on the spot.
Portrait painting can be a complicated business—complicated by the artist’s knowledge, acquaintance or relationship with the subject (and vice-versa), the subtle push and pull of the process itself, the subject’s own self-knowledge or awareness, or sheer vanity. A bit of choreography may be involved (a shift of positioning or placement); art direction may be tweaked (something of a specialty for this artist). Conversation enlivens the process, but may also prolong and complicate it: mouth, lips, cheeks, jaw, eyes move—and the face changes. It is a social process and Helen rolls with it, but she is adroit at giving direction or asserting control when necessary.
Full disclosure: I have known Helen for a number of years and we are friendly. And yes—she has painted my portrait (two in one sitting—both excellent likenesses, each revealing a distinctive mood and aspect). Most people in the LA arts community are aware that the core of her practice is conceptual and frequently quite abstract. But she is known for her portraiture: she has painted more than 100 portraits over the last six or seven years, and between 60 and 70 of them are people well known in the LA art world.
Helen orders a chamomile-mint tea and we don’t quite get down to business—since (as if I were sitting for a portrait) we chat about everything. We start with the portrait she just finished:
CHUNG: At first I thought this one was coming out more abstract; but then it turns out that he thinks it looks more like himself. And that’s always what happens. What I think is less like them, they often think, “No—you really captured me here even more!”
As I was telling [her subject], I’ve been reading a lot of Elizabeth Bishop lately, and what I realized appealed to me so much is that she repeats herself from one line or stanza to the next, changing something a little, then changing it again; and then changing something else. She’s constantly restating or readjusting the idea with something just slightly different.
And this way of restating the idea is very appealing to me—because when I do these portraits, I’m very aware that I’m going to correct the mark I just made, but I’ll make it anyway. And then I’ll go in there and deliberately make another mark that I think—ha!—that’s also going to be altered. But I like that alteration constantly happening until it just feels right—when all the different alterations feel right just staying there. It’s as if I were subconsciously applying her method of observing and reimagining things, and then setting down what she imagined in the lines of her poem.
I think there’s imagining in Bishop’s process that connects with the intuitive way I approach my subject. And when I do my abstract work, it’s exactly the same. There are certainly differences, but it’s a similar process to build something up, knowing it might be something I have to correct or follow-up on; but I have to keep going through it.
I’m not interested in just re-narrating everything people see and already know about, the typical portraiture—people sitting a certain way in front of us, stuff in the studio background or a photo reference, just capturing life like that. It’s just not enough for me.
ARTILLERY: As you’re making a mark, you’re conscious of what immediately preceded where you’re at, while thinking ahead to the next mark—and sort of merging the two or three positions or marks. There’s a constant oscillation—which turns out to be one way to an excellent likeness. I think a lot of us relate to that simply as a matter of being. You’re doing one thing, but thinking a little bit about something else, the next thing.
I’m always thinking of something else—three other things!”
Helen Chung, Ezrha, 2017. Courtesy of the artist. [Portrait of the author of this story]. And if you’re writing, sometimes you’re drilling down into the word or sentence, but at the same time thinking a bit ahead and conscious of how the other part of the sentence or paragraph fits. I think I make myself slightly mad doing that. But you’re not slow about it; you execute these things pretty rapidly. You keep your brushes moving, and you get it done.
I think you need to do that. It’s what people are used to, and then they start talking to me—and it makes it easier for me if they don’t move too much. While they’re talking with me, they’ll sometimes drift off par hasard, looking slightly away, and I’ll get a nice three-quarter view. People can be very insecure about their noses. But I like them better when they’re slightly three-quarters and show the nose. But I like their eyes to turn to me.
Funny that we call that sort of look “abstracted”—which has something to do with the dynamic of the process, having to do with being self-conscious about having someone focusing on one’s likeness, but also distracted by one’s thoughts—and then you’re conversing on top of it.
It can get complicated. Some people, I probably shouldn’t encourage to talk. Something gets into their head and they just can’t stop talking. I had one subject I found slightly odd-looking—almost like a Martian, but kind of beautiful. But it was like ten parts of her body were in motion as she talked. And she could not stop talking.
But then you always engage people—you have to.
I do! I was going to say that I don’t necessarily have to pay that much attention, because I’m really focused on my drawing first and foremost. And when I engage them, they reveal stuff about themselves that goes into the painting.
