Summer 2021 Juxtapoz

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ART: JAHMAL WILLIAMS PHOTO: PEP KIM LOCATION: PILGRIM SURF SUPPLY 68 N. 3RD ST, BROOKLYN, NY.

CONTENTS

Summer 2021 ISSUE 218

38

134

The Earth Connections of Wing Yau

10

44

Asian Art Museum, SCAD FASH, La Luz de Jesus, Hashimoto Contemporary, Beyond the Streets

Editor's Letter

16

Studio Time

Fashion

Influences Robert Williams on the Legacy of S. Clay Wilson

Lindsay Gwinn Parker’s Northeast Epicenter

48

18

Art Trekking Through the California Desert

The Report

54

24

Maud Madsen Shares the Prize at NYAA

James Jarvis, Spray Cans and Skate Decks

26

Picture Book Vasantha Yogananthan’s A Myth of Two Souls

34

78

MADSAKI

110

Lucia Hierro

In Session

136

Sieben on Life A Six-Pack with Nathaniel Russell

Travel Insider

Nam June Paik at SFMOMA

Product Reviews

Events

138 86

Cristina BanBan

118

Ludovic Nkoth

Pop Life Los Angeles, NYC and London

142

Perspective Rights to the Ephemeral

56

On the Outside How Bristol Changed Underground Culture Forever

94

Hilary Pecis

126

Phlegm

60

Book Reviews Gary Panter, Joe Conzo and Punk in Austin

Design Nicole McLaughlin is the Ultimate Make-Do

102

Khari Turner

70

Jenna Gribbon

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Right: Danielle Mckinney, Sweet Sixteen, Acrylic on canvas, 24" x 20", 2020. Image courtesy of the artist and Night Gallery.

62

Danielle Mckinney

STAFF

FOUNDER

PRESIDENT + PUBLISHER

ADVERTISING + SALES DIRECTOR

Robert Williams

Gwynned Vitello

Mike Stalter

EDITOR

CFO

Evan Pricco

Jeff Rafnson

ART DIRECTOR

ACCOUNTING MANAGER

Rosemary Pinkham

Kelly Ma

CHIEF TECHNICAL OFFICER

C I R C U L AT I O N C O N S U LTA N T

Nick Lattner

John Morthanos

DEPUTY EDITOR

CONTRIBUTING WRITERS

Kristin Farr

Sasha Bogojev Kristin Farr Doug Gillen Shaquille Heath Jamie Hombré Wez Lundry Charles Moore Alex Nicholson Evan Pricco Charlotte Pyatt Michael Sieben Liz Suman Gwynned Vitello Robert Williams

[email protected]

CO-FOUNDER

Greg Escalante CO-FOUNDER

Suzanne Williams

ADVERTISING SALES

Eben Sterling A D O P E R AT I O N S M A N A G E R

Mike Breslin

CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

Brian Blueskye Sasha Bogojev Megan Cerminaro Bryan Derballa Foto Gasul Laura June Kirsch Fanny Latour Lambert Danielle Mckinney Chris Rudz Liz Suman

MARKETING

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Kenny Eldyba Maddie Manson Charlie Pravel Ian Seager Adam Yim TECHNICAL LIAISON

Santos Ely Agustin

Juxtapoz ISSN #1077-8411 Summer 2021 Volume 28, Number 03 Published quarterly by High Speed Productions, Inc., 1303 Underwood Ave, San Francisco, CA 94124–3308. © 2016 High Speed Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in USA. Juxtapoz is a registered trademark of High Speed Productions, Inc. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Opinions expressed in articles are those of the author. All rights reserved on entire contents. Advertising inquiries should be directed to: [email protected]. Subscriptions: US, $29.99 (one year, 4 issues); Canada, $75.00; Foreign, $80.00 per year. Single copy: US, $9.99; Canada, $10.99. Subscription rates given represent standard rate and should not be confused with special subscription offers advertised in the magazine. Periodicals Postage Paid at San Francisco, CA, and at additional mailing offices. Canada Post Publications Mail Agreement No. 0960055. Change of address: Allow six weeks advance notice and send old address label along with your new address. Postmaster: Send change of address to: Juxtapoz, PO Box 302, Congers, NY 10920–9714. The publishers would like to thank everyone who has furnished information and materials for this issue. Unless otherwise noted, artists featured in Juxtapoz retain copyright to their work. Every effort has been made to reach copyright owners or their representatives. The publisher will be pleased to correct any mistakes or omissions in our next issue. Juxtapoz welcomes editorial submissions; however, return postage must accompany all unsolicited manuscripts, art, drawings, and photographic materials if they are to be returned. No responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. All letters will be treated as unconditionally assigned for publication and copyright purposes and subject to Juxtapoz’ right to edit and comment editorially. Juxtapoz Is Published by High Speed Productions, Inc. 415–822–3083 email to: [email protected] juxtapoz.com

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Cover art: Danielle Mckinney, The Secret Garden, Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20", 2021. This work is based on a photograph by Fanny Latour Lambert.

EDITOR’S LETTER

Issue NO 218 I doubt I’m the only one who has ever daydreamed their life into some sort of movie scene just before the ending credits are run. I think it’s natural for a “a dreamer,” a category in which I most certainly belong, to imagine oneself in a story of importance, or at least of narrative significance. I think of this in being so drawn to the cinematic romanticism in Danielle Mckinney’s paintings. As a viewer, you are able to recognize yourself in her scenes. A record player is subtly heard in the distance, cigarette smoke lingering over you, nothing too loud in this solitary tableau. These paintings slowly stroll through the frame, ever so quietly. That she called her recent solo show Saw My Shadow, is a nod to both existence and individuality, as well as the overwhelming sense that the female characters share the same sounds, drifting into the dream with the viewer. A book critic rightly assessed that Hemingway "impersonated simplicity," and that, too, perfectly reflects Mckinney. Fulsome with details and profound color use, these works also impersonate simplicity, revealing universal moments of respite, veins of religion and the expression of what it is we see in ourselves— importantly, our ideal selves. This is a painterly issue and, as it turns out, quite cinematic. Mckinney, Jenna Gribbon, MADSAKI, Hilary Pecis, Cristina BanBan, Khari Turner, to name a few of the artists in the Summer Quarterly, provide vignettes where the stories just flow off the canvas. MADSAKI reveals a world of childhood repression, BanBan weaves in and out of conversations of time, and Gribbon graciously invites you into intimate, personal moments of her life. How interesting that, over the course of the last few months, conversation about selling the digital art of our times has overwhelmingly owned the contemporary art dialogue, and we are nurtured by daydreams and classic cinematic expression. One night, like most of us, I was glued to Instagram, transfixed and maybe hoping for inspiration. I admit that, more and more, it rarely arrives in a digital scroll. But one work in particular, The Secret Garden, seen on our cover this issue, emerged onto my feed, almost jarring in its intensity and gaze. The book, the red fingernails, this look of wisdom… maybe even a little annoyance at being interrupted. One of my 10 SUMMER 2021

favorite paintings is Will Barnet’s Woman Reading, and it brought up the emotions of seeing that work for the first time. We've all had the moment, immersed in a good read, when someone voices an untimely inquiry, and you throw that look. It's the essence of that individuality Mckinney channels in her works. Here, that daydream is… broken. And now her character studies the viewer. I find this image as the perfect backdrop for these times, this year in particular. We have been in the midst of an arrival of the future that was promised for decades, and over the past few months has become a study in economics and collective consent. We speak of digital art sales

more than we speak of the essence of art. But The Secret Garden is the antithesis. Undeniably seductive, that look in the painting is one of contentment with pace and place. That knowing look staring back at you. The soundtrack and ending credits start rolling in this film in my head, and I don't want to forget what a good painting does to the soul. A piercing gaze from behind the fold of a book, it's impersonating simplicity, and that’s damn good. —Evan Pricco

Above: Danielle Mckinney, Morning Sun with Marlboro, Acrylic on canvas, 2020. Image courtesy of the artist and Night Gallery.

STUDIO TIME

Lindsay Gwinn Parker A Live/Work in New Hampshire My studio has been in my apartment for the past few years. Initially, it was a choice made out of necessity— it was less expensive and more convenient to paint at home than to rent a separate space that I may not even have the time to use on a regular basis. During lockdown, at the beginning of the pandemic, I found myself, like so many, unemployed with significantly more time to paint, so I felt very fortunate to have my studio in my apartment at that point. The space itself is a 10’ x 10’ corner room with two windows, so it stays pretty bright there all day. This works well for me because my preference is to paint by daylight. One of the greatest advantages of having my studio in my home is being able to roll out of bed in the 16 SUMMER 2021

morning, walk a few steps across the apartment and begin painting. On the other hand, one of the greatest disadvantages is having to meticulously avoid making a mess so that I will get my security deposit back when I decide to move again. To avoid covering the room with paint splatter, I’ve layered canvas drop cloths on the floor and lined the walls with plastic sheets. Instead of using an easel, I lay the canvas on a flat surface so that when painting with diluted acrylic, it won’t drip down the canvas. With larger canvases, I paint them while sitting on the floor, and with smaller works, I lay them on a makeshift table that consists of a large wood panel resting on storage bins which contain old artwork and art supplies.

In the past, I’ve rented studio spaces from dilapidated, partially repurposed mill buildings that were very hot in the summer, poorly heated in winter and very inconveniently located. I definitely prefer to work from home—there’s no commute, there’s more control over the temperature of the studio, and I can stay in my pajamas as long as I want! —Lindsay Gwinn Parker Parker was the winner of the Liquitex x Juxtapoz Announce 6-Week Virtual Residency contest held in 2020 and run in 2021. @artandfavor

JUST IMAGINE… That Sadé DuBoise is a painter, an explorer, and a visual storyteller.

By perfectly blending nature and portraiture, Sadé captures the duality of beauty and strength of her experience living in the Pacific Northwest.

As we celebrate artists around the world, we’re proud to be a part of Sadé’s creative story. Now we’re excited to see how we can be a part of yours.

REPORT

Nam June Paik Traveling Electronic Superhighways Expect no gossamer pastel butterflies or smoldering dark portraits at SFMOMA’s Nam June Paik retrospective, but do expect to marvel at his brand of exquisite, which will be on display in over 200 works made over a five-decade career. Declaring that “Nature is beautiful, not because it changes beautifully but simply because it changes,” the mercurial Korean artist was a trained classical pianist—who later became friends with Yoko Ono. He envisioned and engineered the fusion of multimedia and multiculturalism, predicting, in 1974, in his own words, “electronic superhighways.” I spoke with Rudolf Frieling, Curator of Media Arts. Gwynned Vitello: What were your goals in organizing this show? Rudolf Frieling: From a curatorial perspective, we felt it was time, 20 years after his last US retrospective, to introduce this global visionary to a younger generation and highlight an artist 18 SUMMER 2021

who has consistently challenged our definition of art through technology and his practice across all media. From an institutional perspective, it may be surprising that he has never had a major survey on the West Coast. On top of that, we’d all be hard pressed to find an artist who has addressed and lived such a transnational and global life as Nam June Paik. Lastly, SFMOMA has had incredible fortune in acquiring a major body of work covering all periods of his life so we can tell his many stories within the strong presence of our collection. “The culture that’s going to survive in the future is the culture that you carry around in your head.” How do you present the work with that in mind? Did he show his work frequently, and how? Fellow curator Sook-Kyung Lee from Tate Modern and I were eager to pursue a balanced perspective on Paik’s work, focused not only on his pioneering role in championing technology

in art, but also emphasizing the the importance of artistic collaboration, as well as the ongoing dialogue between Eastern and Western legacies throughout his career. We were inspired by his many memorable quotes and aphorisms that bridge the gap between cultures in surprising, humorous, and at times, mysterious ways. His writings, recently published in English for the first time, show the wit and spirit of a Fluxus artist, as well as a knowledgeable and avid reader of philosophies and histories. What Paik does best—to give an example—is to jump from the figure of a ninja to the properties of a satellite and find that they basically do the same, that is, reduce distances. Paik was always able to “open circuits” technically and intellectually in his associative thinking across cultures and categories. Visitors will enjoy and remember this irreverent, yet caring approach to culture, from The Beatles to cybernetics, to the writings of Eastern philosophers.

Above: Nam June Paik lying among televisions, Zürich, 1991; © Timm Rautert

REPORT

How will you stage the entrance to the show in order to engage visitors? I’m glad you’re referencing what I’ll call his verbal pronouncements, which are very helpful in understanding the work. We will feature Paik’s words, often illuminating how music and its traditions continued to be a foil for his entire career. Highlighting his thinking, music and other ways of performing, but also his artistic persona as a multilingual Korean artist in the West are key to our approach. Another is to foreground his firm foundation in the history of music and what he calls his “action music,” a way of always coming back to musical influences, John Cage being the most obvious. He considered his own work—in his own words—“not not music.” His nephew, Ken Hakuta, felt that imperfection was part of the art, and in fact, Paik said, “When too perfect, lieber Gott bose [God is not amused].” How did he evolve from young classical pianist to participant in the Fluxus movement? As you point out, he didn’t mind imperfection, he even cherished it, and was keen on producing new work—”I go where the empty roads are.” The way that he embarked on a trajectory of exploring opportunities, from early video technology, to analog synthesizer, to laser technology, was his way of making a name for himself. That said, he never forgot that an artist can never walk alone, especially with technology. He was eternally grateful to both his circle of friends, including the Fluxus artists, but also Charlotte Moorman,

John Cage and Joseph Beuys, and also his long friendship with Japanese engineer Shuya Abe. As Paik put it, “In engineering, there is always the other…” meaning you cannot do it alone. How will you incorporate music in restaging 1963’s Exposition of Music—Electronic Television? We dedicate an entire gallery to the groundbreaking show, though not a restaging, as that would take up an incredibly large space and necessitate securing many more very fragile loans. Think of it as a cross section of the most important aspects. We will be as interactive as we can, given the constraints of the pandemic. “Foot-Switch” can fortunately be activated by foot and “Random Access” will be experienced via museum staff. In an adjacent space, we’ll show an excerpt of the historic Stockhausen happening, titled “Originale,” a wild event which originated in a collaboration with painter and salon hostess Mary Bauermesiter, later restaged in New York, again with Paik playing a seminal role as “action performer.” How will you show TV Buddha, and did he practice Buddhism? The artist created a whole series of different TV Buddhas over a period of almost 20 years, but we will show the 1974 iconic original in the first gallery as a nod to the importance of Buddhism as a reference point for Paik. He did not practice it as a religion or meditative practice until a 1996 stroke, but rather valued its influence the same as he would reflect on the legacy of Johann Sebastian Bach and Western classical music.

Left: Self-Portrait, 2005; San Francisco Museum Modern Art, Phyllis.Wattis Fundfor Major Accessions; © Estate of Nam June Paik; photo: Katherine Du Tiel Right: PeterMoore, Charlotte Moorman with TV Cello and TV Eyeglasses, 1971; Peter Wenzel Collection, Witten, Germany; © 2021 Barbara Moore / Licensed by VAGA at Artists Rights Society (ARS), NY, Courtesy Paula Cooper Gallery, New York

TV Garden makes me wonder about his reflection, “Nature is beautiful, not because it changes beautifully, but simply because it changes.” He was no Thomas Kincaid, but did ever flirt with pretty, peaceful, or even comfortable? I wouldn’t say “pretty” because he just loved making things imperfect, odd, weird, or using objects in some state of disrepair. I can see a lot of “peaceful” moments, though, thinking about “TV Buddha” or “One Candle.” Whatever one’s personal response, it will invariably be colored by the experience of Paik’s sense of humor. Replacing the TV program with a burning candle is smart, deep and witty. His art is also challenging, noisy and loud, so you will never feel “comfortable” for very long while walking through the exhibition. Will your presentation of two robots, one dedicated to composer John Cage and another to choreographer Merce Cunningham, be unique to this show? Yes, the pairing will be unique to SFMOMA’s presentation, the main reason being that most of these sculptures don’t like to travel! With two of them already in US collections, and one being local, it makes sense for each touring venue to “localize” their presentation. We were thinking in pairs throughout the show, however, since the artist called the series a “family of robots.” I’m particularly happy about our opportunity to show two sculptures dedicated to partners in life and art, Cage and Cunningham, who were like family to Paik. Lifelong friendships and collaborations

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REPORT

are a theme throughout, also exemplified by Charlotte Moorman and Joseph Beuys. Will there be a reference to the cellist in the show, and can you say more about her influence? Far from being a performer hired to execute his works, Charlotte Moorman was one of his most important collaborators and will be celebrated in her own gallery. She claimed co-authorship of many of their performances, embracing the conscious breaking of conventions and boundaries. She was the driving force of the New York Avant Garde Festival in the ’60s and ’70s, risking her career as a classic cellist, but gaining a place in art history. A fearless rebel w ay before the sexual revolution took center stage, Paik felt indebted to Moorman until her death in 1991. For all his belief in collaboration, I’m curious about his observation that, “The only way to win a race is to run alone.” Can you clarify, especially since he believed that art was for everyone, and I don’t think of him as competitive. Instead of competitive, I would call him ambitious and curious, but also collaborative and forward thinking. Paik realized early on that he was neither a gifted composer or musician, so he was looking for a way to forge his own path, to find the “empty road.” In 1963, he was the first artist to literally open up the closed circuits of electronic television. As a pioneer, you’re pretty much on your own, but later on, his energy and ambition made massive satellite projects happen because he was a connector and networker. In his friendship with Joseph Beuys, you’ll find he was humble enough to take a step back and be a supporting performer, as in “Coyote III'' from 1986. Does Sistine Chapel close the show, and how much space will you devote to it ? What inspired the installation, and can you describe it in words? Sistine Chapel precedes the final gallery that we call “Self Portrait,” but it’s arguably the culmination of this retrospective. The restaging of this enormous, immersive environment in close dialogue with Paik’s longtime assistant and now curator of the estate, Jon Huffman, was realized for this exhibition as an expression of Paik’s ambition in terms of scale but also as a way of showcasing his way of constantly remixing his own material. It’s a giant Paik Remix and smart way of showing that the 1993 Sistine Chapel was based on the circulation of images like Venice, the site of its premiere, offering a rich history of global commerce as a context. Paik didn’t mind a lineage connecting him to Marco Polo, the difference being that Paik could deal in immaterial goods, images thrown against the walls and ceiling in an unruly, riotous way, unlike the seamless simulations of virtual immersive environments

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that have populated the commercial and corporate world in the last decade. He so much believed in the ideal of cultural free trade, in telecommunication crossing timelines and geography. How would he gauge the success of current technology companies? Paik would probably assess companies to the extent that they would help him realize his own projects. But, jokes aside, he was a firm believer in two-way participation and engagement, who sadly passed away in 2006 before social media really took off. He would have loved to create his own channels with feedback. He openly acknowledged that America had “corrupted”

him and that his minimal days were over. He integrated Japanese commercials without closed captions in his first TV broadcast “Video Commune” in 1970. Again, he just loved to break rules and I have a hard time imagining him going along with a corporate agenda. If a company wanted to engage with him on a marketing level, they would probably end up doing marketing for him, not the other way around. He understood branding like no one else. Community for him meant sharing the same space and tools, not necessarily the same messages. Nam June Paik will be on view at SFMOMA through fall 2021.

Top: Sistine Chapel, 1993 (installation view, Tate); Courtesy the Estate of Nam June Paik; © Estate of Nam June Paik; Photo: Andrew Dunkley © Tate Bottom: TV Garden, 1974–77/2002 (installation view, Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam); Kunstsammlung Nordrhein-Westfalen, Düsseldorf; © Estate of Nam June Paik; Photo: Peter Tijhuis

Laure MaryCouégnias Escape Lane

The Visitor, 2021, Oil on canvas 110 x 160 centimeters

June 26 - July 31, 2021

John Greenwood I’ve got a Massive Subconscious

Watch out for the Little People, 2021, Oil on canvas 30 x 40 centimeters

REVIEWS

Things We Are After Summer Skates

HUF x James Jarvis Collection Even when he’s not making drawings or paintings about skateboarding, Londonbased artist James Jarvis is talking about it. Whether encapsulating the element of spontaneity, freestyle or literary depictions of skating, Jarvis wields a poetic touch in showcasing the unlimited possibilities of sport and culture. That he has teamed up with HUF, another visionary who shared these touchstones so closely, seems perfect. Over a collection of apparel, decks and accessories, Jarvis created the art based from Keith Hufnagel skate photos, a harmonious marriage that captures the essence of what made HUF so special, and what makes Jarvis an elegant ambassador. Drops June 10, 2021. hufworldwide.com

Beyond the Streets Spray Can Skate Deck It’s summer, and we encourage the kids to get out and play a little. At a distance, of course. One of our favorite pastimes is looking back on tools of the trade from generations before, and Beyond the Streets has always made a point of chronicling spray cans and paint through the decades. Through classic Rust-Oleum, Krylon and even some more obscure brands, BTS went through the collection and are releasing a new skate deck wallpapered in cans. Makes sense; the history of art from the streets for you to make your own art on the streets. Or put it on your wall… beyondthestreets.com

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1XRUN x Montana Cans Special Edition Spray Can At its core, 1XRUN is about encouraging and facilitating street art and graffiti cultures around the world. And of course, making it all collectible. Now we get to celebrate the Detroit print house. In commemoration of their 10-year anniversary, 1XRUN has teamed up on a collaboration with Montana Cans and Blick Art Materials for a special spray can release. The cans will be available in June at Blick stores and online at www.dickblick.com. 1xrun.com

PICTURE BOOK

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PICTURE BOOK

Vasantha Yogananthan A Myth of Two Souls Upon first setting foot in India at the age of 25, French photographer Vasantha Yogananthan had already determined that he would devote the next decade to creating a comprehensive photographic interpretation, resulting in seven books, in celebration of the ancient Sanskrit epic, The Ramayana. The text weaves exemplary tales of young prince Rama’s childhood, a forced exile with his wife Sita, her kidnapping by the demon Ravana, the subsequent war, and their triumphant return home to a complicated reign. The saga has maintained great importance in both religious and secular life since its origins in the 5th century BCE, the stories retold across South Asia and recounted in almost every medium, from painting, sculpture, and dance, to film, comic books, and video games. Inspired by the eclectic range of visual iterations and intrigued by the problems that storytelling presents within photography, Yogananthan sought to depict the story within images of normal daily life. “I was very much looking to find fiction within the realm of reality,” he says. “But in a sense, you’re looking for something that you will never find. You will never find fiction as-is within the reality that you’re experiencing on an everyday life basis.” In India, land informs myth, and myths inform the land. Like the millions who travel to sacred sites every year in search of meaning and understanding through experience of place, Yogananthan’s envisioning of ancient stories within the landscapes and people of presentday India led him on an unusual pilgrimage as he tracked stories of The Ramayana across the subcontinent. Deeply influenced by film, Yogananthan understood that the still image couldn’t render narrative as viscerally as cinema but was dedicated to viewing the parameters in gauging how photography might succeed in meeting such a challenge. “[That] was at the very core of the project,” he says. “It frames what you

All images: Courtesy of Vasantha Yogananthan and Assembly Above: Seven Steps, Janakpur, Nepal, 2016

can and cannot do.” Over time, such constraints led to greater experimentation. After abandoning his initial documentary-style approach, he found freedom of vision in large and medium-format cameras that required patience but fostered more intimate connections with the people and places. Recognizing that the act of shooting and the more analytical process of understanding what he was doing needed space from one another, he balanced month-long trips to India with longer periods home in the studio, continually finding ways to discover a new approach for each trip. “It was a back and forth between conceptualizing very precisely the project and the idea and then, in the field, being very loose with how I would approach the places and the people I’d meet.” Early on, he began collaborating with Jaykumar Shankar, a painter skilled in the rare art of hand-coloring black and white photographs. As Yogananthan searched for pictures lingering between fiction and reality, Shankar’s colors further imbued the scenes with an atmosphere of fantasy, the final images hovering between moments invented and moments found. In the last several books, including the final chapter, Amma, to be released this year, Yogananthan began painting and manipulating many of the images himself, diving into a world of colors, shapes, and brush strokes that fuse myth and reality. As those stories of the past are revealed within these images of the present, the future is born in the imagination. —Alex Nicholson In September 2021, Chose Commune will release the culmination of Vasantha Yogananthan’s A Myth of Two Souls, bringing together seven books and prints in a very special edition box set available exclusively through Assembly in the United States. vasanthayogananthan.com

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PICTURE BOOK

“The link between photography and painting was one of the first interesting parts of the project. The last eight or nine years for me were quite interesting, researching what color photography could be and the use of painting of the photographs, always looking forward to the studio process as a second look on the photographs you’re taking.”

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Above: Magic Fishes, Kanyakumari, Tamil Nadu, India, 2013, Black and white C-print hand-painted by Jaykumar Shankar

PICTURE BOOK

Above: Demigod, Kulasekharapatnam, Tamil Nadu, India, 2019

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PICTURE BOOK

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Above: Ghost Dog, Kulasekharapatnam, Tamil Nadu, India, 2019

PICTURE BOOK

“You leave to a place with an idea of what you’d like to shoot or what you’d like a project to be about, or to look like, and then, when you’re there, the process was to forget about that initial idea and try to be as free as possible during the picture-making process. Then, only after getting back, do you connect the dots.”

Above: Twin Wings, Valmiki Nagar, Bihar, India, 2014, Black and white C-print hand-painted by Jaykumar Shankar

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DESIGN

Make Do Nicole McLaughlin’s Movement For Circularity A friend slid into my DMs with a few of Nicole McLaughlin’s crafty and practical inventions, and we were instantly in love: Sharpie earrings, bread mittens, practical high heels with a built-in lint roller, a beanie made of tennis balls—the artist’s concoctions combine humor, fashion, and above all else, a lucid and lively plea for sustainability. Describing her practice, McLaughlin has a sourcing strategy: “Making do with what we have.”

You may be surprised to learn that some of her creations are made of food, which afterwards, conscientious to the core, she enjoys as a doubly sustaining meal.

What’s been the most thrilling dead stock material to work with? I'm currently collecting mini display tents, and I'm obsessed.

Kristin Farr: How do you categorize your work? Nicole McLaughlin: My work sits somewhere between design and art, but it's mainly a vehicle used to push forward a message around sustainability and upcycling.

Tell me about your workshops and movement for sustainability. Workshops are not only vital to help raise awareness around sustainability, they’re also my passion. I can't wait to be able to travel safely and start doing them again.

While a Carhartt-head or Gorp-core fan might covet her work’s singularity, McLaughlin is not focused on fashion but concerned with exploring industrial paradigm shifts. The broader field wants more, with her collaborative energy in highdemand by the brands indoctrinated in the very systems she critiques. These opportunities already demonstrate the changes she seeks.

I was marveling at your Crocs collab, and then suddenly, you were working with Hermès. Tell me about your recent brand collaborations. They range from brand partnerships to social media, magazines, to charities. I recently did an auction to raise money for Women Win and have one upcoming with JanSport to benefit the Slow Factory Foundation.

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What are your thoughts on how to change the future? Every little step does matter. It's just about getting everyone to take that first step. How did you engage with apparel and accessories as a kid?

DESIGN

I wasn't a sneakerhead growing up. I was more focused on the outdoors, activities, tinkering, and objects. My grandpa was an engineer, my mom is an interior designer, and my dad is a carpenter. They nurtured a greater understanding and appreciation for making, so, in turn, such objects grew into what you see now. The time I spent in my grandfather's workshop, tinkering away, laid the foundation for who I am today. It was the freedom and trust he gave me to make and explore that has helped me keep that childlike sense of wonder that I still possess. Do you consider the mass-production of any of your pieces? Mass production is tricky. I think any brand that is sustainable or trying to be sustainable struggles with numbers, production, manufacturing, resources, etc. My focus is on researching and trying to find solutions to work with what we have. Did the time spent at home during the pandemic affect your process in significant ways (besides incorporating sanitizer?) It made me more resourceful and reaffirmed my belief that I could make do with what I have.

What kind of production tools do you work with? I have a JUKI sewing machine, Global Industrial machines, a flatbed, a surger, and a lot of other things. But sometimes, I go back to where it all started—with my hot glue gun and X-Acto knife. What’s your favorite snack? Smart Foods White Cheddar Popcorn. I saw the binder of sauce packets you referenced to make the condiment shorts. Tell me more about your laboratory research tools. I get ideas from what I have. I'm fortunate to have a materials library, but I think anyone can relate when it comes to sauce packets. They've become a staple during the pandemic. Are you your own model? I am, but that's because I work alone. However, I rarely show my face; the focus should always be the work. What’s your theme song for 2021 so far?

I've been listening to Dance Gavin Dance's discography. They help keep the energy levels up. Why is humor important in life? Humor is essential. It makes things easier to digest and is a great icebreaker when delving deeper into more serious topics, like sustainability, upcycling, and waste. Are there brands you’d like to work with that you haven’t yet? I'm open to working within any industry. My goal is about circularity, and that's something all fields could benefit from. What are the steps needed to achieve circularity, and how do you build it into your process? The first step to working towards circularity is the understanding that it's not easy to achieve. It requires constant researching, resources, patience, and perseverance. However, a good first step is to be aware of your consuming habits. It's about JUXTAPOZ .COM 35

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what you think you need versus what you have, and how to maximize the latter. My upcycling process focuses on creating circularity. I try to avoid using new materials and focus on what’s available, and create from there. I don't have to look hard for materials because what I use is often readily discarded. What concerns you most about the lack of sustainability, and how do you suggest people shift their everyday patterns? I think the main concern is the amount of waste that is still being generated and how little change is actually being implemented, knowing how rapidly climate change is happening. When it comes to consumption patterns, those habits are incredibly difficult to break. You have to start small and work your way up. We need to address the unwillingness of a lot of brands that do not speak up about sustainability. Even when they're trying to do something positive, like an eco-friendly capsule collection, they avoid making it a more significant talking point as a means of shying away from the accountability to do more within that space. But they don't realize that these are the small steps we need to achieve a better future. In these 36 SUMMER 2021

instances, I hope they understand that optimism is vital. You have to have hope in what you do and what you see, and the actions you take to achieve change. What has been your most ambitious or precarious project? The bread vest, for instance, required a lot of work. Food projects are often tricky. They have to be assembled such that I can eat them afterward, so I don't use glue. And sometimes they can take a long time to construct. I think people underestimate how much time goes into each piece. Do you keep all of your creations in an archive, or recycle them for new work? I have a few pieces that I've kept to archive, but most of my work is deconstructed almost the next day to use the materials on other projects. Have you worn any of your inventions in a practical way? I've worn some of them, but I'm pretty low-key when it comes to fashion. Do you make objects for your own house? I do make pieces to use at home, mostly furniture. nicolemclaughlin.com @nicolemclaughlin

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Wing Yau Earth Connection The four carved granite faces of Mount Rushmore may claim status as the world’s largest, but other forms of sculpture carry their own weight, remarkable texture, subtle meaning and private statement. Wing Yau creates moonbeams from seedlets of pearls and drops of rainbow from the confetti of opals she carefully sources. Her jewelry sculptures reflect a connection to the people and country of provenance, to her team and finally, to those who choose her pieces from Wwake to create their own expression. Gwynned Vitello: You almost made a 360, in starting art school to study sculpture and then shifting to making jewelry. What did the younger Wing Yau have in mind when enrolling at the Rhode Island School of Design? Wing Yau: This question brings back waves of nostalgia! I graduated after studying sculpture at RISD and wanted to make art in my studio—but honestly had no direction. In school we learned to weld and cast metal to make larger scale sculptures and how to make video art with equipment from the school. After graduation, it was like a plug was pulled, no studio and the tools I needed to make what I’d made before. I knew how to work with my hands, so my work shrunk and I worked out of my bedroom with textiles, clay and wax. These sculptures became wearables, then became jewelry—which I hear has been a natural transition for a lot of sculptors! Studying sculpture gave me a full understanding of the soldering process and casting within jewelry, and ultimately to become a better designer and communicator. It’s not just magic—there’s a lot of practical problem solving in building sculpture, but I think it’s fun being both problem solver and artist! How was life as an aspiring studio artist? Sculpture can be a commercial and arcane challenge, so I’d like to hear about your personal experience. I hit a wall immediately in moving back home where I had no artist community. Yes, we should make work for ourselves, but so much of my motivation was engaging with others, and I lost that and my studio when I moved. My work had to change, and I had to be okay with that. After finishing internships at NYC galleries, I ended up working as a barista, hoping to meet some “cool” artist types. Nerdy, I know, 38 SUMMER 2021

but I’d wear what I made in hopes of garnering “feedback”. Having just graduated, there was nothing to lose –– and this was my only audience! It was impactful on the work in realizing that the pieces should be smaller to be more precious, intimate and relatable. They retained an artistic element in texture and shape, but I was really invested in how familiar materials could spark inspiration and, ultimately, make a meaningful connection with others.

The delicate gold jewelry, eachpiece like a little sculpture, opened doors for me. Were there childhood and family memories that contributed to your themes and fascination with jewelry? Does this play into the name of your company? The irony is that my parents showed no interest in jewelry! We have multiple generations of immigrants, which means lots of the

Above: Wing Yau, the designer and founder of WWAKE, wearing her own designs.

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heirlooms were left behind with their former lives, so there’s really no family precedent! Most inspirational was my mom’s fantasy of becoming an anthropologist, thus her passion for collecting masks, sculptures, weavings, and sand paintings from faraway places. When I was younger, jewelry was a small way to start my own collection. Hand carved wooden earrings and homemade necklaces woven from beads were an inexpensive way to remember where I’d been. The purchase would always be a simple, meaningful memory, and so, a meaningful collection.

jewelry, not sculpture, but don’t feel comfortable buying gold rings that don’t have gemstones, feeling they lack “perceived” value. Getting that feedback was jarring, but it did make me think. I personally didn’t like wearing gemstones, so this was a real design challenge. In September 2013, I released a small fine jewelry extension featuring opals and hints of diamonds in the delicate silhouettes of my debut project that allowed the stones to sing with a clean, graphic tone. This clicked and the collection was picked up by so many stores that I was overwhelmed with orders! Everything

I design to mimic this ease. To me, WWAKE is about gestures, exploring an idea over and over, not necessarily reinventing myself, but getting deeper with every layer. Each piece is a little thought that in combination reads as a poetic whole (a collection!) The name WWAKE is a metaphor, like a wake in the body of a water where little gestures create the whole. Also, it marked the end of my studio practice as it was (awake) and so marked a new beginning (awakening). If it sounds cheesy, it felt appropriate. Maybe WWAKE is about hope and being ok with change. What was the first piece that caught on and what materials? Were you surprised at the development? My first project was called Closer, an investigation of trade materials––silk, cotton textile necklaces, bronze, silver, and bits of gold. I liked that these materials had a loose sense of history before I even manipulated them into sculpture. I was proud of that first collection, which had Sheila Hicks-inspired textile pieces, and metal bracelets that stacked and were literally embedded with my fingerprints, as well as little gold earrings and rings that captured simple shapes I made, all the materials soft and touched with respect for a tender, gestural collection. That said, stores came back and they were, like, people love the metal pieces because, well, they look like

snowballed, and though I kept experimenting, WWAKE’s fine jewelry is really what grew the brand into being identified as gemstone pieces with a careful sense of proportion. I never imagined being a fine jewelry designer, but my approach to materials is to always let the material speak for itself. Gold and gemstones have a rich history, and using these materials opened a new vista. Society values gold, so people are at ease looking at my designs and feel comfort in integrating them into their lives. That’s a really powerful thing. When I started making wearables, I was making jewelry with “non-traditional” materials and felt limited in connecting with others. I do make traditional jewelry rooted in the experimental, and it’s subtle, but I feel motivated by the very real impact it can have.

I imagine a jewelry designer working alone. Was yours a solo effort in the beginning? Oh my gosh, absolutely! I learned early on that I need time alone to incubate with my ideas. I didn’t set out to make a business or a brand; WWAKE developed naturally from my love for having a studio practice. I started WWAKE in my bedroom in 2012 and relished every minute. Mornings I would talk to store owners and do visual research online, then spend the afternoon making each piece by hand, on my own. I still love working with my hands. Before shifting gears from computer work to making pieces, I’d draw for an hour to meditate (highly recommend!) and then design late into the evening. It was the perfect artistic balance. Twice a year, I’d go to New York for bursts of social time: selling the collection to stores, meeting other designers and spending time with my longdistance boyfriend at the time. Within the year, however, all of this needed to change. No matter how much I loved making the pieces myself, it was impossible, as stores were clamoring for their orders. WWAKE grew from a one-woman show to a two-person team, and now we’re a team of 21 in the New York jewelry district. It’s wild how things change, but I’m proud that each step has been organic. I thought you started out in New York. How did you find your current space and what makes it function for you? I started WWAKE in my hometown of Vancouver, Canada. I couldn’t get a job in New York, so I went back and forth between the two cities, mostly working out of my bedroom. I don’t need an elaborate set up for my work—usually just a sketch pad, some clay for 3D sketches, and a

Lower left: The Pearl Cluster Earrings, featuring Australian opals, American River pearls, and recycled diamonds and gold. Center: A collection of opals from the designer’s mineral collection Upper right: The Small Medallion Four Stone Necklace and The Three Step Necklace

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wall where I can pin my ideas. When I finally immigrated to New York and got a Brooklyn studio, I think I had four things: a single jewelry pin, a hand file, a handheld grinder from my undergrad in sculpture, and a table. It was ridiculously simple and I got a lot done with those items. Our current space was the photography studio of my dear friend and collaborator Shay Platz, who had to move out of the city soon after I arrived. I took her space, made it a home and, over time, we’ve filled it with lush greenery and mineral specimens to make it an inspiring showroom. We’ve also built out a proper jewelry studio where five jewelers work on production and samples so I can stay close to how my jewelry is made. It’s amazing to work with other jewelers, solving problems that would otherwise remain abstract, to define and maintain quality as we strengthen our designs. We keep our jewelers’ process in mind, and an in-house studio gives us control in the sourcing of materials, rather than relying on a contracted jeweler for supply. Fabled stories are attached to stones like the Star of India and Hope Diamond, as you said, we all have our own modest memories, right? What’s your philosophy about our relationship with jewelry, which might be even deeper after all this isolation? Wow, yes, exactly. We see a lot of people buy jewelry for important milestones or investment simply because the materials stand the test of time. While clothes wear down overtime, I believe jewelry wears in with memories and reminds us of who we are. I think of heirlooms as relics of time, intended to last for generations, even after we’re gone. What do we imagine the future as, though? Who are we while making the decision to commemorate ourselves with these pieces? Do you have a piece you wear everyday? Yes, our Letter Necklace. It’s like a little loom with freshwater pearls and is inspired by the textile weavings of Sheila Hicks, who was my first inspiration for WWAKE. This piece has come full circle for me. You have branched out a bit, haven’t you? Tell us about CLOSER, how it evolved and what’s different about it. CLOSER is our sister collection. I like to call it the anti-WWAKE collection because it’s large, sculptural, pieces, the opposite of WWAKE’s airy silhouettes. But it does stem from the same philosophy of exploring the material with your hands: Each piece is a sheet of silver meticulously folded by hand, with an intention like origami. Each has a careful sense of proportion, reminding 40 SUMMER 2021

me of my very first collection, rooted in tenderness and touch, so CLOSER is an homage. At first I was surprised that performance art was another focus of your undergrad, but now that we’ve talked, I realize that it’s actually an aspect of your design process. I’m really wowed that you can see that connection! My undergrad sculpture and video performance work (which should never be seen by any human ever again!) was an ongoing study of connecting with an audience through my materials. I was interested in breaking the fourth wall and having the audience fall into the piece: subjects would make eye contact

with the camera, and the voiceovers would place the viewer as director; meanwhile, video installations would live stream the viewer back into the sculpture itself. (This sounds creepy now that I write it!) I was also interested in the power dynamics between director, cast, and audience. Looking back, this was an abstraction of what I do with WWAKE—where jewelry is the connecting point. I’m very interested in the transparency of it all. I think it’s interesting to share how things come to be and invite everyone involved to participate. Visit wwake.com to learn more about WWAKE’s sustainability and sourcing.