And some of that comes across in portraits of subjects like “G”—who’s a talker, a writer, a thinker.
All of that. I think it’s something unique to my practice because I want to capture something of their essence; it would be hard for me to do that if they were just sitting there …I’ve tried.
“G” started to ask me, “Do you want me to do something different?” And I said, “No—stay where you are. If I want to change your hands, I’ll change them myself.” And he says “How?” “In my drawing, not with you.” I already know what his hand looks like in every position. So if it’s not the right shape I’m looking at, I can change it to another—just in my drawing.
I feel like I’m still allowing myself to make mistakes—which I actually embrace. Outside the contemporary art world, you can see some extremely tight rendering made for the sake of a kind of realism that takes no chances; and that’s why their work looks dead. You’ve got to take the chance to let the errors happen because that’s when it comes alive.
We’re all human and I’m trying to capture it in real time. And in real time there’s going to be some weird gestures or hand movements or conditions that you want to acknowledge—instead of changing the person.
I’ve told you about how I love Brice Marden—and I was just thinking about how he always erases about 70 percent of his markings—making a mark and then really thinking about that, and then seeing how much can be removed and that erasure is part of the painting. I guess I paint over rather than erase, but I like to be able to see what I covered over. So that the little struggle is visible, and also adds texture to an otherwise fairly effortless piece of work.
Helen Chung, Makayla, 2019. Courtesy of the artist. But for the most part, a gesture, positioning, placement are to one extent or another a function of your subject’s personality, manner and demeanor, and that enters into the portrait chemistry. That’s a real art.
I won’t change the character of the portrait.
We’ve talked before about how your portrait-painting, as a routine part of your art practice, began as “lunch portraits”—made in the spirit of Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems. How have the portraits evolved since those first portraits of your “lunch visitors”—your pals, other artists and random sitters?
In the beginning I was simply portraying what I saw in front of me. I wanted to be pretty accurate. But as I began doing more and more of them, I realized I could take more liberties—changing the positions of their hands, manipulating stuff in the background. Hands are always important. They speak for a person. Two years into this process, my imagination was much more integral to making these portraits. People are usually chatting on [during a sitting] and what they tell me can spin off another image for me. It’s not always directly related to the subject, but if I have an idea of something that will transport them to another place, I’ll ask them.
I put Thomas Linder in a kind of wooden cottage that seemed like it might belong to his grandmother—but then he doesn’t have that kind of a grandmother. I did a painting of a subject who was tired—he had his sunglasses on and was constantly looking at his phone—I couldn’t make eye contact with him. So I put him in Julian Schnabel’s apartment—with a big Schnabel painting behind him.
But I thought eye contact was critical for you.
I made an exception—I work with whatever I’ve got. He looked adorable and he wanted to sit for me. So I said, “Let’s do it.
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Frames Within Frames
The Photography of Grant MudfordGrant Mudford is a photographer with an extensive publication and exhibition history. Born in Sydney, Australia, in 1944, he studied architecture at the University of New South Wales (Sydney) and moved to Los Angeles in 1977. Since the 1980s he has functioned as a commercial photographer and became well known for his architectural and editorial work, along with his portrait photography. Last summer a show at PRJCTLA titled “Grant Mudford: Rosamund Felsen, A Photographic Essay” presented 80 of his portraits of artists associated with her gallery. Filling the walls were large-scale black-and-white photographs of noted LA artists from the 1980s such as Chris Burden, Mike Kelley and Paul McCarthy, as well as smaller color images (that originated as gallery announcements) installed in large grids spanning two opposite walls. Many of these photographs were shot on location at the artist’s studio and here Mudford’s insight shines through as he deftly juxtaposes the artists, their work and the specificity of the location. Included is Jacci Den Hartog standing in a corner, surrounded by sculptures that cut across the composition with her shirt matching the color in the artwork. There are multiple pictures of Patrick Nickell, who appears to be lost in the creation of his work. Numerous images of artists depicted from behind, including Karen Liebowitz seated on a scaffolding that fuses with the imagery in her painting.
I asked Grant to speak a bit about his portraits.
Grant Mudford, “Rosamund Felsen: A Photographic Essay” installation view, 2022. Courtesy of PRJCTLA. ARTILLERY: Do you see your portraits of artists as collaborations?