Above: The Cloud Earrings, made with pearls grown from the last American pearl farm.

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A Remembrance of S. Clay Wilson Robert Williams on the Passing of an Underground Legend It would certainly be fitting to offer the late artist, cartoonist, painter, writer and philosopher, S. Clay Wilson the greatest respect that is due to him, his station and his many, many supporters. Having over fifty years to his credit as one of the internationally revered Zap comic book artists and underground cartoonists, he will surely be missed. With these memorial platitudes said, we can dig a little deeper into the legacy that has been left by the self-proclaimed demon draftsman of the Barbary Coast. To put it plainly, Wilson was the most overt and outrageous artist and cartoonist of the last half of the twentieth century—period! Wilson was to the narrative arts what thermonuclear explosions were to July Fourth fireworks. If you are a well-mannered 44 SUMMER 2021

artist and have been raised in a warm, caring and conscientious family environment, your demeanor might exclude you from knowledge of the likes of S. Clay Wilson. However, if your disposition has compelled you to search out more ribald visual stimuli, and you are cursed with adventurous, investigated skills, you most certainly have made the acquaintance and appreciated Wilson’s cast of imaginative cartoon characters such as The Checkered Demon, StarEyed Stella, Captain Pissgums, Ruby the Dyke, as well as an assortment of rotting punk zombies who are too inordinate to bequeath with names. It might be of interest to understand that between the late ’60s and early ’80s it has been estimated that some 400 young newsstand

All images: Courtesy of Fantagraphics Books, excerpted from the Complete Zap Book series

INFLUENCES

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dealers and bookstore clerks were arrested and jailed for selling underground comix—this with participating artists such as Robert Crumb, Art Speigalman, Gilbert Shelton, Spain Rodriguez, Rick Griffin, Victor Moscoso, myself, and of course, the eminently profane S. Clay Wilson. Many more artists were on the list but we all paled by comparison to Wilson. The movement was gigantic at the time, and Zap comix alone has issues that sold over a million print copies. Wilson boltered his own bohemian authenticity by conducting himself much like his own cartoon creations. To put it politely, he was a “recreational dissipator” with a keen proclivity for habitual drinking and drug use. His heroes were famous beat poet barflies, some with whom he collaborated, such as Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, in addition to lesser luminaries. Everybody in the underground community knew Wilson personally. Many people saw him 46 SUMMER 2021

"To put it politely, he was a "recreational dissipater" for the imaginative genius he was, but a sizable amount of folks couldn’t stand him. His accident and death came as no surprise. He took a bad fall during a drinking spree, injured his head and survived in medical limbo for nearly 12 years. His beautiful and talented wife Lorraine Chamberlain remained devoted, steadfastly staying by his side until he passed away. Wilson lived in the manner in which he created— another swig is never enough! The art world owes a lot to Wilson, an enormous amount, though regrettably, the current generation of artists aren’t going to honor that debt. But I do think history will. If you are interested in more information

about Wilson and seeing his art, seek out the beautiful set of books just made available by Fantagraphic Books publishing company. This is an unequivocal must for any underground collector. You assuredly have not heard the end of this character. Good-bye, Wilson, and tell the Devil I’ll be along a little later. —Robert Williams, March 15, 2021 Fantagraphics has a selection of books and collections featuring the works of S. Clay Wilson. fantagraphics.com

TRAVEL INSIDER

Inside Out Art in Real Life in the Coachella Valley Hot, brown desert stretches into the horizon. Craggy, snow-kissed mountains jut into a blue swimming pool sky. Behind us, massive white turbines slice through the air—their rhythmic rotations kicking up dust devils that begin at our feet and waft upwards into our mouths. Hair whips in the wind, and a Jeep that matches the sky holds court in the foreground.

We are still miles from our destination—a massive, scavenger-style exhibition spread across the arid Mojave near Palm Springs, California, known as Desert X. It’s the first day of what ostensibly began as an assignment to cover the first major outdoor art exhibit since BC, but quickly turned into an adventure ignited by discovering art in unexpected places.

From another camera angle, we might have been art influencers pulling over to the “soft shoulder” (a term we’d later learn) of the road for a selfie, except that my friend Jess and I are on all fours (all eights?), chest deep in sand, shoveling out the undercarriage of her early2000s SUV like dogs digging for a bone. There is an actual dog, an 11-year-old cockapoo named Charles, inside the car looking, eyeing us with proper skepticism.

The Great Artdoors Whether you call it Land Art, Earth Art or site-specific work, art that exists outdoors is as old as time. The singular power of wide-open spaces as blank canvas has spurred countless works—entire communities, even—representing a diverse range of points on the high-low spectrum, from refined, heavily funded projects to ethereal outsider art. Examples include Robert Smithson’s seminal Spiral Jetty in Utah and

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Storm King Center in Upstate New York, both seminal patrons of the outdoor arts. Here in southern California, you’ll find Leonard Knight’s Salvation Mountain, Slab City’s East Jesus, Noah Purifoy’s Desert Art Museum and the Bombay Beach art community. A biennial exhibit launched in 2017, Desert X is a relatively new addition to that canon, but its third edition arrives at the beginning of an important cultural shift as most of the population has spent the better part of a year indoors surrounded by screens, internalizing a constant stream of the horrible and the beautiful. Art has not escaped the scourge of Covid’s IRL casualties. Barring an early wave of “online viewing rooms” (websites) and the occasional by-appointment gallery visit, most folks have not experienced physical art in a meaningful way since last March.

Above: Desert X installation view of Eduardo Sarabia, The Passenger. 2021. Photography by Lance Gerber. Courtesy the artist and Desert X

TRAVEL INSIDER

And now, at the exact moment the real world is beginning to open back up, the virtual world, which art lovers have been forced to consume, has reached a fascinating boiling point in the form of the $69M sale of a non-fungible token, or NFT— art that, literally, is not real. Collectively, all of these factors set the perfect stage to, well, make people want to go outside. So that’s what I did. 33.4803.3, -116.32230: Ace Hotel, Palm Springs My escapade begins on a hot Saturday morning at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs, the official hub of Desert X, where Jess and I follow a path of pink arrows to an information booth stationed next to the bowl of hipster soup that is the swimming pool. This year’s edition, I learned, was co-curated by Neville Wakefield and César GarcíaAlvarez, and features installations by 12 artists representing 8 countries and a range of disciplines. Although more physically modest

than previous iterations, the third Desert X is special in that the organizers were able to execute a large exhibit, supporting artists in the middle of a challenging pandemic, as well as create an opportunity to view art safely and admission-free at a time when people are hungry for a shared cultural experience. “We have spent months seeing the pandemic as statistics and charts that dehumanize an embodied experience,” says García-Alvarez. “We need to have experiences that speak to our fears and desires that have shaped how we’ve navigated the past year. There are not many things that bring us closer to these big questions and to those, both like us and unlike us, than art.” Desert X began with the goal of exploring the relationship between art and the desert. But it has always been as much about the active process of viewing the work, which requires downloading an interactive app that points to each location. A scavenger hunt in the sun!

“At a time when most art institutions remain shuttered or operating at a greatly reduced capacity,” says Wakefield, “a non-prescriptive, self-guided show that occupies open spaces has allowed Desert X to be one of the first significant shows to open here in the U.S. and, for artists and audiences alike, signals a return to the kind of experiences we have all so sorely missed.” 33.775917, -116.368694: The Passenger We begin by navigating Eduardo Sarabia’s The Passenger, an arrow-tip shaped maze made from petates, rugs woven from palm fibers. The installation is inspired by a fitting trope for the first stop on a desert journey, as we’re greeted by a chatty masked docent who asks us to channel the pilgrimages our ancestors endured on the Oregon Trail as we amble through the maze “in our cute shoes with our cute dog.” Feeling dutifully respectful of our ancestors and in full agreement that Charles is very cute, we look askance at our humble, scuffy shoes and work our way to the center of the maze, where we soak up sweeping views of the desert from

Top left and right: Desert X installation view of Zahrah Alghamdi, What Lies Behind the Walls. 2021. Photography by Lance Gerber. Courtesy the artist and Desert X Bottom: Desert X installation view of Xaviera Simmons, Because You Know Ultimately We Will Band A Militia. 2021. Photography by Lance Gerber. Courtesy the artist and Desert X

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some bleachers and smile at a local motorcycle club gleefully posing for group photos. Coordinates Unknown: Sky Valley This brings us to the digging. What would cause someone to spend the bulk of the first day of a work assignment in a ditch on the side of a highway? It certainly made sense at the time. Who wouldn’t be curious and make a quick stop to examine a fallen, strangely beautiful turbine propeller the size of a small airplane? Unfortunately, what starts as an exercise in seeking out art in unexpected places can turn into an unsuccessful exercise in offroading. This impulse, combined with some deceivingly soft sand and a refusal to call AAA, will result in 45 minutes of digging. 33.964250, -116.484250: Morongo Valley Hot and dirty but free, we picked up some Red Vines, a bag of ranch Doritos and a roadie michelada to fuel a short drive to What Lies Behind the Walls by Saudi Arabian artist Zahrah Alghamdi. After a windy, quarter-mile hike into the desert, we’re rewarded with one of Desert X’s most impactful installations, a monolithic sculpture constructed from layers of fabric and cement that smell like dirt but look like the tower of mattresses in The Princess and the Pea. Recognizing the similarities between the California and Saudi Arabian deserts, the piece

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illustrates the relationship between the art and the land through a unique combination of scent, texture and ideas. It’s hard to imagine this installation existing anywhere else.

the Desert X “pit stop,” which is a Gucci- and North Face-sponsored dome minus a door, serve a valuable purpose by supporting a cultural moment, they don’t exactly feed the soul. So I stay.

34.15660549168434, -116.493103231107: Pioneertown Tired from digging, we abandon plans for a sunset session at the Integratron sound bath for more micheladas at the famous Joshua Tree watering hole, Pappy & Harriet’s. In addition to knoshing on a delicious pile of nachos, art shows up in the form of a local band and the unexpected opportunity to hear live music for the first time in over a year. After a few drinks with Jess and a few dances with Charles the dog, I return to my car and drive alone to Palm Springs just as the setting sun transforms the Joshua Trees into silhouettes.

33.822172517037764, -116.54223719952763: Downtown Palm Springs, Part II I spend the next few days trying to surrender to the journey instead of planning the destination by beginning with relocating to what seems to be the only available accommodations in Palm Springs, a Tiki-themed suite at the Caliente Tropics Hotel. Other than a sleepless night caused by a large animal under my bed that turns out to be a sprinkler hitting the side of the building, it's a lovely place to stay, particularly after 2-3 magic mushroom gummies and a dirty martini from Melvyn’s steakhouse.

33.822172517037764, -116.54223719952763: Downtown Palm Springs For the next two days, I explore Desert X alone. Standout artists include Xaviera Simmons, who created a series of billboards on Gene Autry Trail that fuse text and imagery into a challenging meditation on race. Being in the desert, while interacting with art in a community of people committed to understanding and imagination, strips away a few layers of covid debris from my psyche. But the more time I spend outdoors, the freer I want to feel. And though things like

33.92524869574892, -116.54478514971049: North Palm Springs The highlight of phase two of the adventure is a birthday celebration for my friend Steve Hash, an artist who makes beautiful sculptures of ghosts from concrete and terry cloth towels. The evening, fueled by copious amounts of tequila, includes a clever scavenger hunt led by Steve’s daughter, an impromptu jam session during which I learn to play three notes on the electric guitar, and a delicious seafood dinner, marred only by a crabclaw induced cut on my thumb.

Left top and bottom: Desert X installation view of Xaviera Simmons, Because You Know Ultimately We Will Band A Militia. 2021. Photography by Lance Gerber. Courtesy the artist and Desert X Right: Oasis of Eden Hotel, Yucca Valley, California. Photo by Liz Suman

TRAVEL INSIDER

The less I plan the trip, the more fun it becomes. The more fun it becomes, the longer I want to stay. The longer I stay, the more I realize that art experienced in this way makes me realize the important synergy of moment and place. This is true whether it's a sculpture by a blue chip artist, a living room hit with an explosion of birthday balloons after a few glasses of tequila, or the broken propeller of a turbine. 34.12013805923302, -116.43446540227208: Oasis of Eden, Yucca Valley It’s the day before I head home to Los Angeles, and a Spring Break-fueled shortage of hotel rooms in Palm Springs leads me to Yucca Valley, a partially-gentrified hipster outpost of Palm Springs located near Joshua Tree (and Pappy & Harriet’s). Specifically, to a kitschy themed hotel called the Oasis of Eden that’s exactly charming (and clean) enough to warrant a one-night stay. I am ensconced in the “Swimmers Paradise” room, where I enjoy a two-hour session in my red en suite Jacuzzi beneath a ceiling wallpapered in a cloud-speckled sky that reminds me of that first day of the Big Dig.

Above: All photos from Kenny Irwin Jr’s RoboLights by Brian Blueskye

33.83205792395526, -116.53540433296668: Robolights, Movie Colony, Palm Springs My last stop is the best. Nestled in a community of mid-century modern mansions in the Movie Colony section of Palm Springs. Robolights is the outdoor art antithesis to the polished, hypercurated Desert X. The brainchild of a primarily self-taught artist named Kenny Irwin Jr., Robolights is a sprawling compound of fantastical creations the artist began building in 1986 on the four-acre plot surrounding his childhood home. The living installation, which Irwin Jr. works on between 8-10 hours a day, consists of a dense maze of interlocking pathways bordered by artworks made from found or donated objects that he has transformed into a psychedelic Wonkaland set to a soundtrack of campy classical music. There are 50-foot-tall robots, hot pink giraffe bots, a Christmas sleigh overtaken by a deranged Easter Bunny, post-apocalyptic “nuclear elves” prancing across a tennis court, and a village made entirely from microwaves.

According to Irwin Jr., Robolights isn’t a choice. He sees his creations in his dreams, resulting in work and identity that are synonymous: “It’s physiologically intertwined in my physiology. A cat is born to meow but it doesn’t know why it’s born to meow—it just meows… I don’t really know why I was made to be an artist, I just know that I was born that way.” I learned about Robolights on a lark, from a friend of Jess’s who stopped for an impromptu hello while we were eating dinner in Palm Springs earlier in the week. I couldn’t believe I had never heard of something close by that had existed for so long. So, on my last night in the desert, I text the artist from the red jacuzzi on impulse, driven by the same question that landed Jess and me in the ditch eight days earlier. And, of course, the answer is the same anytime Irwin Jr. is asked to explain what impels his art: “Why not?” —Liz Suman

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IN SESSION

New York Academy of Art and the Chubb Fellowship Maud Madsen Shares her Prize “We would sometimes have summer days when it was light outside until well after 11:00 pm,” Maud Madsen recalls about growing up in the northern reaches of Edmonton, Canada, where the nearest city, Calgary, was a three-hour drive away. After an unsatisfying stint at the University of Alberta, followed by a job there as a student recruiter, Madsen decided to give herself a second chance and headed to the eastern seaboard, enrolling at the New York Academy of Art, which focuses on rigorous technical training with an emphasis on figurative and representational art. “I fell in love with the city and what the school had to offer. When I first arrived, I wanted to make work about the body and body dysmorphia. My time at the Academy had a huge impact on my work. I was constantly being pushed by advisors to consider both the formal and conceptual aspects of my work. And my peers were probably the most influential on my practice—exposing me to new artists and modes of working.” 54 SUMMER 2021

What next? There’s a shortage of de Medicis ready to support future Michangelos. And what are the chances of snagging a solo show at age 24 like Keith Haring, boosted by the patronage of the trendy Tony Shapiro gallery? As it turns out, NYAA, co-founded by artists like Andy Warhol who appreciated the school’s mission to teach traditional skills, left an endowment and maybe an inspiration for the Chubb Group, which annually offers three exceptional grad students a substantial fellowship, juried by the likes of Peter Saul and Rachel Feinstein, which includes studio space, an exhibition opportunity, access to studios, galleries and critics, as well as living expenses. One of the 2021 fellows is Maud Madsen, who described experiences, ranging from the daunting, “doing weekly critiques with first and second year students… I wanted to make it worth their time by providing thoughtful and insightful feedback,” to the surprising, when, “I didn’t realize how much I would enjoy being

a teaching assistant… it’s fun to both be able to learn alongside the students and be able to share my knowledge,” to the gratifying, citing “the dedicated studio time. I would just spend it getting better with painting and challenging myself to work larger than I was previously comfortable with. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know the other two fellows, Lydia Baker and Lujan. It’s really been helpful to navigate everything post-graduation with those ladies.” This is a great opportunity for everyone involved with NYAA, and who wouldn’t want to win a prize like this? —Gwynned Vitello Maud Madsen is currently preparing drawings and paintings for her solo project with Marianne Boesky Gallery in November, 2021. @newyorkacademyofart @maud_madsen

Above: Maud Madsen, Perky, Acrylic on linen, 40" x 30", 2020

Street Show

@brassworksgallery

@brassworksgallery

ON THE OUTSIDE

The New Vanguard The Unique History of Bristol’s Underground Culture Accessing music digitally is practically instantaneous. Not so with vinyl, which takes a minute or two as you take the record out of its sleeve, put it on a turntable, pick up the needle and cue it to listen. Often it’s the record sleeve we connect with first. Cover art offers a clue, a sign, a portent of what is to come and, for many, an element as cherished as the music it represents. I’m part of a generation that adored this side of vinyl culture. The sleeve design would often be the first place I’d engage, looking at the images adorning the store’s walls and flicking through the contents of the record shop. In the ’80s and ’90s, the DIY music scene in Bristol was synonymous with a home-grown 56 SUMMER 2021

visual culture. Countless flyers for music events, parties and jams would feature work by local street and graffiti-inspired artists. As the Bristol DJs, promoters and music fans from these events started releasing records, this relationship between image and sound, between visual artists and recording artists progressed symbiotically. During the years I was running Hombré Records, I wanted the label’s sleeve art to advance the attitude, feel and flavour of our music, just like the many record sleeves, posters, flyers and graphic art that had inspired me. “I really like the cover” was the reaction I loved hearing. I was lucky enough to have a body of artist friends to go to, so when the music started to find me,

creating the cover art was feasible too. Hombré ran from 1997 to 2005, but with Bristol being Bristol, it’s just one of many stories where audio meets visual. Spending days stage diving to Bristol bands like The Seers and distracted by the emergence of rave culture, the proliferation of Bristol Sound in the late ’80s and early ’90s largely passed me by. But as a record buyer, and native of the city, I was well informed by the art on the streets and its relationships—flyers that indicated something distinctly urban, influenced by New York hip hop, was brewing. As it came to pass, this energy joined with Bristol’s existing reggae, sound system and post-punk scenes to become globally recognised.