Mudford: Some portrait sessions are more collaborations than others. A lot depends on how much the subject is aware of both the possibilities and the limitations of photography. Surprisingly few, including photographers, really understand this. Reality and photography are two totally different worlds. Hopefully the subject will trust me to make an image of them that they are comfortable with. Mutual trust is important. Since I am always confident in putting a composition together, I listen but I rarely need input from the subject.How do you differentiate between the work you do for yourself and the work that is for hire or commissioned. Do you approach the session differently knowing what the outcome will be, whether it’s a book, magazine, announcement card or fine art?
I am always aware why am I making a photograph. If I’m making a photo for myself, it’s the most interesting way of working. I start from scratch and the possibilities are endless. If someone is paying me to make a photo, there are certain client expectations that I will consider. However, I can always manage to make a photo that, to me, qualifies as a work of art.Many of your photographs are shot through windows or even the computer screen, creating frames within frames. I know we have spoken about composition and how important framing is. Can you talk a little about that?
The frame is critical to my work. Before making a photo, I carefully scrutinize all the edges and corners of the boundaries of the composition. I consider the position of everything contained within the frame and pay attention to what is cut by the frame and is suggested beyond the boundaries of the frame.To me, what exists within the frame of the photo is more important than the subject itself. It’s always interesting to discover a frame such as a window, often a doorway, mirror or even computer screens that I can incorporate into the final composition, offering a glimpse outside the primary composition.
Grant Mudford, “Rosamund Felsen: A Photographic Essay” installation view, 2022. Courtesy of PRJCTLA. Can you talk about the images you created as exhibition announcements for Rosamund Felsen Gallery as well as why the artists are sometimes depicted from the back?
One of the things that I tried to do with the Rosamund Felsen Gallery exhibition announcements was to offer an image that shows an integration and a relationship between the artist and the art itself, often achieved by positioning the artist within a dense collection of work in progress in their studio. I often position the artist with their back toward the camera so that the art receives at least as much attention as the artist.Have you ever had a situation with an artist who was unresponsive, and you just could not “get” the picture. Do you re-shoot or visit an artist you just met more than once?
During a portrait photo session, an artist may seem unresponsive to participating in the process. I found that much of this resistance is based on fear. To minimize the artist’s exposure to the ordeal, I will bring in the artist only after I have totally prepped the composition for the camera. I have never found it necessary to re-shoot any of my portraits. -
Spiritual Healing
Luis Sahagun’s Cathartic Family PortraitsAs a practitioner of curanderismo, an ancient Meso-American system of folk medicine, Mexican-born, Chicago-based Luis Sahagun regularly performs limpias, traditional cleansing or “soul-retrieving” rituals. As an artist, he has applied this practice to the creation of portraits of people, living or dead, who are the chosen beneficiaries of his healing efforts. For a recent exhibition at Charlie James Gallery, he turned the LA gallery into a chapel of sorts, with its shrines consisting of healing portraits of family members, including himself.
In his role as a curandero, Sahagun seeks advice from the Mexican Medicine Wheel, which is divided into four sections (north, south, east and west) that list various “medicines” such as the natural elements, certain animals, the four seasons and certain stages of human life. According to the artist, “We call it walking with our medicine. This system holds a deep connection to the invisible and intangible higher source, which can be defined as a belief system with faith and energy connection.” By “medicine,” of course, Sahagun is not referring to a pill. He explains, “In my limpias I go into the spirit realm to seek knowledge or help on what is best needed for the sitter to use as medicine for their journey. Medicine is not just a chemical makeup that takes away a headache, but rather medicine as in what your spirit and soul need to be nourished.”
Luis Sahagun, Maria Bonita, Maria del Alma, 2022. Courtesy of Latchkey Gallery. To begin a portrait of a living person, Sahagun functions as a spiritual consultant. In preparation for Limpia no. 1 (Maria “Mariquita” Rodriquez Sahagun), a portrait of one of his sisters, he asked his subject for permission to perform a cleansing rite and, once she agreed, the two exchanged phone calls and text messages to assess her emotional situation, how she needed to be healed, and what burdens she wanted to release. He then advised her to incorporate some specific rituals into her daily routine and informed her as to when he would be working on the portrait, so that they could share spiritually in the ritual’s energy. Next, he embarked on what he considers to be a shamanic journey, using the medicine wheel “to procure the cleansings, healings and/or purifications” that are needed as he taps into the spirit world by connecting with his Nagual, or spirit guide. Sahagun then worked on the portrait over a number of sessions while performing limpias, drawing facial features in charcoal and fashioning clothing and other features from miniature sculptures he makes to “communicate” a recommended medicine. He also adds to the mix custom-made resin beads that are “charged” with plant medicine, crystals, chants and photographic images deemed important to the subject.