Above: 3D and Z Boys, Head Spin, 1983, Bristol © Beezers Photos

ON THE OUTSIDE

Seeing the video for Wishing on a Star and an interview on TV with Fresh 4 made me aware that producers in Bristol were doing something special. I’d heard The Wild Bunch play at a local skateboard park and started putting two and two together, plus my cousins, Sam and Benji Tonge (who promoted and DJ’d as Primetime) were really involved. Break looped, cover versions of songs I knew by the likes of SOS Band, Chaka Khan and Isaac Hayes became the norm. Diverse musical sources from dub, post punk, jazz and disco—music as well as lyrics—were being appropriated from the records and tracks, influencing the local scene. And the cover art was pretty good too! To my mind, the convergence of sound system culture, informed by the city’s AfroCaribbean community and events like St Paul’s Carnival, the post-Pop Group work of Mark Stewart with The Maffia, Rip Rig + Panic; then Gary Clail and DJs/producers like Milo, Nelly Hooper; Flynn from Fresh 4, and the consistent presence of Rob Smith and Ray Mighty are the antecedents. I never tire of hearing Smith & Mighty’s cover of “Walk on By” or looking at the use of bold font, black and white tone and ‘Three Stripes’ logo on the sleeve (surely referencing their sound system of the same name—as well as hip hop’s obsession with Adidas?)

to find the right way of acknowledging the Bristol flavour in it all, whilst adding to the story. Cult genre movies, like Kung fu and Westerns were always a thing back then. Banksy’s The Mild Mild West— with its desert dry sarcasm and prominent place in Bristol’s Stokes Croft area—twinned with the Wild West (of England) and cowboy signaling of The Wild Bunch, influenced me to choose the name Hombré, that and the Elmore Leonard novel, as well as Paul Newman’s film of the same name. For anyone who knows the Bristolian / West Country way of speaking—I decided an acute accent on the ‘e’ was necessary, to avoid Bristolians

pronouncing it “Hom-brurrr!” Banksy was a good friend at the time, and someone I recognised as very entrepreneurial, so I was fortunate that Riski Bizniz from One Cut was a big fan and wanted his art on the cover of their releases. Banksy would send me faxes with ideas for One Cut covers. Adorned with tongue-in-cheek comments, they would feature sharks, military vehicles, speakerboxes and megaphones. Banksy’s ongoing spirit of generosity and instinct to support Bristol makers saw him continue to supply artwork for One Cut’s Hombré releases despite becoming better known. This visual dimension to the Bristol scene kicked off around the time Banksy and Inkie—artists

Once Daddy G, Smith & Mighty and seminal singer Carlton had masterminded the first Massive Attack release, and the street art that defined the Wild Bunch aesthetic had segued into Blue Lines, it was impossible not to feel immensely proud and excited that this music had turned into something truly unique on a global scale and, best of all, was being made in my home city. Totally homegrown! A few years on, my affinity with Bristol culture was re-kindled when I started to release records under my own steam. And I knew from the outset I wanted visuals alongside the sounds. I wanted

Left: Aspects Revenge of the Nerds Design by Phil@Azlan, artwork by Mr Jago, 1999 Center: Atari Safari Bionic Genius Design by Phil@Azlan, artwork by Will Barras, 1999 Right: One Cut Records ‘Commander’. Design Phil@Azlan, artwork by Banksy, 1998 Lower right: Wall Posse B-Girl, 1986, St Pauls Carnival, Bristol. © Beezers Photos

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ON THE OUTSIDE

with connections to two different eras of Bristol sound, together with a community of artists who’d since made Bristol their home, organised Walls on Fire in 1998. A crew of graf writers/DJs/MCs and Producers—Fantastic Super Heroes—who went on to evolve into Hombré’s most notorious hip hop act, Aspects, were omnipresent at that time, and helped provide Walls on Fire—the event— with its soundtrack. Bristol Polytechnic’s fine art department, based at Bower Ashton and soon renamed UWE, was instrumental in bringing street artists and illustrators like Dicy, Feek, Will Barras, Mr. Jago and others to the city. They, in turn, got things going for artists they knew from the North and the Midlands who subsequently made Bristol their home—such as Paris, Xenz, Eko (Twentieth Century Frescoes)—and ensured regular city visits from mavericks like Chu and The Toasters. Once this Bower Ashton scene and the older Bristol street artists had come together at the Walls on Fire, Bristol’s street art offer had begun a new chapter, one that would garner a global reputation. Not long after, Hombré experienced the phenomenon of making a hit record in the shape of Aspects’ Correct English LP. With amazing visuals from TCF’s Eko, who supplied the sleeve art, the work epitomised the ethos of the time. Featuring MCs hailing from Somerset and further down the South West, Aspects possessed a rural element that mixed Bristol’s urban scene to develop something different to that ’90s Bristol Sound, something unquestionably “West Country.” Being true to where you’re from, as well as where you’re at, is unashamedly Bristolian and a key part of Aspect’s success. Roni Size gave a great interview, describing the journey between London and Bristol as one in which plenty of reflection, thinking and decision-making gets done. Clearly, it’s a road regularly travelled by Bristol culture makers, but he made it clear that he didn’t see any creative need to be based in London. 3PM and Tricky Kid, then later Turroe, Undivided Attention, Retna, Reds (One Cut), Rola (Numskullz), Dynamite MC, and Aspects rapping in their Bristol accents; 3D, Inkie, Nick Walker and later Banksy were paying tribute to the West Country in their art. Such milestones and signifiers of being true to where you’re from and what (and who) influenced you, are all part of the Bristol approach. Bristol’s street art may well derive from the city’s historic association to cut and paste sampling and hip hop shot through with carnival sound system culture, but time makes it evident that those settling in the city can assert real influence too, here and everywhere.

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Bristol is a city that breathes culture, nurturing a fertile environment for innovative expression, industry, and fierce independence, all stirred into a relentless melting pot. From the slave trading shame that formed its economy, to the statuetoppling dismantling of an ideology that does not serve its people, Bristolians assemble and share ideas often spearheaded by sound and vision. Enabled by the cultural inter-play, resulting first

in ripples, then full scale waves of industrialising and innovative output, from one Vanguard to the next. Ad infinitum. —Jamie Hombré This article is published in conjunction with Vanguard | Bristol Street Art on view at the Bristol Art Museum in the UK from June 26–October 31, 2021.

Above: FBI Funk Delux Flyer design, 1985, Dugout, Bristol © Inkie

BOOKS

Texas Is the Reason: The Mavericks of Lone Star Punk by Pat Blashill Texas does things its own way, and that includes punk. Skate rockers like the Big Boys, LSDemons the Butthole Surfers, blues-steeped Poison 13, relentlessly pounding Jesus Lizard—they all had their own way of doing things. Pat Blashill was there, right time, right place, with great timing and composure, to capture indelible images of the bands and the punk scene in Austin—starkly juxtaposed with images of a Klan rally and the rigidity of a Republican convention. Texas is the Reason compiles his work from the late ’70s through the ’80s and includes some touring bands (Devo! The Misfits!), some forefathers (Roky Erickson!) and testimonials from David Yow, Richard Linklater, and others. The live show photos are vivid, capturing punk when it pulsated with a spark of menace. But, being Austin, it could equally be just having a blast and goofing off with the Big Boys, who at the end of their shows encouraged the crowd to “go start your own band.” The photos of the “scene”—in cheap apartments, on the street, spiking hair in the bathroom—as well as the shots of the crowd capture the vitality of the Austin scene. It was like no other, but shared recognizable elements with others around the country—including the disdain of the staid squares who made up the bulk of the gawking population. —Wez Lundry Bazillion Points, bazillionpoints.com

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WHAT WE’RE READING

Jimbo: Adventures in Paradise by Gary Panter The electric delight in experiencing a Gary Panter piece—and indeed it is an all-encompassing encounter—is that there is such immediacy in the remembrance and the revelations. Jimbo: Adventures in Paradise, just re-released by New York Comics with a foreword by Ed Ruscha and essay by Nicole Rudick, offers a mindbending opportunity for the uninitiated and the rediscovery of a classic for those in-the-know. Some of us might have enjoyed the benefit of growing up running through a flower-filled field, some of us steeped in a metropolitan mix of museums and bodegas. But Gary Panter grew up in a home perfectly positioned to face the luminous screen of a drive-in movie theater. Imagine the almost stealthy satisfaction of viewing exotic stop-motion and cartoon creatures from the safe vantage of comfy familial quarters. Couple that with his dad’s “five and dime” filled with comics, toys and comic books, and you just might end up designing the set and puppets for Pee-Wee’s Playhouse… if you had the fertile, but somehow very grounded, mindset of Panter, you create Jimbo, commonly called the “punk Everyman.” The well-meaning, open-minded, up-for-anything Jimbo sets off in this Paradise we have (ir)responsibly created, but continues to confound us. In between encounters with the likes of Smoggo the smog monster, Rat Boy, and King Ducko, he hopscotches and sidesteps the merge lanes and four-way stops we call Reality, and as we marvel at his meetups, we simultaneously feel like we’ve been there before too. Oh, the genius of Gary Panter, who modestly states, “Drawing is a way of controlling your world if you can control your hand.” I, for one, can’t claim that talent, so I’ll follow along with Jimbo in Paradise. —Gwynned Vitello New York Review Comics, nyrb.com

Born in the Bronx: A Visual Record of the Early Days of Hip-Hop It’s amazing how much of our culture today was forged by the Bronx of the 1970s. Even the legend of Queens, LL COOL J, kicks off Born in the Bronx simply and directly: “I represent Queens by the Bronx made me dream.” What’s incredible about this book, which features the photography of Joe Conzo surrounded by flyers, essays and a crucial timeline, is how the ebbs and flows of graffiti, hip-hop, and breakdancing all were created during a time of great despair and chaos within the borough. The 1970s and 80s in the Bronx are a reminder that new, adaptive ways of thinking and fresh forms of art emerge during times of struggle and strife. But what especially stands out in Born in the Bronx is the pervasive happiness and a sense of freedom in these pictures of teenagers and young adults experimenting with the foundation of the art forms that would come to dominate pop culture vernacular for decades to come. That is not to say that things were in decay, as we would see in the artwork of John Fekner on the streets of the Bronx in the ’70s and ’80s. Conzo documents the crowds, musicians, equipment and fashion of the era. In his own essay in the book, Conzo admits, “The 1970s were a lost time,” but goes on to say, “The vibe of the South Bronx at the time was very colorful, animated, happy-go-lucky, do what you want.” I love this dichotomy. In the background of some of the photos, you do see a Bronx that is crumbling, but you also witness a youth movement in the making. When speaking of hip-hop, Conzo explains how “It spread from the streets of the Bronx into Manhattan like wildfire.” And, resolutely, blazed brightly across the world. —Evan Pricco 1xrun and Beyond the Streets, 1xrun.com

BETWEEN THESE PAGES IS ARGUABLY THE MOST IMPORTANT DISCOVERY OF PRE-FAME JEAN-MICHEL BASQUIAT DRAWINGS IN EXISTENCE.

Danielle Mckinney Comfort and Quietude Interview by Kristin Farr Portrait by The Artist

T

o question how the pandemic changed an artists’ work can feel trite—until the answer is miraculous. Danielle Mckinney made photographs, primarily, until the time confined at home found her painting in earnest with a raw, natural energy that had been quietly waiting to be fully unleashed. Mckinney’s photography is already remarkable; look up The Guardian to see how her creative lens eases between camera and paint. Reclusive moments of deep reflection, introspection and wonder come alive in her work, moods that have simmered all along as her new recipe arrives at the perfect temperature. Mckinney’s legacy is already rich with heartfelt interpretations of a universal sensibility.

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Kristin Farr: What are you up to? Danielle Mckinney: I’m trying to finish up these paintings for Fortnight Gallery. I’ll try to do one more today, and then spend some time with my husband. It’s good weather, and I’m glad it’s warmer. Tell me more about your process. Sometimes I’ll use a photo reference from Instagram or Pinterest. I’m always on my phone with social media, anyway, so when I see a photograph or something, it’ll trigger me to use it as a reference. Or I’ll see a painting when my husband and I are at The Met, and I’ll find a style that I like. What happens is I kind of project myself into it. So it’s like the photograph is the reference, and the painting becomes my way to actually make that image myself, so they’re kind of autobiographical in that way.

Sometimes I don’t even see them as myself; it’s just that I want them to be another figure, to change them up in some way. Somehow the photo sets the mood. When I was little, I used to build these houses out of shoeboxes. I would take my grandma’s interior design magazines and cut things out, and put the house together first. The last part, which I really enjoyed doing, was to cut out some people from the page, a little family, and put them in this house. So it’s kind of the same thing I’m doing with the paintings. I’ll use the photo as a reference, and I’ll put the figure in this environment, and freeze her in this moment. You made dioramas! Did you have siblings? No, I was an only child. I would spend hours doing

Left: After Worship, Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20", 2020 Right: Neutral, Acrylic on canvas, 16" x 20", 2020

Above: Ritual, Acrylic on canvas, 11" x 14", 2021

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that. My mom even said my paintings are similar to what I did when I was a child. My family would be around, but I would be in a room for five hours with these houses, so I think there was comfort in controlling these little environments. I could say, “This is the living room, and I want it to look this way, and I want you to sit here.” They became these worlds for me. The figures in your paintings often appear solo but seem preoccupied by relationships. Exactly. They are in these environments, but it’s not like where you see an architecture photo, and there’s a figure talking about the space and the spatial dimensions. Figures are a way for me to find solace or comfort in these interior environments. It’s really reflective of thoughts,

emotions, or things that have happened. Smoking a cigarette in silence with your own thoughts, or having a Negroni and feeling warm and fuzzy on the inside—they’re very inner-reflective and based on things that have triggered me in my own life. Let’s talk about smoking cigarettes. I’ve always smoked. I started when I was young. It was a cool thing to do when you were a teenager, and I continued to do it. Smoking in the paintings is the guilty pleasure for my addictions. People are always shocked when they find out I smoke. My family doesn’t like that I smoke. Cigarettes take me to a very introspective place. When I’m smoking a cigarette, the mood is already set, so the paintings allow me to be honest and freely admit I smoke cigarettes. I enjoy it, and they’re part

of these moments with me. They’ve been there. When I’m happy, I smoke, when I’m sad, I smoke, when someone passes away, I smoke… Smoking goes well with painting, too. Completely. I’ll finish a painting, and if I feel it’s great, the first thing I’ll want to do is smoke a cigarette downstairs, come back up and look at it. The cigarettes are such a part of me, even when I try to quit or vape sometimes—I couldn’t deny the truth about myself. Even though the figures are not exactly self-portraits, I was like… they smoke cigarettes. For whatever they might be thinking, it’s an adaptable prop. You smoke too, so you understand. You’re the first person I’ve talked to that gets it. Everybody will ask about the cigarettes in the paintings, but unless they smoke, they don’t get it. I do meditation but I still have that euphoric feeling—even some of the figures are referencing that meditative spirituality. I can be thinking or get ideas, or something happens, and I’ll just need a cigarette. Or if I’m driving to Target with good music on, I’ll want to smoke a cigarette to it. It’s a good seven-minute break when you’re busy. I know this should be about your art… This is about the art! It is. It’s not just about taking a deep breath but about holding it in our hand, the smell of it and the rush that you get with a cup of coffee… it’s a whole thing. Even if I’m at a party and there’s nobody smoking, I’ll disappear for ten minutes. I’ll have perfume and gum, and just go on with life. It’s a booster, but the strange thing is, my mom has said, “Can we not put the cigarettes in the paintings anymore? Can they not be smoking?” She doesn’t want you to smoke. Exactly. She wants to see pretty paintings with flowers. I work with a lot of naturalists and herbalists who say smoking is bad if you make it bad. I’m pretty much 100 percent healthy the rest of my life; vegetarian, supplements, herbs. Smoking is just… you know. Another artist told me smoking is less bad if you have a healthy diet. I try to tell that to myself. Here in California, smoking is frowned upon. In New York, it’s everywhere. Everybody has a cigarette or a vape. Moving from the South, I was around a lot of artists and writers and going to lectures; afterwards there was this gathering of smokers for intense conversations. I think that’s why I did Self-Portrait with Vape, because it was this artificial glowing USB cable, and I was like, what is this? I was hiding it, so

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Above: Nothing Personal, Acrylic on canvas, 9" x 12", 2021

that painting was really this figure vaping, and then hiding behind this little glow, this chemical. It’s all strange. Vaping is not the same. At that point you might as well smoke. Just go ahead and smoke. It’s gotten me through a lot. Me and you both. It is so therapeutic to have this conversation with you because I’ve done interviews with people where it’s the first thing they want to address but they aren’t comfortable with an intimate conversation around it. I think they assume because the figures are smoking, that it is in an addictive way. It’s a symbol of the work almost, so thank you for understanding that it’s really about these intimate moments… seven minutes. Also, what you were saying about how they’re thinking about someone else—I can really understand and articulate from that viewpoint, so thank you. Thank you. We’ll smoke together one day. What’s something important to you that seems less important to other people? Silence. I don’t know if that is less important to other people. It depends on the person. I get very

irritable if I’m not quiet. I think, because I’m an only child, I grew up quiet, and I need that kind of silence. Some people really need to talk and share, go on and on, or ride in a car and talk the whole way. For me, silence is something I really value a lot, that ability to slow down. What was the catalyst that led you to pivot from photography to painting? I’d done photography for 20 years. My undergrad and grad school at Parsons was in photography, and that’s why I moved to New York from The South. I had a big, successful piece called The Guardian, which I exhibited, and I did a video work along with it. It was about the public and social space, intimacy, really, like when you cross through someone’s boundary, they might freeze up when you go to touch them. I was really fascinated with that. I worked as a sociologist via photography. Even when I was doing photography, I’d paint on the side. I always painted these figures. They were always there. When the pandemic hit, I’d try to force myself to make photographic work, to follow those educational and conceptual ideas I’d been trained with formally in grad school, and I just had an anxiety attack. I was, like, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t shoot. I can’t keep looking at the world. And then my cat passed away, and I was stuck in the house, and I was going to break down if I didn’t do

Left: A Hit, Acrylic on canvas, 11" x 14", 2021 Right: Face Mask with Prayer, Acrylic on canvas, 11" x 14", 2021

something creatively. So I went to Michael’s, bought a whole bunch of canvases, and I just painted. My husband is a painter. He’d be like, “More brush strokes, honey. That looks great.” It started to boost my trust, and then I took a class here in New York called the Crit Club. I had an excellent teacher who told me, “I don’t know why you never exhibited your work. You really have something special.” In the beginning, I was sensitive, and she said, “Build a wall. Don’t let anyone in, just paint, paint, paint.” She helped me trust my own style, and not compare my work to other painters. She’d tell me my lines were unique; she said “This is the way you paint, and the more you paint it will evolve,” so I started to trust my process. And I trusted her, so I put it out. I was, like, why not share? So, I shared it, and that’s how it happened. You were painting with light in the photography work, in a sense. The Guardian photo has a similar mood to the paintings. How do you challenge yourself in the studio? I noticed you were pushing yourself to use the color red recently. I challenge myself, especially with color, because I’ll paint, and then think, well, what color? And then I’ll have a panic attack in regards to what color the background should be. There’s a harmony with the colors. They have to ring true together, and/or create