From a therapeutic perspective, Sahagun considers a finished portrait to be “an individualized treatment aimed [at facilitating] healing of the heart and soul via herbs, energy work, counseling, rituals and spiritual cleanings.” Yet, in examples such as Limpia no. 3 (Jose Luis “Don Chepe” Sahagun Sotelo), it is also a symbolic representation of the historical and cultural survival of the immigrant laborer. The subject—the artist’s father—left Guadalajara for Chicago in the 1970s due to the gang violence he encountered while working as a bus driver. Undocumented for many years, he labored in fields and steel factories before landing employment as a truck driver. In this and other portraits, Sahagun refers to the laborer by building supports for the paintings from construction materials such as drywall, concrete, silicone and lumber. In the rendering of his father, he portrays his subject as a strong, dignified survivor by appropriating the style of 17th-century royal Spanish portraiture, and crowning him in a kingly manner with a fragment of an ornate vintage frame positioned directly above his head.
Luis Sahagun, Soul Retrieval no.3 (Luis Alvaro “Alvarito” Sahagún Nuño), 2022. Courtesy of Charlie James Gallery, Los Angeles Photo – @ofphotostudio. When communing with the spirits of deceased figures, Sahagun relies on carefully selected old photographs, such as one of his grandmother in her 20s as the basis for her portrait. Similarly, he turns to photos of himself at several ages for his self-portraits. For one example, he sought to heal the wounds of racism he experienced while a college student at a predominately white institution, and thus focused on a photo of himself from that period while consulting with his spirit guide.
Whether or not one believes in the efficacy or validity of the healing powers intended by Sahagun’s portraits, we can all certainly appreciate their symbolic and aesthetic reverence for the enduring heritages of indigenous peoples.
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Africa Around Town
“Adornment | Artifact,” Curated by jill monizThe Getty Villa’s exhibition, “Nubia: Jewels of Ancient Sudan,” offers a stunning display of jewelry and items of personal adornment excavated from burials of royalty and aristocratic individuals from a region that spans what is today southern Egypt and northern Sudan. Almost 3000 years of ancient history are presented in exquisite examples of metalwork in silver, bronze and mostly gold, reflecting the abundant and coveted gold mines of Nubia.
At one point, I found myself in front of a gypsum relief of what appeared to be hieroglyphics carved into a stone temple wall. Closer inspection revealed it was LA artist lauren halsey’s image of an urban building façade, plastered with ads in English and Spanish for cash loans and “pupusas y hot-dogs,” and graffiti declaring the space occupied by the viewer as “our hood.”
This subversive contemporary artwork’s inclusion in an antiquities museum is thanks to “Adornment | Artifact,” a related curatorial project by Transformative Arts’ co-founder jill moniz. Moniz invited more than 60 artists representing the diverse lineages of the Nubian diaspora in LA to respond to the Villa’s exhibition in five sister exhibitions across the city that celebrate their unique cultural legacies. “These ideas live in us,” said moniz, “and happen to also be part of what makes LA such a vital and vibrant place.”
Inspired, to experience this ambitious project, I decided to visit the other four sites.
Installation shot: “Adornment | Artifact” at Transformative Arts. Photo by Bianca Collins. Born in Turkey, moniz told me in an interview that she sees art as a “pathway, and a doorway at the same time, to building place for oneself in one’s community.” A foundational understanding that visual literacy helps people build agency and mobility has guided Transformative Arts’ program with vulnerable populations around the world since 2006. “It drives everything I do,” admited moniz. “Art becomes something more when it’s combined with a viewer—or a wearer in the case of adornment—something greater, and more spiritual; a pathway to divinity.”
The “Adornment | Artifact” journey took me from The Getty Villa in Malibu to a pop-up gallery in a retail space at Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, an important trade route in a primarily Black neighborhood. This installation is “about discovery,” said moniz. Nubian symbols and materials abound, each with its own unique interpretation. I particularly loved Jackson Moniz’ (moniz’ son) gorgeous drawing with pen-and-coffee on paper of “LA Hieroglyphics” in his signature single-line style; Brenna Youngblood’s cosmic Blue Star made with painted mixed media on metal and Dale Davis’ Midnight Basketball Corner Shot, an assemblage commenting on possibility and transformation.
Moniz’ other son, Jules, was the gallery attendant. A soft-spoken young man, he deftly explained that the trade routes from ancient Nubia set up a cultural ownership of materials used in the works on display. “That ownership was something taken during colonialism, stolen and co-opted by museums,” he said. “We have a more democratic, communal vision for these pieces, these items that have been used and repurposed.”
Located in the historically Black neighborhood of West Adams is Terrell Tilford’s Band of Vices gallery, an anchor cultural space that provides a platform for those who have been historically overlooked and marginalized. An Alison Saar sculpture of a life-sized relief of a woman made from metal, material revered sculpturally in ancient Nubia, stole the show in this white-cube space. Viewers were invited to step into this strong female form, which bears scars filled with cowrie shells, a sign of wealth. The piece reclaims and re-articulates a narrative about “what our perceived weaknesses are and aren’t,” said moniz.
Transformative Arts, moniz’ project space smack dab in the heart of downtown LA’s gallery row, is all about community. An ongoing weekly art project during the run of “Adornment | Artifact” invites community members to create an image of an Eye of Horus and proudly display it on the walls surrounding the exhibition, an evolving art installation that will cover the walls by the time the show closes.
Installation shot: “Adornment | Artifact” at Transformative Arts. Photo by Bianca Collins. Finally, I visited Eastern Projects in Chinatown and met with Rigo Jimenez, a Chicano with old-school sensibilities and a history of nurturing emerging artists. Eastern Projects’ reputation as a space for revolution and change made it the sensible host for work by artists like Timothy Washington, an assemblage artist whose works feature thousands of fragments of found artifacts, and Retna, the street artist whose calligraphy adorning walls all over the world has created a sensation.
“When you go into white institutions and museums, you’re told you don’t know anything: ‘Don’t touch. Don’t engage. Look in reverence. We are the only ones who know the truth,’” said moniz. “But at Baldwin Hills Crenshaw, they’re in a mall. It’s theirs. To watch people realize it is for them is empowering both to us and to them.”
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Amplifier of Black Art
Nothing Random with Chance the Rapper’s Course“We outside!” Chance the Rapper exclaims into his microphone. The sky is near black at maybe seven minutes after 8 p.m. in Downtown Los Angeles. Third weeknight of October. Chance had been and would be again, soon, rhyming his way through a song. The Chicago MC had been in the midst of vocalizing about his heart and his God and the shifting tides of life.
Chano—as more ardent fans might call him—stood on top of the Museum of Contemporary Art’s roof while he did his thing.
It’s our inside-out pandemic-era update on “in the house.” We Outside. And when Chance proclaimed this, approval shouts swept through MOCA’s disproportionately Windy Citizen–filled courtyard and back up toward Chance and the night. Here was that vibe called dope.
Around the artist, a drone hovered and dropped and rose to document this hip hop performance. We saw it on a 12×14-foot screen attached to the MOCA courtyard wall. Or we could take in Chance both in the flesh and on video. Determine our own adventures.
Novel as Chance’s show was, his sky performance and video work were but components of this weeknight outside.
When the MC returned to Earth, he met up across the courtyard with Chicago painter Mia Lee for the unveiling of YAH Know, a new work created in collaboration with the musician. This LA event is part of Chance the Rapper’s reset as an amplifier of Black art in museums, spaces that remain unsuitably absent of makers and faces that look like his. Humans who vibe like him.
Freshly awakened to the need for Afro-Diasporic connection in all that he produces, Chance began by producing the “Child of God” exhibition at his hometown art institute in March and is embarking on museum shows that are as much about the crowds as the art combos put before them. This reframing’s second half is a music-focused event planned for January in Accra, Ghana. The show’s being done in collaboration with Vic Mensa, Chance’s Chicago homeboy who identifies as Ghanaian.
This night in DTLA is Chance’s second museum event. Neighbors watch from the tall apartment buildings adjacent. Style-icon Russell Westbrook of the Lakers is in the courtyard, as are undoubtedly mid-level designers who’ve Lyfted over from the Fashion District. Onscreen in one drone perspective, spot-lit Chance the Rapper was downtown’s most prominent element, dwarfing the boundary that is the 110 freeway.
“Niggas at the museum!” Chance offered, again between raps.