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really about that moment where you’re pissed but don’t want to show it. You’re still looking “A-Class,” as my mom says, but inside, you’re in your own little world. It’s the fashion, the way she’s in her fur coat, her cigarette, her blue tights, the gesture of her leg curled up into herself, but then the vulnerability. She doesn’t want someone to talk to her, so the outfit is her protection, but also her desire to be understood. The colors and the timelessness are so memorable. Tell me about the spiritual references in some of the paintings. I was raised Southern Baptist. My father was a Baptist preacher, and I’m from Alabama, where it is a heavy part of the culture. Throughout my life, I’ve struggled to find where I fit in spiritually, though I do have a spiritual connection. I think I still use these symbols in my work of the white male dominant Jesus with a beard or the Virgin Mary, because they are traditional symbols representing spirituality or religion. They’re still a big question to me, and still such a big part of me that it comes out in the work. Your painting Facade, with the arms wrapped around an antiquated bust—is it related to your studies of art? I have an affinity for the past. I lived in Europe for a long time, my husband is from The Netherlands, and I have an affinity for history. Anything old, I become obsessed with and project stories onto it. With Facade, it’s this old Roman Greek sculpture, but if you look closely at her face, it’s like I’ve made history alive. It’s the desire to take something old and make it alive again. Even when going to a museum, I can stay there for hours…

this vibrational tone to the work. I’ll try to think of her skin color, and it’s hard because, even though I use a photo source, I don’t have those colors. My husband is able to just mix oil colors together and match a color. I have to use the exact tube of paint. I can’t just make aqua. When I did that painting with the red, it was really challenging because red is such a robust color. It can panic me. So I decided to challenge myself by using colors that I’m not comfortable with to really create an atmosphere. What are comfortable colors for you? There are three. I’ve noticed that pattern. As soon as I sit down, I’ll take out red oxide, which is an orangey-red, and burnt umber and black. I paint the canvases black before I even start. Black is a color that, even with photography, I use to bump the contrast. I look for the black tones in black-andwhite photos because it has that shadowy kind of 68 SUMMER 2021

depth that I can create and contrast, and corner those colors the way I want. Sometimes I can be a little overpowering with the black, and that’s where my husband has helped by telling me not to be so heavy with the lines in black, and maybe use it to add shadow. But black is my favorite way to frame and contour, and add that contrast. I love your painting called We Need to Talk. Tell me about the mood and the fashion. I’m really influenced by art deco fashion, which, to me, always just makes such a strong statement. The women in these fur jackets were just like, wow, protective, classy, in their moment—don’t touch me, don’t talk to me. But I always want to throw things off a bit, because I don’t want them to always be so perfect, so I gave her blue tights. She’s gonna be in her little chair, with her little fingers with her red nails and a cigarette—and her blue tights—and it’s

Do your titles come naturally? When I finish the work, I’m like, OK, who are you? What are you saying? What’s going on here? Because I have no idea until I finish. It’s like I go into a mad world, and then I finish it. And then I spend time with the figure. I’ll take a little piece, not to tell everything, but to tell the story of what may be going on. I already try to make it not too introspective or so much about myself that people can’t engage in it. The titles are a way for me to give them meaning after I live with them. The paintings already talk to you. Yeah, they do. Do you ever start over? I’ll just paint it black. If it’s not right, I’ll say, “Oops, you’re not doing it, so, here you go, back to black.” Some paintings might have four more paintings underneath them. Danielle McKinney opens solo shows at Night Gallery in Los Angeles on May 22, 2021 and Marianne Boesky Gallery in Aspen, Colorado on June 10, 2021. @danielle_mckinney_ daniellejmckinney.com

Above: Provence, Acrylic on canvas, 14" x 18", 2021

Above: Daddy’s Girl, Acrylic on canvas, 20" x 30", 2021

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Jenna Gribbon The Pleasure of Looking Interview by Shaquille Heath Portrait by Bryan Derballa

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All images: Courtesy of the Artist and Fredericks & Freiser, NY Above: Pollyanna Wrestlers, Oil on linen, 11" x 14", 2018

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or the past year, with interactions among each other relegated to the digital realm, what we see is exactly as dictated. Even if there were 80 selfies taken wearing a torn T-shirt in front of apartment houseplants, the “authentic” becomes artificial when it’s pared down to a single IG story. The notion of how we present ourselves, in knowing that what we share will be seen, becomes loaded. What are we participating in? What is real? And who is looking? Lucky for us, Jenna Gribbon is a painter whose work aims to reckon with the peculiarity of this indulgence. Her obsession with scopophilia creates contemporary daydreams that reveal our remarkable ability to devour with devotion, yet consume with indifference. Confronting our proclivity for voyeurism is the stallion inside the Trojan horse. The intimate visions may beckon, but that’s only one part of the story. Gribbon told me to relax and take pleasure anyway. Shaquille Heath: How are you doing and where are you finding your joy right now? Jenna Gribbon: I am… I’m feeling well, actually. I’ve strangely—I feel a little bit out of sync with everyone else in the way that I’ve just been really working a lot in the last year. I feel really lucky about that. But also, sometimes it makes me feel like there’s a little bit of a disconnect with the experience that other people are having, because sometimes it feels like I’m the only person who is constantly sort of on deadlines. But I feel really lucky, because I’ve been able to have a few shows. I had a show last September in Berlin, and it just happened to be at this moment when Berlin was a bit open for a little while and everyone was going around and seeing shows. It was in between shutdowns, so I got really lucky in that little window. And then I’ve been working on another show that’s going to open in May in London, and it feels like that timing is going to be okay too. Like things are gonna be open again by then. So... I don’t know. It’s weird. I think that if it were a different time, I would be feeling really sad about how much I was missing out on being with friends and things. I can just be in the studio and not feel like I’m missing anything, which is actually kind of nice. So, I don’t know, I don’t really want to be like, I love covid because I’m selfish. No! I mean, I totally hear what you’re saying. And for me personally, putting covid aside… like just putting life aside, I feel like I’ve been able to connect more with my work. If I was still living the life where everything was open, and everything was normal, I would be continuing to try to keep up with regular life. Yeah, exactly. It’s really hard… I don’t know, especially in a city, where there’s always something kind of pulling at you, you know. Something trying to get you to like, leave your space and engage with the outside world. I’m kind of an introvert. So I find

Above: Mutual Pleasure, Oil on linen, 8" x 10", 2019

a lot of enjoyment in the quiet alone time. Time for thinking, introspection. I don’t mind it. I hear you. I’m not necessarily an introvert, but I’m a homebody. So when this first started, I was like, “I’m not mad about not having to stay home. This is exactly where I want to be.” Same! I’m glad you brought up your show in Berlin. When I was speaking with an artist for our last issue, Shannon T. Lewis, she mentioned that she was living in Berlin, and one of the last things she was able to do before the second shutdown was to see your show. That’s great. It’s always nice to hear of people who actually got to see it in person. I love that people sometimes meet my paintings for the first time online, that’s cool. And I love that there’s so much

more access to art now than ever before. But I also feel like there’s this whole other layer that is just so different in person with painting in general. I really… I work very hard on my paintings to make the surfaces really beautiful. And to make that experience worthwhile. People now, because you can see everything online… sometimes become a little bit lazy. And they’re like, “Oh, I don’t have to go see art in person, because I’ve already seen it,” or whatever. But then I think of the people who do go to see it, and it’s almost like a pilgrimage or something, you know? And you want it to pay off for the people who make the pilgrimage to see the work. Totally. I’m in San Francisco where museums just got the green light to reopen, so I’ve been able to see art in person this week. And it’s just so JENNA GRIBBON JUXTAPOZ .COM 73

That was actually one of the questions that I had! Because I feel like an artist’s studio is such an intimate and personal space. You know, it’s just this very sacred space for an artist. And I found it so interesting that you positioned them there. I mean, it goes with a lot of your work, in that, as viewers, we often get to peek into places where, typically, our gaze is not usually granted. I love that you bring this up, because you’re right. It’s funny that it’s always, like, “artist with paintbrush in hand” [laughs]. Or even, on that Instagram promo that you did with The Journal where you’re posing with the apron. Yeah! Totally! It’s like, so fake. Either they’re wearing clothes that are way nicer than they would normally wear in the studio. Or they’re wearing their painting clothes, but you know that they’re not really there to be painting. They’re just there to have their photo taken. So, either way, it’s like, weird and fake. And I don’t know, staged and just funny. It’s just a funny practice. So I thought I wanted to give the artists themselves a chance to kind of troll the viewer a little bit, you know? To just show some sort of self awareness. We know what we’re giving you when we take these photos and present them to the public. It’s very tongue in cheek! How did you create these paintings? Were they made throughout the past year in quarantine? How did you formulate the imagery? Yeah most of them, because it was covid times, were made in quarantine. The artists would send me photos.

different… you need that interaction in person. I’ve needed that. I want to talk about some of the shows that you had last year. I especially want to talk to you about “The Artist, Eroticized,” series, these gorgeously seductive portraits. And I’m wondering, what sparked the series? I was asked to do a show at The Journal Gallery– and I love those kinds of opportunities. It’s a pretty small space, so just a different kind of thing, you know, not my usual New York gallery, very much an opportunity to do something that might be slightly different than what I’m otherwise working on. And I just had this idea kind of rolling around in the back of my mind for a while, a little bit because I think it’s really funny how artists are always expected to provide photos of themselves in the studio. I just think it’s such a strange, kind of voyeuristic 74 SUMMER 2021

expectation that we have to be able to, like, see the artists in their natural habitat. Also, you know, the artists’ studio photos are often just really sexy. Like, everyone tries to look really good. And I don’t know, I just think it’s such a strange practice that doesn’t really get scrutinized at all. Part of it is that, I get it, because I love those images, too. You know, I love seeing an artist’s studio and what the artist looks like. But I think it’s weird that there’s such an expectation, also that there’s this anticipation that artists somehow be like, physically presentable, you know. So, we do eroticize artists in this way, which I think of as being kind of simultaneously loving and critical. Like, these are artists I love, that I also think are really beautiful subjects to paint. But I’m also thinking how ridiculous that we do this, you know?

That’s exactly what I felt when looking at them… OK, so, you know those days when you’re just really feeling yourself? You’re like, “Damn, I look good today!” And so you take some sexy selfies? They’re not for anybody or anything– they’re just for yourself. That’s what those paintings felt like… except when you decide to send the photo off to your best friend instead. Exactly. I did enjoy that aspect of it. Because, yeah, there’s something to that vibe, right? It does make it feel very of-this-moment. Like, recognizing that way of positioning yourself. It’s intimate, but also you can feel that that’s the way the artist wants to be seen, and for sure, it’s hard to describe, but I think you’re exactly right. Your works have so much to do with this personal narrative. I love how you’ve really jumped onto this idea of how we present ourselves online, and I feel that, over this past year, the essence of our interactions with others has become completely dependent upon what we decide to share online. Have you thought about that? Yeah, I’ve always been interested in this thing of “seeing people being seen.” Like, watching people present themselves to be seen and how it’s a little bit different than seeing someone who is not expecting to be seen. I mean, I like looking at both, as in having something to compare it to. I am kind of on the cusp of Gen X and so I remember

Above: My Place Beside Her In Bed, Oil on linen, 12" x 16", 2019

Above: The Artist Eroticized (Devan), Oil on linen, 36" x 48", 2020

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Above: Midday Watch, Oil on linen, 9" x 12", 2020

a time before people first started taking selfies. I remember it being really shocking, and being like, “I can’t believe people are doing this!” It just was so strange and kind of antithetical to a Gen X sensibility, you know? I just found it really fascinating that it was such a phenomenon, and now it’s, like, completely accepted—I accept it and I love it. I love that this is something that people do now and that they’ve embraced. People are just owning their individual presentation of their own image, doing what they want with it, and really, with so little self consciousness. I don’t know, it was an interesting shift for me. You know I think it’s partly coming from a place where it was really kind of alien to me or something. Obviously now people are even more choosing to live in that digital space. I mean, in general, don’t you think this is the most voyeuristic time that’s ever been? You know, all sort of peeking into each other’s intimate lives, the intimate details of each other’s lives. But I think people get it wrong when they make it all about voyeurism because that’s only one aspect. Really, I’d say it’s more the pleasure of looking—scopophilia. It’s an interest and a curiosity about investigating that, but not in a way that’s damning. Which is what I have really enjoyed when spending this intimate time with your work. So, yes, there is this voyeurism, but at the same time, there’s also power that we have in ownership. I don’t know, I’ve also felt, for lack of better words, that the joke was on the viewer. That we think that we’re peering in, but really, these figures are holding that power and we’re seeing exactly what they want us to see. There’s also my desire to make people a little bit more self-conscious of consuming an image of a body or an intimate moment or whatever. Because I think that painting is so old that people forget that it’s a depiction of a person that they are consuming, that they are in a voyeuristic position. Which is kind of why I started using the fluorescent pink nipples. It was a way to make the viewer like, a little uncomfortable, a little self conscious. Also it’s just this funny thing where you can’t not look at them. Even though we’re trained all our lives to skim over that part of the body—it’s not polite to stare—but yeah, you’re forced to, you know, kind of reckon with the discomfort of looking. What questions do you hope people might ask, or might think about when put into that position? I guess I want people to kind of own their pleasure in looking. And you know, question it, but also recognize that it’s not benign. Looking at a body depicted on a canvas… you are participating in something. And what are you participating in? You are receiving pleasure in that act. Maybe the question is, what do you find pleasurable? I’m not making a judgement about that, I need to point it out. I don’t think people realize that it’s sometimes a bodily experience

Above: Funny How They Call It Shooting, Oil on linen, 11" x 14", 2020

when they’re looking at paintings. It’s like, you think you’re having an intellectual experience, but you’re also having a bodily experience, as well as a relationship to a physical object that holds the physicality of paint. But then also, when you’re looking at figurative painting, you’re responding to a depiction of a physical human being. And, you know, there is absolutely a physical response. I think it’s just interesting to remind people of that. So tell me, what have you been working on? I’m working on this show with Sim Smith that opens in London in May. And it’s a two-person show with the estate of Agnès Varda. I’m a huge fan of her work—she’s been an influence on me for many years. Like always, I’m really focusing on the looking that happens, and I think that she also actually focuses on that in her work. So, in that way, I’m kind of looking for the common thread.

One way I was doing that was in trying to capture these moments where her subject looks directly at the camera, which obviously is more rare in film. It’s a lot about how important a real experience with an image can be. The importance of encountering her imagery, the importance of that to me in my work, and really focusing on that in a nuanced kind of way. I could have made 50 of these. There’s so many beautiful moments. I think there’s a nice parallel with painting. The work ends up being… it’s not specifically about the work of Agnès Varda, but about my relationship to the work, which has been really fun to investigate. From there, Jenna shuffled her phone around her studio to give me a virtual tour of the new work. Spoiler… gorgeous. @jennagribbon

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MADSAKI Homecoming King Interview by Evan Pricco Portrait by Chris Rudz

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ubversive is a descriptive often overused in the art world, routinely referencing a brand of humor or political message, sometimes both, resulting in my hesitancy to use the term even when it’s most apt. In MADSAKI’s work, though, I can’t help but feel the fascinating, overwhelming, pulse of subversion. What we see as messy, sloppy, and often caustic, is a beautiful and telling story of belonging and nostalgia told in a brutally honest conversation of what it means to be an outsider. When the Osaka-born, Jersey-raised and Tokyobased MADSAKI first garnered attention for his art, it was through his Wannabie’s series, a collection of graffiti-like interpretations of the classics we commonly perceive as important works of centuries past. What made that series subversive is how it begged the question, “why?”

Why are these things important? Why do cultures identify particular images as distinctly representational? Who decides? And what made the work so compellingly personal is that MADSAKI was in the process of figuring it all out for himself too. It’s funny, though, that my clearest understanding of MADSAKI’s career came in the form of HeMan. When the artist began to dig deeper into the American pop-culture psyche, thrusting his own experiences of growing up in a culture that often presents barriers of entry, there was a breakthrough—and subversive—introspection of how we treat those around us. What does it feel like to be included? Or in this case, not included. This spring, MADSAKI will return to NYC with Hello Darkness, My Old Friend (I’ve come to talk with you again) at Perrotin Gallery, his first solo show

in Manhattan, years after living in the city before returning to Japan. In our conversation, MADSAKI draws a precise picture of the larger theme of America’s long, tumultuous relationship with immigration, a blurred line of humor and pain and a navigation of our memories of past trauma and triumph. Evan Pricco: I would imagine that the lockdown of the past year affected you in some way, but I’m getting the sense it wasn’t much different than your normal day-to-day life? MADSAKI: I was all chill. To me, lockdown or whatever, it didn’t matter. It’s just the same thing. I was already in lockdown for the past four years in my studio. Maybe I had the kids running around more? Basically, nothing’s changed for me, man. It’s just so weird. I had this epiphany recently about your work, that somehow you were able to incorporate the toys of our childhood into your artwork and all of a sudden, boom, everything felt more serious. Does that make sense? It was like all of the things that you had been trying to talk about with your work in many different ways, like the separation between you and feeling at home anywhere, this dichotomy of being both Japanese and American and neither at the same time. You just fucking wrapped everything up for me. Ha ha, well, the last time we sat down together, in 2019 at Beyond the Streets, you had spent the day “on assignment” in New Jersey where you grew up, sort of looking at inspiration from your childhood that could maybe make it into the work, right? What was that like? I thought I was going to cry, but didn’t. I was like, “Oh, my god. I can’t believe I was living here for all my life.” Not my life, but all my teenage years from elementary school to middle school, to high school. And I thought I was going to get a flashback or get OD’d by the memories, and it was just too weird, man. That town is so small, and it’s changed—but it didn’t change at all! Manhattan changes, you get the new buildings, but that town hasn’t changed at all. It was like, “Wow.” It was kind of eerie. It was a different perception when you were younger? I learned that word “suburbs” when I went to college. Oh, I was living in the suburbs. Oh, that’s the word. Okay. So the suburbs, that’s what I started painting. Since I was painting all that from my memory, I kind of miss it, but at the same time, I don’t. And it was the same feeling when I went there two years ago to New Jersey. It was like, okay, I miss this so much and now I’m here, but I get that feeling I don’t belong here or I never belonged here. So what that does is force you to rethink your childhood, because you realize, “Oh, I knew I didn’t fit in back then. But now I really know I didn’t fit in.”

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Above: The Stream II (inspired by Edvard Munch), Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 29" x 36", 2018. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. Courtesy Perrotin

Above: Untitled, Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 39" x 39", 2020. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Courtesy Perrotin.

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I was like, “Okay. I’ve got to get going.” And it was during this pandemic, and I thought, “All right. I’ve got to do the 9/11 painting first.” I had been waiting to do that painting for a long time. It's been inside of me for so long. So I did my 9/11, me sitting on my bike on the East River with the Twin Towers burning in the background. I had to feel ready for it. So that’s the beginning of this series? But I still didn’t see the whole picture, so I just kept going. What are the memories of my time in Jersey, in NY? And it was just like connecting the dots. When I did maybe five or six, I started seeing the whole picture. Speaking with Perrotin and Takashi, there wasn’t some big plan of what this NYC show was going to be, so I had to go through this process of just jumping into what I had in my memory bank. So what did He-Man teach you? Besides English? Goddamn, that’s perfect. So I’m right, it was a serious artistic move. Because when you’re a kid, you turn on the TV, and you see He-Man. I didn’t speak English or anything, so it was just the colors of He-Man in comics and cartoons, the colors and everything. He-Man, in particular, was just so different from what I saw in Japan, all the anime, until I was about six years old. American cartoons were just a totally different thing, and that caught my eye, this muscular, blonde dude. I didn’t know what he’s saying, but it was good. He was sitting on a green tiger or lion, or whatever it was. And so, I just kept on watching. I didn’t know what it was, but after a year or so, I was able to speak English like He-Man. As you have gone back to revisit these memories, have you asked your parents for some sort of “adult” context as to what was going on then? Because they also had to upend their lives, moving to New Jersey with young kids. Last year when I did the He-Man show and brought my parents, there was a painting of me, this third grade class photo painting. They started crying in front of the painting! And they told me, “We’re very sorry that you had to go through what you had to go through.” I was, like, what are you talking about? And they said, “Because I know your life must have been really harsh growing up in Jersey, not speaking the language.” Now I’m convinced that I never belonged there. I was trying to, subconsciously or consciously, belong and at least have fun. I think I was having fun, but it wasn’t natural. It didn’t feel natural. And going back as an adult, it still didn’t feel natural. In thinking about the Wannabie series, for those of us who didn’t grow up around art history or art culture, you wonder about relationships with these classic paintings. 82 SUMMER 2021

There’s a sort of internal clash that could be messy. But when you start tapping into childhood and personal things, does anything change in your relationship to painting? Mentally, it was totally different. But I do remember something, when I was baked from doing all the He-Mans over the last few years, I thought, “Okay, I can’t do this any more. I need a break.” And I took maybe two weeks off. I went back to the studio and I had to motivate myself.