To talk about the highs and lows, the ups and downs
The friends that I had to hide to come around
They told me that I knew you’d always come around
Come around, come around, come around, come around
—Chance the Rapper, “The Highs and the Lows”
Chance, Vic Mensa and Nikko Washington on shooting day for “Bar About a Bar” music video. Photo by Keeley Parenteau. Chancelor Johnathan Bennett, 29, leapt boldly into the production of musical art 11 years ago with 10 Day, a mixtape that he started while home from prep school on a cannabis suspension. The Kanye West–influenced song collection had him on the Western world’s underground rap radar while still finishing up at Jones College Prep. In 2013 he released Acid Rap, an acclaimed “tape”—hip hop mixtapes were a digital phenomenon by then—that both showcased how well he paired with Childish Gambino and brought Chance a genuine following. He’s called that song collection, “an allegory to acid.”
In April of 2015, Bennett lectured at Harvard University’s Hip-hop Archive & Research Institute. Later that year came the life-turn that supremely jolted Chance in substance and spirit: His daughter Kensli was born with an atrial flutter. Chance reconnected to the Christianity with which his grandmother raised him.
Not only did the subject matter of the music Chance put out after his daughter’s arrival become more spiritually oriented, but his sound also itself became more reflective of its local influences: One doesn’t have to listen hard to hear R. Kelly, Chicago blues and house. Above all else, gospel elements began to propel the records he rapped on.
Chance’s appearance in 2015’s “Ultralight Beam”—the opening track on West’s The Life of Pablo—was foremost a jawdropping debut. After flourishing on feature performances of singers such as James Blake and Justin Timberlake, Chano on “Ultralight Beam” established himself as a vanguard rap world player, within 16 bars.
He would cultivate the energy and freedom that being an independent mixtape star brings through his 2016’s Coloring Book, which the Grammys named best album despite being released as a mixtape.
At any time after 2015, Chance the Rapper could have marketed himself strictly as a gospel artist—Lecrae 2.0—and made an ethical killing. Instead, he has leaned into the artistry of hip hop.
Painting from the “YAH Know” video shoot. Photo by Keeley Parenteau. “Fine arts are about exclusivity, right?” Chance rhetorically asked about elitism on the day we sat in the Sun Rose Room, a smart music space with wood tabletops located upstairs at the Sunset Strip’s Pendry Hotel. Here, we’re back near summer’s end, exploring the tensions within the museum world—and his biggest move since embracing Christianity.
In regular life Chance is much taller than he appears looking at him on a rooftop. Slim and brown with a high forehead and giant eyes like the Disney cartoon character that he has indeed played—Bush Baby, Lion King—the artist has just finished scrolling through digitized images of paintings that played big in the development of his visual sensibility. Widely known Chi-town artists like Ernie Barnes—whose art sold for $1.6 million on September 6—and more locally popular painters like “Black Americana” stylist Annie Lee are on his phone.
“Aesthetically Black painting. There’s a certain style of painting that I grew up around.”
Prep school took him to The Chicago Art Institute. The walls of his grandmother and her associates instilled the sensibility. Of the hundred or so professional MCs I’ve interviewed, Chance’s speaking voice contains the least distance from their performance voice.
About that art world exclusivity?
“It’s about having an artist or their art who’s heavily sought after, hedging a bet on something growing in value, also,” he said. “I think hip hop is intrinsically about access, about giving us—the people who didn’t have a space—space to be and talk about who they are.” Which would explain the MOCA exuberance, both on that roof and on the courtyard floor.
Chance’s output can find him stuck between two American aesthetic silos—too sophisticated in presentation to be a commercial radio force and a bit unorthodox for the average American museum. So far.
“When people compliment me even, they say, ‘Oh, he’s more than a rapper,’” says Chance. “But what they’re doing is devaluing what it means to be a rapper, and what hip hop is about. Which is community. Which is access. Which is representation. Which is being truthful.
“My rap has taken me all over the world,” Chance told me on the Strip. “My voice has been places that my feet have never been.”
His feet made it to Venice, Italy, last April, for the Biennale. He may have been just a rapper shooting a music video in the midst of some of the finest artists of African descent alive, but he says the diaspora embraced him. Chance was blown away to find how much wisdom and kinship they shared with him. And he didn’t receive the love simply because he’s a famous person whose face got his new crew admission to elite parties their own art-world currency couldn’t always cover.
These conversations with the diaspora’s creme de la creme stirred a plan to at least unsettle assumptions and economics around African people and art.
“They were explaining to me that there’s starting to become a widely publicized Black Aesthetic, and that’s mainly portraiture with Black subjects painted a certain kind of way. And what it does is make white collectors look for that aesthetic,” he explained. The paintings of his youth have been monetized. But to what end?
“Knowing that there are more and more artists from West Africa—and Black artists globally—whose status is growing, their price on sales is going up, and that’s the specific kind of art that [collectors] are looking for. And that there’s a sense of reward or that they’re doing something by investing in a Black artist. But Black art is Black art when it’s being created by Black people. All the people who work in abstraction or just don’t center their pieces on portraiture or if it’s ‘not Black’ at face value—their works are being pushed aside, basically. Or devalued.”
Pigeonholing multimedia attractions such as the one Chance gave The Art Institute and MOCA is a tough gig to undertake. Downtown, the museum architecture found itself involved. MOCA Director Johanna Burton emailed to say, “It was thrilling to see [Arata Isozaki’s Pritzker Prize-winning] building activated in that way”
Chance and Mia reviewing takes from the “YAH Know” video shoot. Photo by Keeley Parenteau. The drive behind The Rapper’s museum events and that upcoming Ghana concert is as much past racial elidings and misdeeds in art as the spirit of Marcus Garvey’s early 20th-century Back to Africa movement; “We’ve been at the helm of a lot of movements,” Chance said. “Basquiat has got to be one of the saddest stories in the arts, period, because he died penniless and was exploited by people he considered to be his friends.
“At the Art Institute there’s a Basquiat on display by Illinois’ richest man—basically the Darth Vader of Chicago—Ken Griffin Jr.,” Chance continued. “The piece was purchased for, I think, $10 million, and that’s not money his estate got. It was from the secondary market. That’s money he never even saw when he was alive.
“The pieces that Basquiat made are all part of a conversation. I think that’s what artists do, they are in conversation with the world and responding to how the world is making them feel. And those conversations are unique to them.”
The dialogue that Chance is eliciting—live, spot-lit freestyle flubs and all—are critical to his time. At a time where The West appears embroiled in dysfunction, he has his eye on Africa. While what it means to be a Christian in America has become a live-wire question, here is a leading-edge neo-gospel artist who was a member of his school’s Jewish Student Union.
Chance has been on my mind loads since we last spoke. I think about how he offered the most minimal response of our interviews when I asked about Ye’s latest extreme difficulties. (Q: Is anyone in his circle helping Ye? Chance: I don’t know… I don’t know… ) I wonder if Chance understands that he’s not the first person, artist or civilian, to teeter on the edge of acid and find themselves religious.
None of the musings are of consequence. What is of concern? Why, that thing the painter Mia Lee told me, a week or two after YAH Know came down from MOCA’s walls. She had also attended the Art Institute event. There, Chance did not perform, but instead presented a painting from Ghanian-based artist Naila Opiangah. At one point, attendees formed a long, stylized line.
“These different places that have been the same, like museums and galleries, they’ve been the same for so long, they don’t really reflect what the world looks like now,” Lee told me on a call from England. “He’s taking institutions for art that are known for being just one thing—just the same type or art and faces and not really being included in that—and being so disruptive. You have to respect it.”
MOCA happens to be exhibiting 30 years of Henry Taylor’s painting, drawing, sculpture and installation through April. The recognition is hard-earned and long past due.
When Lee’s grandparents immigrated from Roatan—an island off the Honduras—and landed in Chicago, those Black people most likely didn’t know to dream of a painter grandchild debuting at an LA museum of MOCA’s stature. Henry Taylor, a Black artist, a local legend, might have thought such dreaming equally out of reach.
The diaspora is undeniably having a big, complicated moment in fine art. This moment of correction could not happen without disruption. Leave it to a rapper—maybe even The Rapper—to disrupt.
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From Lagos with Love
The Far-Reaching Vision of Adenrele SonariwoThe sun is rising over my home in Northeast Los Angeles as I call gallerist and curator Adenrele Sonariwo on Zoom. She answers me from her office in the bustling West African city of Lagos, Nigeria, where her day is already in full swing, crescendoing toward the familiar buzz of a workday afternoon. Dressed in a classic black blouse, she fills the frame of my screen with a steady and warm presence, inviting an immediate sense of oneness to our interaction. This unlikely meeting across continents and time zones seems to reflect something uniquely true about African diasporic kinship; we are worlds apart and yet, powerfully united by the resonance of shared experience.