Art, drawing in particular, was how you connected with other kids in school, right? And I assume these toys were similar to? Common ground… He-Man. That big sculpture I made of He-Man? We all had those toys, and they were something to communicate with. But you know what’s funny? I think second or third grade, I knew what kids were saying, just listening; but I couldn’t speak. Around maybe late third grade,

Top: Untitled, Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 63" x 47", 2021,.©2021 MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Courtesy Perrotin Bottom: Untitled, Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 79" x 59", 2020. ©2020 MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. All Rights Reserved. Courtesy Perrotin

I woke up in the morning—woke up and all of a sudden, this English just started pouring out.

100k followers, right? I think only three or four are Japanese followers.

So TV was your teacher? Yeah, because that’s the only thing I did, watch MTV 24/7, watch cartoons, Scooby-Doo, everything that was playing on TV back then. My parents were like, “You were always, always watching TV.” And I told them a couple of months ago, “But that TV was what helped me.” Everything I saw is now coming out as an artwork these days.

[Laughs] Oh man. So what do your Japanese friends think? Or what about Takashi? Takashi will say, “When I start talking to you,

It wasn’t like the typical American experience of zoning out in front of the tube, was it? The theme of my life, I never... It’s about belonging. I never belonged anywhere. And I’m always observing shit. I’m there, but I’m not truly in there, just looking, observing everything. My life was a lot like that, and TV is like, you’re sitting in front of the screen, you’re just observing. And I think that became my foundation for everything. How much of you do you feel is American and how much is Japanese? I think it’s more American. My imagination is like 95% American, I’d say… And culturally too. The manner part, the mannerisms are the only part that feel Japanese. So, what do Japanese audiences think of the art you make? Oh, the funny thing is, Evan… on Instagram I have

"Japan is the only country that makes me want to paint." I realize that you’re not Japanese. You’re speaking Japanese, but you’re not Japanese.” Let’s go back in time to when you moved to the States in 1980. In the context of what New York City was at the time, graffiti, hip hop, all that kind of culture, do you feel like it was a good time as a kid?

Above: View of the exhibition If I Had a Dream at Perrotin Hong Kong, 2019. Photo by Ringo Cheung. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd.. Courtesy Perrotin

Definitely. If I wasn’t living in that age, in that place, I don’t think I would be doing what I’m doing right now. The 1980s and ’90s made me who I am today. Yeah, definitely. The early 1990s, especially when I was going to art school, was amazing because the grunge scene was happening. But before that, it was this fully underground scene. I wanted to do music, but to do that, I had to be in a band, which I’m not really good at. I’d rather be alone. So there were only two choices: to become a musician or artist, and I picked artist. My parents told me that after high school, I was going back to Japan for college. And I said, “Fuck no. I can’t do that.” When they asked me, as a senior in high school, what I was going to do, I thought, “I’m going to go to art school.” Name out of a hat! So I went to my art teacher in high school and said, “Yo, I want to go to art school.” and she goes, “You need a portfolio.” I was like, “What’s a portfolio?” So I started making the portfolio. It wasn’t really, “I want to be an artist”, but I just didn’t want to go back to Japan. And I didn’t want to study either. But there had to be something that triggered you, not just some random thing. I think it was when I first saw the Basquiat retrospective at the Whitney.

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Top: View of the exhibition If I Had a Dream at Perrotin Hong Kong, 2019. Photo by Ringo Cheung. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd.. Courtesy Perrotin Bottom: Nighthawks II (inspired by Edward Hopper), Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 60" x 33", 2018. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. Courtesy Perrotin

Bingo! Now we got it. That must have been 1992, ’93? That just fucking blew my mind because I never knew about Basquiat. Did you know anything about graffiti at all at that point? No. I’d seen graffiti in the city, but I didn’t have any artist friends who did art at all in high school. And I was the only one who was drawing and painting. Even though I went to Parsons, I didn’t know anything about art. I did have one professor who taught me about outsider art, so I got into that, which brought me to Basquiat. Doors started opening right after that. So these things that we’re talking about right now, have they been running through your mind while working on projects the last couple years? No! [Laughs] I’m thinking it now because you asked me. Love it—so what have you been thinking about? I’m just being brutally honest with myself. And I think that is something Takashi has helped with. He taught me what art is for the past four years, so I just started digging into myself. Opened up the traumas, one by one. And I think that fucking led me here. I knew I had it, but I didn’t know I could express it. Last time you were in the magazine, we titled the interview the “Stupid Serious” or something like that. But it’s funny to me that I actually think about your work right now as being very, very serious. For real? Yeah, man, this is a deeply personal look at belonging, what we do to belong when we feel like outsiders. What may look like He-Man, might be a cute painting of yourself in third grade in North Jersey, but there are new, layered applications and… it’s all very moving. Here in America, especially after the difficult four years and people being made to feel like they don’t belong, it’s important to talk about it. You said it exactly right. Exactly. Because I was thinking the same thing. I was laughing alone in my studio, “What the fuck am I doing?” But like I was saying, each painting I finished by starting to create a wider picture. And it was the right work to be doing. Let’s be honest, you have had tremendous success, career-wise, since the last time we spoke in the mag. Has it changed anything for you in terms of making art? I don’t know what the rest of the world thinks, so, no. I’ve never thought about it that way. Maybe for like two seconds, but… What about those two seconds? I think once, at a gallery opening, I had a feeling of

finally making it. And that felt really good. I thought, “Hey, I get to make another show. And that’s cool.” What does Japan mean to your work now? It’s funny because every time I go to LA, New York or Hawaii, there’s no inspiration making me want to paint. But if I come back to Tokyo, I’m like, “Okay, let’s paint.” Japan is the only country that makes me want to paint. Why do you think that is? I still haven’t figured it out. Do you pay attention to a lot of what’s going on in the art world? Tunnel vision, it’s my own fucking world. It’s not like I’m not interested. I’m here, but I’m not here. I think it goes back to all the questions you asked me. It’s like everywhere I go, I still don’t feel I belong.

So what does the Perrotin show tackle? What memories? It’s 1980–2004. When I did the He-Man show, I had paintings of Sesame Street and McDonald’s, those things that opened a new door for me, places I could explore. That sort of gave me confidence to go a bit further, tap into childhood, my time in America, maybe create something a bit more personal. Do you consider a show in NY as a homecoming show? I was thinking about that too, man. New York, capital of the arts. So it’s kind of scary to go there as an artist to show my paintings. But, yes, I’m going back. I’m going home. I feel like going home. Finally. MADSAKI’s solo show, Hello Darkness, My Old Friend (I’ve come to talk with you again), will be on view at Perrotin in NYC through June 5, 2021.

Above: Van Gogh Trippin’ Hard Yo (inspired by Vincent Van Gogh), Acrylic paint, aerosol on canvas, 21.25" x 25.5", 2018. Courtesy MADSAKI/Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd. Courtesy Perrotin

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Cristina BanBan The Nuance of Memory Interview by Evan Pricco Portrait by Bryan Derballa

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Images: Courtesy of the artist and 1969 Gallery, New York City Above: Cristina de Miguel durmiendo, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2021

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hink about the last time you cried. Oh, there are myriad reasons. Life can be upsetting, life makes us feel nostalgic. We cry out of sadness and happiness, sometimes at the same time. We cry when something is so beautiful it is incomprehensible and, admittedly, we cry at the heinous moments, as well. I bring up this most human act in the dichotomy of Spanish-born painter Cristina BanBan’s newest body of work, a bold and beautiful series of oil paintings, titled Del Llanto, which translates to “from crying.” BanBan’s pieces evoke those complex states of mind when we feel like crying, and how being transported through time can elicit emotions of profound grief and joy. I spoke with BanBan just as she was finishing Del Llanto, in what will most certainly be a watershed moment for her rising career. These paintings tell universal stories in the most personal way. Evan Pricco: Can we talk about hands? When we spoke the other day, I didn’t even bring it up. And they are so prominent! One of your paintings I really love, EL PRAT DE LLOBREGAT,

Above: A las diez en casa, Oil on canvas, 86" x 60", 2021

2PM, has such incredibly rendered hands. What’s your feeling about hands? Cristian BanBan: They’re my favorite part of the human body, after the teeth; but painting an open mouth is one of the most difficult things to do, in my opinion. Playing with hands brings movement into the painting. It doesn’t matter if the subjects are in relaxed positions, hands always create a dynamic composition. I paint huge hands, and recently they’ve become more bony and masculine. When I think about hands in paintings, the first thing that comes to mind are Philip Guston’s—so sophisticated and iconic.

family dinner. I began my latest oil paintings last year and there’s a lot of intimacy in them—they’re a reflection of time spent with myself and close friends. I wouldn’t say that my work is always “literally” autobiographical, but for sure, they explain mood and current situations. Alice Neel once said in an interview that “when painting or writing are good, it’s taken right out of life itself, to my mind, and put into the work. Now that doesn’t mean that the work has to tell about real life. I mean, it can be abstract or anything, but the vitality is taken out of real living.” I think that explains it well.

I took a bit of a step back this morning, looked at your work, your characters and some of the moments you capture, and there is such an intimacy. I could be wrong, but I see so much of Spain. Though you were born in Barcelona, you lived in London for nearly a decade, and now Brooklyn, but I love how those Spanish scenes evoke such nostalgia. My last show, Tigre y Paloma, was centered around nostalgia from missing home. I brought in the familiar spaces: beach scenes, siesta time and

This is an unfair question, but I like unfair questions: What did you take from Barcelona, London, and now, NYC? Those are art capitals with so much history, and your work lends a refreshing take on figurative painting. What did you absorb from those cities, and what does each place mean to you? You know things in life change, and you change all the time, so your paintings do too. Every move was driven by intuition, perhaps moving away from feeling comfortable. I tend to move when

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I feel I have done all that place offered me during that time. Spain will always be home, always where I come back to reunite with my loved ones and family. I learned everything I know from drawing and painting in Barcelona, but it was London where I put the time into it. London was the place where my career kicked off and I am very grateful for that and all the moments, the joy and suffering, along the way. I’ve been in New York for about a year and a half now and am excited for what the summer will bring. I want to talk about time. Two works of yours that I love, LA COSTA DAURADA and again, EL PRAT DE LLOBREGAT, 2PM, vibrate with such depth. But when I saw TINTO EN EL TALLER, and saved it on my phone, there was this different kind of depth, one of loneliness, which I felt related to our relationship with time in the last 12 months. Your pivot was so interesting. Did you see the change as clearly, or are you so head-down in the studio that you hardly noticed?

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I’ve spent the last year dedicated to developing a series of new paintings, which are part of the Del Llanto show. As you and I were talking the other day, this was an insane year. I felt time was elastic, days passed slowly and months seemed to go by very fast. I spent a lot of time alone or with a smaller group of friends, and the spaces I visited were reduced to the studio or my apartment for the majority of time. You can see that context in these pieces. The feeling of one longing in absence, loneliness and my everyday settings. The whole show has a feeling of melancholy as a result of these times. What is your routine? I know you spend a lot of time in the studio, but do you have a daily schedule that you adhere to? I don’t have a routine. But I like the idea of having one, only to feel free by breaking it. Things that are consistent are coffee breaks and making some time for the studio. I try to go to the studio every day, even if it’s just for a bit. When I take a day off, it’s usually during the

week because I like working on the weekends, especially on Sundays. Nobody is around and I like that quietness. In summer, I like working until midday. Then I hop on the L train to the beach, eat a few tacos, and come back. I like to sketch at home in the mornings, but in the studio, I mostly just paint. I remember you mentioned wanting to be an artist starting at age five. Or maybe that is when you remember starting to make art? There is such romanticism attached to being an artist, what that life will be like. You seem like someone who is just always working and making, and making some more. As you gain attention, anticipate a big solo show coming up… are you able to articulate what your younger self would say to you now as a working artist? I say this because you and I talked about that leap, how being catapulted into the art world is so hard to explain. I would tell my younger self: Enjoy the process, you will be fine. But I would do exactly the

Above: Tres dones descansant al Delta, Oil on canvas, 79" x 61", 2020

same to get out there, which has always been by working a lot. I have always been proud of my self-discipline when it comes to work. I get that from my parents and brother, such hardworking people. When you’re five, you, of course, think naively about something you might like to be, but my passion today is the same as when I was a child. I think a painter must be completely obsessed with painting; otherwise how could you justify all of the time spent doing it? You knew this was coming: And I don’t want to hear just about painters, but who are your favorite artists? You make these very cinematic scenes, so I hear music, see things moving… talk about film, music, painters. What is in the Cristina BanBan sphere?! Magdalena Suarez Frimkess, Carmen Amaya (flamenco singer/dancer), EllenAllien (DJ), Sandy Kim, Delia Derbyshire (pioneer of British electronic music), Maruja Mallo (surrealist painter from the “Generation of 1927”) and Antonio Machado (poet) inspire me directly or

"My passion today is the same as when I was a child." indirectly for different reasons. I also like the work of Robert Colescott, Paula Rego, Francis Bacon, Frank Auerbach, Joaquin Sorolla, and Tal R. I like watching Clara Rockmore play — without touching—the theremin, and listening to David Lynch’s Weather Report, “Fatty Folders” by Roman Flügel, “Blowout Comb” by Digable Planets and “La Leyenda del Tiempo” from Camaron de la Isla. What is it about oil paint that perhaps changed the trajectory of this show? It’s the first time you’ve worked this way, right? Last year I became bored with my own painting as though I exhausted something within it. I felt the need to step back and make changes in my approach to painting—I needed to get excited by it again. So I turned to a different technique. I like feeling uncomfortable because that’s when I learn. It’s the same as when I meet people who make me feel uneasy in a conversation, and I always end up learning something from it. By using a medium that I haven’t tried before I could put my hands on trial again and take advantage of the mistakes. I had the need to feel I wasn’t in control so that accidents could happen. That is so beautiful. And that’s how it is with oil paint; you never know how it will react.

Above: Del Jardin de Maria, Oil on canvas, 54" x 75", 2021

Could you see a shift right away in the way your works looked, in the way you were feeling as a painter? Yes, I felt motivated again. I think we artists shouldn’t get stuck doing the same thing over and over. You have to accept when it’s time to move on and don’t let the fear stop you. Taking the time for change and saying no to other commitments is important in order to refocus on your work. It’s difficult to feel freer with painting but it’s the path I want to follow. Could you see that content shift, too? I kind of hate to say it, but these works make me sadder. Sure,

I know it’s pretty banal to say that someone’s work is sadder in a time of cultural and social tumult, but I’m more asking about, as an artist, how you begin to notice the shift? How you feel when you look at a painting is entirely up to you, I think. From my side, I can only say that my work reflects what is happening in my life, because it’s something I do every day. So I grab whatever is in or around me—memories, feelings, a dream, a sentence from a book I’m reading, a conversation with a friend or a situation with a lover. Everything becomes content for a painting. Not to say it’s always 100 percent autobiographical, but it is always personal. CRISTINA BANBAN JUXTAPOZ .COM 91

By the time this interview is out, you will have had your solo show at 1969 Gallery and Albertz Benda. You gave me a tour of the works and I think they’re your strongest to date, so impressive in terms of scale and detail. The vulnerability is just so palpable. You reference honesty a lot, so what do you think this body of work says about you right now? The title itself, Del Llanto, makes quite a statement. Thank you! Vulnerability and honesty are indeed aspects I enjoy exploring. This work is a reflection of a lot of time and energy invested in the studio for a year without traveling, and the feeling of being trapped in a seemingly never ending situation with many restrictions. Del Llanto can be understood as an act to relieve a big feeling, whether it’s pain, joy, desperation or sadness… the emotions that we went through since the burst of covid. But I also like to think about all those feelings that came after that big burst, like boredom, fatigue and feeling lost. 92 SUMMER 2021

To me, the scale of the woman is very important. They are life-size, often bigger than life-size! It was quite impressive seeing them in your studio, just so bold. I assume this is very intentional? Yes, I choose human size or bigger for scale. I guess it’s a personal preference to feel invaded by the painting. I’m into big brushstrokes and experimenting with different thicknesses. But I also did work on smaller canvases for this upcoming show, some portraits. There are few bookends at play here: You open a solo show that marks a very fascinating period of time, coming at what has been a remarkable time in NYC in particular. There is a bit of an intimate shift in the works; you got the vaccine the day we did this interview, and now you are going to be going back to Spain after the openings… we both sort of laughed at the idea that an artist needs to somehow dictate

time to themselves; this idea that images can appear and reappear over time, and that if you are just dedicated and make work every day, characteristics will emerge sometimes that you haven’t touched in a while. Even with another solo show on the horizon, how do you feel right now, Cristina, about the process? I want to keep experimenting and trying different things. After finishing a solo, I like to take a bit of time for drawing or reading. I could see in the process of making the series that I was more focused on the lighting and the contrast of the colors to represent volume, rather than using line work as I used to in the past. This shift made me want to start working with sculpture, which I hope to do in the near future. Cristina BanBan: Del Llanto will be on view at 1969 Gallery and Albertz Benda in NYC through June 12, 2021.

Above: Cuando nada cuenta el cuento, Oil and oil stick on canvas, 70" x 60", 2021

Above: Mater Dei, Oil and oil stick on canvas, 55" x 75", 2021

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Hilary Pecis The Humble is Whole Interview by Gwynned Vitello Portrait by Megan Cerminaro

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ilary Pecis makes magic, buoyantly reviving the vivid dream you’d like to revisit. Her scenes become wonderland dioramas that expand, deepen and sprout detail. She paints picture postcards, some bursting with sunshine, others shaded in deeper thought. Possessing a skill with color that is immensely attractive in the most literal sense, she creates the vibrancy or velvet glow each vignette requires. Precise use of pattern and subtle grids coalesce each scene. Pecis sends an invitation to absorb the mood, sit down for a spell, and perhaps, swap one’s own favorite flower or book title. Nothing is ordinary and the humble is whole. If Matisse or Hockney seem to be lingering about, it’s not your imagination.