Self-described as a woman of many worlds, Sonariwo is no stranger to that global Africanist consciousness. Earning her BA from Washington D.C.’s Howard University, MA from San Francisco’s Academy of Art University and a certificate in Curating Contemporary Art Exhibitions from the University of the Arts London, Sonariwo is uniquely in tune with Blackness as a worldwide phenomenon, an inclusive lens which fuels her work as the founding director of Rele Gallery.
A pervading sense of peace and purpose surrounds Sonariwo, who is inspiring because she is so profoundly inspired. Formerly a successful accountant, her journey to the art world was unprecedented and not without risk. Her daring pivot from the safety of a secure job to the unpredictable world of contemporary art was motivated by a simple yet powerful vision: “I was working here in Lagos, and I was seeing a lot of young artists that weren’t given platforms,” she tells me, her face bright with enthusiasm. “I thought, how do we make art accessible? How do we give these young artists a space where they can express freely? How can we trigger a new audience into appreciating, collecting and engaging with the art?” Founded in Lagos in 2015, Rele Gallery does just that, focusing its efforts exclusively on uplifting African artists and centering their perspectives within the international landscape of contemporary art.
What began as a heartfelt mission has since led Sonariwo to noteworthy professional milestones. She served as lead curator of the first-ever Nigerian Pavilion at the 57th Venice Biennale, infusing the massively important event with West African culture and history. She has organized exhibitions at Art Basel Miami, Art Dubai and New York City’s Armory Show. In 2015, she established the Rele Arts Foundation, Rele’s nonprofit component which mentors emerging African artists. The Foundation’s nine-month annual residency has catapulted several of its artists to gallery representation and exhibitions on and beyond the African continent.
Adenrele Sonariwo. Image courtesy of Rele Gallery. Rele’s West Hollywood outpost, opened in 2021, augments her far-reaching mission, bringing a dynamic community of
African artists to the international stage. “In my first exposure to LA, I spent a lot of time going to the museums. I went to MOCA, LACMA, The Broad. I went to Hauser & Wirth. I went everywhere. I was enjoying how related I felt,” she says wistfully. “I was so inspired by the space. It was a no-brainer for me. I thought, when I do an international location, it will be somewhere that my spirit is in tune with.” Since that momentous encounter with the city, Rele Gallery Los Angeles has curated an impressive 12 solo and group exhibitions, covering topics from gender norms to spirituality from an African perspective.Rele Gallery hits the Los Angeles art scene at a pivotal cultural moment, as galleries and museums welcome a wide range of Black artists to their halls. Still, even this significant uptick in representation may not speak to the fullness of the diasporic experience. “When I go to museums, I’m very excited to see stories that are not about struggle, stories that are not necessarily what people would expect to be coming from a Black artist or an African artist.” For Sonariwo, the work of representation is far from monolithic, requiring an unapologetically diverse gaze on African artistry.
I witnessed that versatility firsthand during my visit to the gallery this summer. In its group exhibition, “Present Minded,” African subjects soar through the air and emit X-ray vision in a timely commentary on technology, impermanence and the afterlife. I recall the show feeling like a breath of fresh air, in which African cultures were represented so colorfully, depicted beyond oppressive colonial histories. Rele’s November exhibition, “Poetics of Material,” on view in both Lagos and Los Angeles, is similarly expansive, meditating on organic and manufactured objects as repositories for cultural memory. I wonder, is this departure from mainstream racial discourse intentional? Sonariwo answers with a resounding yes. “It is very deliberate for us. Even within the challenges of race, or in Nigeria, people are still living day to day. You’re still human. You’re still living. It’s very important for me to have a balanced approach to the way we are showing art.”
Showcasing artwork that unifies the personal and the political, the educational and the expressive, Sonariwo’s mission counteracts Western narratives that often relegate African art to false prehistoric mythologies and reductive stereotypes. Through this illumination of the continent’s vital creative contributions, her work with Rele Gallery both amplifies and transcends the discourse around representation in the Los Angeles art world, allowing artists of the African diaspora space to breathe into their full humanity. This, across time zones and oceans, languages and tribes, is the invaluable work of African diasporic representation in the arts.