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Gwynned Vitello: You’ve said that you have no memory of a time when you did not consider yourself an artist. I know your brother is also a professional creative, so what do you think forms a person’s comfort in aesthetics, or even the inclination to be a maker? Hilary Pecis: My parents were not creatives, but they encouraged a lot of imaginary play. They did a lot with their own hands, so we watched them build and make and take care of things all of the time. Although the kids definitely didn’t go without, we were far from spoiled and ended up making a lot of our toys, and later on, our clothes and the things we wanted but couldn’t buy. There was a sense that we had infinite possibilities as long as we could make them. In high school, my brother and my other sibling and I were involved in the punk scene

in Redding, California where we grew up. That culture really fostered a level of creativity and style without the need for traditional consumption. It’s always interesting to know the expectation or motivation someone has entering art school. Did you have a particular genre in mind? Was there a teacher who saw a particular spark or did you discover a new movement or medium that set you on a path? In high school, I had been involved in the AP art program led by Ed Howland. He really encouraged me to pursue art—and I would say he was the most influential teacher that I had. I attended a junior college and California College of the Arts, where I received both my BFA and MFA. During the years I was working on my MFA, I had a great teacher,

Above: Inside/Outside, Acrylic on canvas, 100" x 74", 2020

Above: Table Top Tangle, Acrylic on linen, 54" x 44", 2021

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acrylic paintings of landscapes. I enjoyed making them, but ultimately my practice evolved and became a lot more colorful. In recent years, I have attempted a few times to work monochromatically with shades of white, as in the piece titled Museum, 2020. I was inspired by Morandi’s many shades of white that make for such drama. I love the implied simplicity of the image, which is incredibly tough for me. Your landscapes have immense, immediate appeal. What were your first themes and subjects, and how have the subjects and style evolved? Thank you so much for saying that! I really enjoy making the landscape paintings the most. I move between landscape and still life pretty fluidly and tend to work on them simultaneously. There are many things I enjoy about both, such as their relationship within the history of painting. Additionally, both landscape and still life provide different technical challenges and offer various opportunities for unexpected surprises. Portraiture is definitely having a moment. What’s been your experience with it? I enjoy portraiture, but the closest I can get to a portrait is by painting someone’s surroundings. I think it can be as personal as a painting of their face. Additionally, my rendering skills can be a bit wonky, and I feel like there would be a lot of pressure to render someone decently enough, while staying as true to my own vocabulary of mark making.

"I love being in a nest surrounded by bright colors." Linda Geary, who suggested that I keep a side practice separate from my primary art practice. That side practice was the painting that I am still making today. Can you take me back to when you were starting out and working other jobs? Did you juggle a day job with your professional art schedule? Did you take mental notes during your various gigs, drawing from your surroundings in your art? Any self imposed time frame, or did you commit to a lifetime as a creative? Before I had a child, I preferred to work evenings in restaurants, which kept my days open for the 98 SUMMER 2021

studio. I liked the disconnect between my art practice and work, as it gave me a bit of a mental break. I continued this into my son’s first year, but eventually I took a part-time position as a registrar in a gallery. It was hard work, but it also was a great opportunity to be around amazing artworks and meet many great people. For me, black and white makes a bold statement, it’s so dramatic—literally “black and white!” Have you ever worked with those (non) shades? Do you have an inherent feeling about them, as opposed to color? Yes! As a student I made black-and-white ink and

Tell me about your method. Do you keep sketchbooks, take mental notes of people you meet, search Google, take photos? After that, is there a burst of energy or a slow, unfolding process? Do you have a final product in mind, or prefer to surprise yourself? I work directly from photos that I take. On a rare occasion I have seen an image taken by someone else and asked them for permission to use it. From there, I make a loose sketch of the composition directly on the canvas and then noodle away until the painting feels finished. Oftentimesfd the outcome is far from the foresight that I had in the beginning of the painting, which is part of the magic in making a painting. The paintings are glorious in detail, but never feel frenetic. You touched on this, but how do you go about editing all the components, or do you like to surprise yourself? I guess I’m also wondering how long a piece takes, and if you work on several at once. I work on several paintings at once, and I actually can’t really address the process of editing. Let’s call it a very “call and response” approach? What type of paint best suits your style? I use a local brand of acrylic paint called Nova

Above: Tea Parlor, Acrylic on canvas, 44" x 54", 2020

Color. They are based in Culver City, and I think the paint is only sold out of their store. My husband, Andrew Schoultz, who is also an artist and muralist has been using it for close to 20 years and turned me on to Nova Color. The paint is great quality and very reasonably priced. So many painters have chosen to go big. Have you felt that urge, and do you feel there’s a different intention or reaction when envisioning the size of a piece? Big is subjective—my big is 74” x 100”, which is taller than me. Painting big is fun, and as a viewer, it is easier to step into that space or experience it in relation to my body. That said, I like small paintings too. I don’t feel any pressure to paint bigger… it is just a lot easier when I want to add more information to the picture. Since you’re known for intentionally identifying brand names or book titles in your paintings, I wonder how intentional that is. Do you strive to be accurate, down to typeface? Have you ever

Above: Pink Room, Acrylic on linen, 100" x 74", 2021

chosen a subject just so you could include a favorite item? I take plenty of liberties from what is edited out of the original image, as well as the colors used and amplified. I try to stay accurate with imagery to the best of my ability, but I don’t labor too much over anything. I love painting the written alphabet and other symbols because there is an immediate recognition on the most basic level. I think that is most often seen in the paintings I make of streetscapes. And yes, I always choose a subject because I like something or everything in the original image. Explain more about how you utilize photography in your work. Does it also function as a pure outlet, and are there other activities that inspire your process—or are pure fun or relaxation? Is there such a thing as relaxation for you? I use photographs as a reference point in my paintings and as a jumping off place. We are all taking so many photos these days, and I have a

cache of images that I add to my favorites folder to work from. As for relaxation, I like to run on both road and trail. I take a lot of photos on runs, which make their way into my landscape and streetscape paintings. How do you set up the mood, look and schedule of your studio time? I have set hours in my studio and when I’m there, I am typically painting. My studio is a little on the small side, so by the time I have finished working on a show, it is pretty maxed out in regards to wall space. And to be honest, that is when I’m most comfortable. After work leaves for a show and we are back to white walls, I am a little saddened. I love the feeling of being in a nest surrounded by bright colors. There are typically flowers on my tables and fruit in the bowl, which make for a quick reference should I need inspiration for a painting. Most importantly, my dog and the other animals in the building are often running around and getting in trouble. The building I am in is shared with Lily

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Above: Echo Park, Acrylic on canvas, 48" x 60", 2019

Stockman, Megan Reed, and Ruby Neri—which makes for a combined three dogs and a cat. It is a very friendly environment. I know that San Francisco, where you started, and Los Angeles, where you now live, have influenced you. Can you go into a little detail? And if you could have an imaginary sabbatical, where would be your fantasy base of operations? I miss and love San Francisco, but I don’t know if I could make the paintings that I do now if I were still living there. Life in LA seems a little slower and brighter, and I feel infinite inspiration, and I can’t imagine a place I would rather be. Tell us what you have coming up in terms of shows and projects? Late spring/early summer I will be opening a solo show in London at Timothy Taylor Gallery. Additionally, I will have work in group shows at David Kordansky Gallery and Jack Shainman’s Kinderhook Gallery. I also have a public art project with Art Production Fund that will also be opening this summer at 30 Rock in New York, and later in the summer, I will have a solo show at Halsey McKay in East Hampton. We can’t avoid talking about the pandemic, but where to begin? Beyond not being able to show in galleries, has it affected your sources of inspiration, relationship with your actual workspace, your actual mood and outlook? My paintings are pretty central to my experience of looking and interpreting. I have spent less time in friends’ homes and more time in my own, which results in more paintings in my own space. I have made more and shown more in this last year than ever before, partly because there are less distractions. Although I had not had the luxury to travel to a solo show I had in Beijing at Spurs Gallery, or another show at Halsey McKay out in East Hampton, the shows went on and were open by appointment. In a year where so many people have suffered, I have no room to complain. Do you find that the experience of a world pandemic, coupled with a more borderless world, as well the concept of museums without borders, affects your outlook as an artist? Is it something you discuss with other artists? The pandemic has moved so much of our art viewing onto our phones and laptops. Although it’s not an ideal way to view art, I am grateful that we had it—especially in the bleak first few months. I also think that Instagram was an amazing platform that everyone was using, giving voice to some relatively unknown artists. I think there were plenty of people crippled by the pandemic and not working, or working at a slower pace and

Above: Car Service, Acrylic on linen, 54" x 44", 2021

spending more time scrolling and discovering art and artists. I also think that having a less than ideal way to view art has only intensified the urge to get out and see art in the flesh. It could be just a changing schedule or maybe a project to illustrate a children’s book, but how, if at all, has motherhood changed your art practice? Ha ha. No children’s books. I have always been punctual, but being a mother has really helped me work within a timeline. I also feel like I have cut out all the nonsense that I don’t need to bother with, in order to fit in the things that I find important. During the year of covid my pared down life looks like being a mother and wife, a studio artist, and a runner. I can’t think of anything better.

But, just for fun, for artistic inspiration, is there a dream destination you’ve thought about now that we can entertain thoughts of “trains, planes, and automobiles”? I like to travel but I don’t think I need a destination for inspiration. This last year has provided plenty of inspiration and I’ve traveled very few miles in total. Referring back to the last question, I really just can’t wait to go to museums. Hilary Pecis: Piecemeal Rhythm will be on view at Timothy Taylor in London through June 16, 2021. @hilary_pecis

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Khari Turner The Light Between Oceans Interview by Doug Gillen and Evan Pricco Portrait by Laura June Kirsch

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Above: Black Alternative 2, Acrylic, oil, ink, charcoal, sand, Pacific Ocean water, water from lower Manhattan docks, Lake Michigan and Milwaukee River water on paper, 48"x 60", 2021

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f I met my ancestors at the edge of the ocean, would I bring flowers?” What a natural notion to posit, a sentiment to be etched in stone and passed down through the ages. When Milwaukee-born, NYC-based painter Khari Turner considered this simple, rhetorical question during our interview, in what was personally and professionally a lightswitch moment while musing about his painting, a shared clarity arrived. It’s true, I’ve thought about this concept over and over again: If I met my ancestors at the edge of the ocean, would I bring flowers? How would that appear? What does a meeting of bodies of water even look like? But that’s just one aspect of his journey. A botched financial aid mishap followed by a scholarship and unlikely gig as cheerleader at Austin Peay State University, working as one of those incredible high-flying stunt slam dunkers with the Milwaukee Bucks, and then onward to NYC and Columbia, each experience hydro-powered into a flourishing art career, yet another unique passage Turner has traversed over the course of a young life. Over the past few years, he has explored the properties of water as means of transportation, navigation, and life force, as well as art material, creating some of the most powerful paintings we have seen. While the first encounter is literally and figuratively stunning, a deep dive discloses that Turner is immersed in a personal, universal quest, exploring family, names, identity and home. —Evan Pricco Doug Gillen: What’s your idea of Milwaukee art? Khari Turner: Oh my goodness. It’s really hard, because the thing is that funding that goes to Milwaukee art is usually always the big graphic design-style murals. So it depends, because there’s so many other people who are doing work, but again they’re like a lot of people in the inner city who are making their own creations and doing graffiti art and all types of other stuff. A lot of my art at the beginning was graffiti art because that was everywhere. The Milwaukee Museum makes it so it’s like you get the opportunity to see all this great stuff, but again, that’s by the lakefront. It’s where really all of the businesses are, where all the more wealthy areas are. To get out there, you really have to make your way that way, so it just depends. Evan Pricco: When you say that it looked like graffiti, were you actually going out and doing graffiti? No! Well, yes and no. I was terrified of going out and somebody stopping me as I’m painting a wall and I’ve got a backpack full of supplies. So, what I would do is just find random loose boards of wood that nobody cared about, and then I would spray paint those because I was, like, no one’s going to stop me for this. That’s what I did.

DG: What was your entry point into art? Was it through these non-graffiti, graffiti-type spraypainted wooden panels, or was it something else? No. My grandfather was a draftsman for this pump company, so he was drawing constantly. Even in his younger years, he drew all the time. I basically spent a lot of time with my grandparents, and he had a woodshop downstairs i n his basement. He did all these drawings, had art all over the place. I knew he could draw, so he would draw stuff for me. And then I would basically try to copy it. I had posters of planes. He’d draw a plane. I’d draw a plane. And then, after a while, I basically was in school and people in school would draw. I was like, oh, I got to learn how to do that. Really, it was like school with my grandfather at this young age, so all this art surrounded me right in my grandparents’ house.

Above: With the Certainty of Tides, Acrylic, oil, ink, charcoal, Pacific Ocean water, water from the southernmost point of Manhattan on paper, 48" x 61", 2020

DG: When did you realize that this was the path you were going to follow? Oh, really early on. I knew art was going to be my whole setup. I just didn’t know what kind of art or what way to make art work. So, at first, I was like, maybe I can be a courtroom sketch artist or police sketch artist. Maybe I can work for Pixar. I didn’t know what I wanted to do. But making actual paintings and whatnot, and making work off that, was definitely not a reality. It didn’t seem real, because I didn’t see anybody else doing it. I was like, there’s no jobs for that. But I knew I was going to do something with art regardless. It was either going to be this or a chef. EP: Water is a big part of what you’re doing right now. When did that start? Is that an element you started to work with while in school in Tennessee, or has that evolved over the last year and a half while in NYC at Columbia? KHARI TURNER JUXTAPOZ .COM 105

Pretty much over the last year and a half. This idea of the noses and the lips that I’ve been doing, that started in Tennessee, and that started because of this idea of social justice. When I first started doing all that, all my research for my senior show, I was like, all right, I know that privatized prisons and the funding to put bodies into these prisons is a really big issue, because it creates a situation that necessitates people occupying prisons. Okay, well, then, now we’re going to start getting people in the prisons. How do you do that? Well, you find petty crimes, three strikes, all of these long sentences for stuff that’s absolutely not something people should be going to jail for. And then, you’ve filled up those prisons, and you make money off of that. But it becomes a question of how do you change a situation like that?

Either way, when I was doing all that research, I found that people with wider noses, thicker lips, and darker skin got longer prison sentences on death row; which obviously makes sense, like the percentage of black bodies in prison connected to the percentage of black bodies in the United States is drastically different. It was one thing to think about, that just my nose and my lips and my skin could be the reason I get a longer sentence. So then, I started just focusing on that, and eventually it changed into these aspects of inspiration for the work and thinking about these as markers of my ethnic identity. Understanding that there’s a whole history behind it, that’s where the water came from. I started thinking about relationships to segregated pools, the connection to my identity

and water. Considering growing up next to Lake Michigan, I was always by water, and to think that there were so many people who would be by water but who could not swim. My grandmother couldn’t swim, so she decided it was very important that her grandchildren would learn. My mom really can’t swim either, but she can get around. She’s in the pool. She’s not drowning, but she’s not really swimming. DG: How did you start to incorporate water into your work? It’s interesting. Last year in July, I did this residency at Iris Project, which is next to Venice Beach. And that’s where it started. Water was already in the work, but not ocean water, specifically, until I actually went to the ocean. And so, when I saw it, contextually, it made sense. I’m talking about all these things, about Black identity and connections to the ocean. I thought, “Add ocean water to the work.” But one thing that I didn’t think of was the interaction between the paint and the actual substance of the water. Because of the salt, because of the minerals, because of everything, the paint actually collected those particles that were in the water and then transformed the way the paint and actual water separated. So, the paint drying and the paint mixing created a different surface than I was really working on. That’s what made me go, okay, I can definitely do something with this. Let me make the water a little bit more specific and think about, like, okay, what water am I using? What kind of historical context can I add to the water? What am I doing? And so, that’s when I started using the water here in Manhattan, thinking about the ports that slave ships would come through and then, okay, if I’m using the water from these ports that are the same water slave ships came through, I’m adding context more and more to each thing that I’m doing in the work. DG: That’s mad. I like these layers. When I was younger, I thought rendering was the go-to. In school, they’re always like, “All right, this is how you make a box and make a box look like a box.” So, I thought that rendering was the end-all, be-all. Like, if I can make something look like something, then I got it. That’s it. There’s no more art after that. Then I got to that point where I needed something else—a whole bunch of something else—because I got to the point where I was making work that looked like the person that possessed these different things, but I thought, this isn’t doing it. Then I did all the work where I would paint scenes of protest, and I was like, okay, this is it… and then, this is still not it. The abstraction came in because there needs to be disconnect between the person, specifically

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Above: Take Me To The Water, Acrylic, oil, watercolor, ink, ocean water and water from southern Manhattan docks on paper, 22" x 30", 2020

who it is, and the viewer. I kept running into problems where I would want to have a conversation around topics, but people would be more interested in who the painting was and my connection to that person. To me, I don’t care about that part of the conversation. People were like, “Oh, is this a friend?” Like, “Is this a cousin?” I was like, “It doesn’t matter specifically who he is or who this person is! This is about what’s happening in the scene.” EP: So, in a sense, when you went more abstract, you were actually able to communicate a clearer, more universal message? Yeah, it needed to happen that way because I kept getting stuck. And the thing is, being in Tennessee, I had a lot of white classmates who did not feel comfortable talking about any type of issues, especially considering all the stuff that was happening with Freddie Gray. With everybody in these conversations, it felt as if they were trying to link to something completely opposite to what I was having a conversation about. That wasn’t what I intended, so trying just straight abstraction wasn’t going to cut it, but if I could figure out a way to combine the two to allow for an entry into the work in multiple ways in order to finally arrive at certain different points, then that was the method to do it. Oil painting was just the way I was taught, or at least the way I had learned. Nobody taught me, but I really liked painting in this medium. Oil painting was the go-to every time. Plus, it gives a lusciousness to the skin tones that I’m working on and treats the figure a lot more carefully. I feel like when I do these parts of Black bodies, with diligence, I can make sure they are rendered well and with care. DG: If eyes are the window to the soul, what are the nose and the mouth? The airways. The thing is that you can actually see the water in my work. What I figured out early, what I really thought about for a long time, is that my artwork is made of bodies of water, of people who are composed of water, trying to communicate to actual humans who are made of about 70-80% of water. So, we all are bodies of water, which is a different connection. It’s like this body of water next to my body of water, and how does the water between the both of us become a conversation? That’s when everything changed, because I perceive people as the ocean. I’m also thinking about the connection between myself and any other person outside of skin tone, which is funny, because it’s a lot about skin tone, but that’s the second entry or the counter-entry into the work. Some people enter the work through the facial features, but then other people enter the work through the abstraction. And I wanted it to be that way because I don’t want it to be any type of situation where there’s a barrier between any

person who’s an audience member or who’s viewing the piece. And so, you can either go, “I really liked that abstraction,” or then go, “Oh, I really like the way that these facial features or hands are rendered,” and also go, “I really like the way that

Above: If The Water Hadn’t A-been So Cold, Acrylic, oil, ocean water and water from Lake Michigan and the Milwaukee River on canvas, 36" x 60", 2020

these facial features are rendered. Oh, and this abstraction with them is interesting.” It’s a twoway street I was really focused on making possible through different avenues. Maybe no eyes attached to the body, but the connection between this body

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Above: Egyptians Remind Us You Can Not Take Your Riches When You die, So What Do We Want To Leave Behind, Acrylic, oil, ink, charcoal, sand and Pacific Ocean water on paper, 50" x 71", 2020

"The connection between this body of water and your body as full of water is supposed to be the new connection." of water and your body as full of water is supposed to be the new connection.

standing in front of it, I was like, “Oh yeah, this is it. I can make this work for forever.” This is what I want.

EP: Regarding this experimental phase you were going through, and this may be an unfair question, but I wonder when you took a step back from the work and realized, “I found it.” There were two moments. The first was during quarantine I had this really big 48 x 60” piece on paper. I was doing a bunch of pieces on paper when quarantine happened because I couldn’t get supplies. So, I did this one on paper. People connected it to a coronavirus head, because it has these multiple branches with these puffs coming out at the end—though it was just a reference picture that I was using of this African hairstyle. And so, it was really dope for me. When I finished, as I was

The second one is this piece called Meeting of Two Oceans that I did right in Venice. It was composed of one section of ocean water and then another section of ocean water with different pigments that met in the middle but did not mix. The idea was if I was to go to the beach and try to meet an ancestor at the edge of the ocean, would I bring flowers? And then, I painted or drew flowers into the piece. I thought, this is the piece. This is the one. This is fantastic. DG: That turn of phrase, “If I met my ancestors at the edge of the ocean, would I bring flowers”...? Is that a reference too, or is it just pure you?

No, it’s just pure me. A lot of my time before going back to school I was looking at slam poetry. I have a lot of friends who are slam poets, and I have a bone for poetry. A lot of my titles are Langston Hughes poem references. And so, there’s a lot from me. I was the kid who sat next to the water, and thoughts just came. Things like that just made sense in the way where it’s a mix of the real and fantastic, which is kind of the same way that I paint; there are parts that are realistic and then parts of that are just abstract ideas that potentially could happen. It’s not always at the beginning of the thought. Sometimes I’ll be in the middle of a painting, and then have this thought. If you ever see a picture of two oceans meeting, they mix at the bottom, but there’s a clear sign they hit each other. So, to me, if I was in that position, and I was an ocean… my body is a body of water meeting an ocean of a body of water, and memory is in water. So to think of an ancestor in that water, to think of us meeting, wow, what would that be like? Khari Turner’s solo show with Ross-Sutton Gallery in NYC will be on view through July 10–August 7, 2021.

Left: 1:39am, Acrylic, oil, ink, Pacific Ocean water, Manhattan docks water, Lake Michigan water, Milwaukee River water on canvas, 60" x 72", 2021 Right: Breathing Through Midnight, Acrylic, oil, ink, charcoal, Pacific Ocean water, Manhattan docks water, Lake Michigan water, Milwaukee River water on paper, 30" X 40", 2021

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Lucia Hierro Fuck Up The Algorithm Interview by Kristin Farr Portrait by Laura June Kirsch

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lone plastic shopping bag, plucked by the breeze, floats gracefully down the street. It is the “muse” of Lucia Hierro, who, although foremost an academic, is also a conceptual artist—a driver of dialogue. Her work does not serve light snacks. It divulges the dark twists of labor and production; the juxtapositions and contradictions of late capitalism. In developing her latest museum show, Hierro didn’t play it safe—she tried something risky and monumental. In the meantime, she also successfully fucked up the search-term algorithm for postmodern masters of installation art. Subtle references to other artists’ concepts are less revealing than her broader mission to educate by dominating space and leveling up with each of her singular, complex and curious creations. Kristin Farr: What’s been going on this year? Lucia Hierro: I did some work for David Klein Gallery in Detroit, and an install for Museo del Barrio’s Triennale, and they both opened the same day last spring. I was at the Red Bull artist residency in Detroit for three months, and I had friends who introduced me to Detroit in this really beautiful way, and I have a really deep connection to the city. The show at David Klein was the first time

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some people had seen my kind of work in a gallery; this strange, digital mural-looking thing with sculptures. They had a lot of foot traffic, which was odd, given covid. A lot more people were stepping into the gallery who didn’t feel comfortable doing so before. My big green wall in the back of the gallery drew people in. Then I had this Museo del Barrio opening, and it’s a really interesting thing to hear people say they’ve never been there, and that the articles surrounding the show have this level of condescension, like they’re patting us on the heads, “Look at the cute Latinos having a little show.” A lot of the artists have been working in obscurity for decades, along with younger artists, and when you have been working that way for so long, you’re not making work that is easily reduced to a headline. I thought the Trienialle was doomed to be seen as something it wasn’t, and Museo del Barrio’s been working so hard to revamp that image. I think they finally scratched the surface of doing the work they were supposed to be doing all these years. So, in that way, that show is an incredible teaching tool. It’s been interesting to see how the work lives in these different contexts, and now I’m working on my show for the Aldrich Museum; I’m in the throes of finalizing all the little details. Everything

is being delivered right now, so I’ve been losing sleep over that! It’s been interesting to work on all these things at once. And for different audiences. Tell me about The Gates. The exhibition is called Marginal Costs, and I’m making a new series of sculptures called The Gates. It does draw a tiny connection to Jeanne-Claude and Christo because they did their Gates project in Central Park, all across the city. The debate about it, at the time, was really interesting. They spent so much time working with the city; and, in the documentary, they almost glossed over the conversations of how far into Central Park their Gates should go. And Christo and Jeanne-Claude would say, “What do you mean? The whole park. Everywhere.” And other people would say, “Are you sure? There’s an area where they might not work…” It was the coded language of saying—”I don’t know if you want to put your Gates in El Barrio.” I remember being in high school, telling a friend I’d love to walk all the way to downtown through the park to see them, and we did this really beautiful tour. I had been wanting to work on my own Gates for years. It was two ex-boyfriends ago when I had the idea, so I reached out to one of them, like, “Hey, remember The Gates? I’m finally making them!”

Above: Party Setup, Digital Print on cotton fitted sheet, upholstered twin mattress, 75" x 39" x 6", 2020

They’re basically just wrought-iron gates you’d see outside someone’s home. They’re based on photos that I took in the neighborhood, but they’re actually made out of iron and three times the size. They’re seven or eight feet tall. I went to my uncle, who owns a gate business in New Jersey, and decided his company would be the fabricator. At first he said, “No. I’m not doing this.” Why? He didn’t understand it and when I told him the museum was in Connecticut, he said he couldn’t make gates outside the state of New Jersey because of insurance purposes and liability. I didn’t have the heart to tell the museum he said no, so I kept it to myself and thought I would convince him. I remember Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s The Umbrellas in California when I was a kid. The Gates were like an East Coast counterpart, a decade later, so the regional context is notable. The visual aspect of mine won’t be anything like Jeanne-Claude and Christo’s, but I think the title would make anyone in the art world think of them. It’s the same way I did the chip racks— I talked about Judd in a lot of interviews when my chip racks came up. I read that, and was surprised at the connection, until I thought of his stacks. My friends were googling to pull images for lectures, and they said I would come up when they searched Judd. They said I fucked up the algorithm for Judd, and I was like, “Oh shit, I should do that more. I should title my pieces in a way that will get into other artists’ algorithms. I called these new pieces The Gates because of that. There are three of them, and I’m testing out an idea on this museum show. Most people will want to show their signature hits, but I wanted to do something completely different and see how that works out. There will still be the usual suspect artworks, because they’re borrowing from collectors, so I’ll have a lot of my grocery bags, and I made a few new ones. There will be a really large mural on a 30-foot wall, and it’s going to have a bit of the neighborhood in it. There’s an interesting fullcircle thing, thinking about the outdoor space and architectural vernacular of a neighborhood. Once covid hit, I feel like it all took a slight pivot, and that I started to understand the show differently. I was looking at The Gates and thought, oh man, there’s definitely an odd spiritual connotation, like heaven’s gates. It’s also funny with the placement of where they’ll be in the gallery, like the white side of the museum versus the mural side, which made me think about ideas of gatekeeping. There will be these fabric mailers stuffed through the gates. Around here, people run around with those little coupon books called circulars. They roll them up and stuff them

in fences, and they just turn yellow and get soggy outside. No one really cares about these circulars, but I always look at them; it’s an interesting way to think about our shopping and the passage of time. Also, in so many of these homes, in the middle of Fort Greene in Brooklyn, no one cares that Land O’ Lakes is a few cents less this week. They’re just gonna go get their freakin’ Land O’ Lakes. I was thinking of the luxury of not having to count

Above: BYOB: Retrato de la Artista Primavera 2020, Raw Canvas, foam, digital print on brushed suede, 33" x 43" x 3", 2020

your pennies, and how everything about covid heightened the things I was already looking at in the work. It made everything a little bit more pressing to get out there. So, I’m excited about The Gates, and my uncle came around. When he put extra bars in one of the gates, I said, “No, follow my drawing.” And I had to explain how it’s not supposed to be functional, and he objected, “But a person could fit through there!”

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Finally, this one guy, a very Dominican dude, goes, “Oh, sí, es un simulacra.” And there’s a word you only hear in art school. It was really great. I said, “Yes, what he said! It’s a simulacrum. It’s acting as the thing, it’s just larger-scale.” So they finally did it and it was really nice to work with them.

about how my family’s involved in making them. The people I work with in my studio are all specifically chosen collaborators. From my printers, to the guy who does some upholstery for some of my sculptures, they’re all collaborators in the work that I make, so it also functions like this little economy.

Amanda Uribe from Latchkey Gallery is part of the reason I got this show, and she was blown away by the size of The Gates. We were talking

We have this Dominican group of people that my uncle brought over to work with him. He got a job making gates in the early ‘80s, and he learned Italian

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first, and English second, because the guys who owned the shop were Italian. Later, when he opened his own place, he named it Luigi’s Iron Works. His name is Luis. So, you know… people know Italians to be really good at doing this masonry work, so he was smart and hustled. Nobody wants Dominicans making their gates. And that’s the type of hacking we’ve been known for. This show title, Marginal Costs refers to the economics term. It’s not so much taking it out

Top left: Nail Tech, Digital print on brushed suede, felt and foam, 22" x 22" x 2", 2020 Right: If I Can’t Sleep You Can’t, Digital Print on cotton fitted sheet, upholstered twin mattress, 39" x 75" x 6", 2020 Bottom left: Sick Day, Digital print on brushed suede, felt and foam, 22" x 22" x 2", 2020

of context, but actually speaking to the politics behind economic jargon, which is a way to hide the real meaning: there are marginal costs—to people. There are people behind this. Everything you do has an effect on someone else, and I’m showing in Ridgefield, Connecticut, which happens to be where many of the people who work in these finance industries have their big old homes behind their big old gates. I really wanted to focus on what the work is about. I feel that there’s a lot of skirting around it, like it’s about the culture, but I’m always, like, no—it’s about economies. That’s really what it’s about: The way we live our lives in this sea of uncertainty and debt, where we continue to talk about our individual identities, when, in fact, these larger systems and structures are talked about theoretically—but never in terms of their direct impact on us, or the fact that so much of our culture is manufactured and branded. The museum looks quite posh and also like a dream space to show. I was worried about my sculptures being too heavy and tall, and they assured me, “No, you’re good. We’ve had KAWS sculptures and huge Frank Stellas in here.” Half the museum opens up so you can bring in giant sculptures. Like, “Don’t worry. Men have dragged bigger things inside.” I always wanted to stay away from metal and hard sculptures because I felt for so long that, in order to become a very successful female artist, you had to use the forms that men were very successful at using. If men work with giant metal-bending sculptures, and you’re a woman who happens to do that now, that’s very cool. If you’re making soft sculptural objects and whatnot, people are like, “Oh, OK, like Faith Ringgold.” And you know how she was treated. I attended a lecture where she talked about being pigeonholed as a crafter. I always had a hand in this industry for the love of it, and moving the conversation forward in any way I can, which is why I was an academic first and an artist second. I knew the work was a vehicle to drive certain conversations that move things forward. I was never interested in status, or making pretty paintings of Dominican people. I see the function of that, politically, as a tool, but I didn’t feel that would be enough for me. That song-and-dance could also come back to bite you. When you use a material that’s familiar but not used in a familiar way, what does that do to the viewer? A lot of people don’t know my works are made of fabric because that’s not a reference people know—photo-based objects in a large scale throw them off enough that they’re

interested in the object as is, and then they start

Above: Constancia/CVS, Brushed suede, 34" x 223.5", 2019

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Above: MamaEdita, PolyOrgandi, felt and digital print on brushed nylon, 51" x 68" x 4", 2017

getting into the process of how it was made. Pop Art is really interesting in that way, because the reference point is so close that everybody feels an ownership over it. As a maker, I sort of disappear in that. I notice people can feel like that object just always existed in that way, because it exists in real life, and you see it every day; but, in fact, it took me a lot of engineering to make that stupid chip rack and get it to function.

be a slap in the face to the production itself. Kara’s work is mesmerizing and, in a way, can take away from the actual way we will continue to use the thing. If I had a nickel for every Goya can that I saw in somebody’s bodega bag, even though Goya came out in support of every racist agenda with Trump, we’ll still buy it. I’ll admit it, I still bought it! Damn, I needed those black beans. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Your sculpture, Can I Borrow a Cup of Sugar, a giant Domino sugar bag, references a friendly neighborly trope, but also about the shady production loop of the industry. Is it a burden to have to explain the deeper layers of meaning? You noticed something that a lot of folks didn’t, but I think folks who follow the work see the ways in which it is tilting. People who equate my work to a conceptual practice will understand that every aspect is a choice.

It’s like that joke, “Oh, you’re an Atheist? What day is it?” We’re a little more Christian than we think. I love that we’re so entrenched in things. When people talk about my work as Dominican— yes, that’s my lived experience, and I can only see things through this body, but there’s no answer to what really makes a Dominican. My father’s a musician and composer, and his friends are ethnomusicologists, and we understand that appropriation can only really go back to people like Elvis, and power-stealing music from people. In reality, Spaniards own the sixth string on the guitar. They invented that. But only the sixth string. The rest of it has a longer history.

That piece was collected by the Perez Art Museum, and before they collect things, they ask a lot of questions. They asked me, “How do you see this piece in the context of Kara Walker’s work?” And one, I would never compare a bag full of packing peanuts to her work at all, because the labor and everything behind that… it could

Growing up in a house where you understand that, globally, this music has had a life, and that’s why rhythm is what it is, it’s hard to say,

Above left (top and two lower): Las Mellas Menu (and detail views), Digital print on brushed suede, felt, foam. Folded: 90" x 32.75" x 2". Unfolded: 90" x 131" x ½", 2020 Above right: 7 Potencias Africanas (left) Divino Nino Jesus (center) Destrancadera (right), Digital print on brushed suede, foam and plastic upholstery, 10.25" x 10.25" x 38" each, 2020

“This is very Dominican,” because that’s not how the world works. We don’t live in a vacuum. We’re all connected. Now is definitely the time to talk about economies and late capitalism in general. Through talking about our lived experiences with a friend, I learned that his family’s in Miami, near Little Haiti, and that’s the sugar they use—Domino sugar. It’s so wild how they completely understand their own history and the ongoing slavery with the Dominican Republic when it comes to manufacturing all this stuff, but they’re still a Haitian family in Miami, and that’s what they buy. That’s what they know. I’m fascinated with that relationship and I want to continue to sort of capture that awkward rub. Lucia Hierro’s exhibition, Marginal Costs, at the Aldrich Contemporary Art Museum in Ridgefield, Connecticut, will be on view June 7, 2021– January 2, 2022. luciahierro.com @lucia_hierro

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Ludovic Nkoth A Dear Statement to the Soul Interview by Charles Moore Portrait by Foto Gasul

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ameroon-born painter Ludovic Nkoth takes issue with the common public perception of Black artists. Through a critical lens, being Black, in essence, comes to shape creatives’ identities, but Nkoth feels a separation is missing, the distinction between being Black and being an artist so paramount to his path. In this way, it makes sense that the New York-based painter considers himself a Black man rather than a Black artist, stating that while his background has undeniably shaped his trajectory, his work speaks for itself. And it certainly has. After earning a BFA from the University of South Carolina, Nkoth went on to pursue an MFA from Hunter College and has lived in Manhattan ever since, though recent shows have required quite a bit of travel. Nkoth’s exhibition Don’t Take This Too was on view at the François Ghebaly Gallery in Los Angeles this past winter, featuring striking portraits of Black bodies—some crafted from fantasy, and others from memory—abstracted through his vibrant palette. A descendant of the Bassa and Yambasa tribes in Cameroon, the artist pays homage to his upbringing and life journey as he sheds light on the choice to leave his mother in Africa for his father and the States, a move that shaped his life. There’s a sense of ceremonial hope in these layered familial portraits, of passing through time and space. Additionally, the intricately painted masks from his native Cameroon add powerful depth and resonance.

The overwhelming contrasts within Nkoth’s work are dramatically apparent in his newer pieces, including the renowned In Search of Reparation (2020). A recent show that opened in March at the Luce Gallery in Italy hones in on the notion of hardship, as a vibrant blue background discloses a series of Black heads barely bobbing in the water, surrounding a lifeboat and nearly pulled under. Referring to these subjects as “fallen angels,” the artist positions them as explorations of water’s awful power and beauty, though the piece holds even more importance, indicative as it is of his own personal experience, his passport, if you will - a sort of fingerprint, proof that he made it to the other side. Charles Moore: I understand you like painting to music. Ludovic Nkoth: Yeah, I love music, and my work ties back into harmony. Remember, back in the days when your favorite album would come with a side A and B? Well, I wanted to relive that experience: I wanted to do a back-to-back solo show, where the second one hasn’t been announced yet, but is on its way. Tell me about the first one. This first one happened here in New York midpandemic. At the same time, I was visiting family

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in South Carolina and somehow got connected with François Ghebaly. The vibe was just mutual from the start, man. We talked for almost two hours about ideas for shows, and then he invited me to participate in a small project. I took that and ran with it.

okay, let’s break down everything and start over again. Let’s be grand enough for the whole space.

Four months later, I got to show him what I was working on for the small show, and he said, “Listen, I like your stuff. I didn’t expect the work to be of this quality—the whole team at the gallery is excited. So, how would you like the whole gallery?”

What does this show feature? With this show, I wanted to express the privilege of having a family and roots. When the pandemic started, the first thing that I did was run back home to my father’s house in South Carolina— I knew how lonely New York could be. You know, just being back in that familiar space with loved ones, taking it all in, and just freewheeling, really started bringing things back together, and everything started clicking.

Wow! You know, I’ve had good shows and opportunities, but this was my first time having a solo at a gallery. With this much behind them, just showing in the same space as famous artists was amazing. I returned to the studio, and I thought,

I became more conscious that I have one family in the States with my father and another back in Cameroon with my mother. These two families have never existed in the same space, and that’s not even possible because my father and mother lead different lives. But with art, I intentionally

Above: The Absence of Memories, Acrylic on canvas, 48" x 60", 2021

Above: Oasis, Acrylic and mixed media on Belgium linen, 60" x 72", 2020

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wanted to merge their worlds and have these two sides of the family co-exist, embracing me and my roots all at once. So we divided the show into two rooms. When you first walk into Gallery A, the smaller one at Logan Valley, you’re introduced to three key paintings. The first one is of people conscious of one another’s presence and bonding together as a family. Over on the window with the blinds, you spot a child peeking through—that’s me looking into this space that I was never part of and wishing that maybe one day I’d have a family with an ecosystem this beautiful. And in the same room are some people that helped hold this delicate ecosystem together. Immediately on the left, we have this orange painting called “A Working Man.” It’s this worker dressed in some blue Dickie’s overalls on the way home from work. As a family, we celebrate this individual who holds us together, the same way the father in my traditional culture is the dominant figure. And this next piece shows that to have this family intact, different members outside of the household 122 SUMMER 2021

"It takes a whole village to raise a child, so I want it to depict how it takes this many people to carry a fraction of our tradition." play a role. And also, next to the working man, we have a solo portrait with a yellow background entitled The One That Could. It’s a portrait of a strong black girl, because having a daughter was something my mother always longed for since we have all boys in the family. I wanted to capture that fantasy of hers. Then when you swing around the corner, you are now on the main floor of gallery B. Now, you’re introduced to me, my mother, my roots, and everything that has shaped me into the person I am now. I was just going to ask, what was the name of your tribe?

My father and my mother came from two different tribes. My father’s tribe is Bassa and, in my culture, I would usually identify with my father’s tribe, so I would be considered Bassa. But I identify with both my father’s Bassa and my mother’s Yambasa tribe. As you enter the gallery, you’re greeted by these massive panels of masks. The idea was triggered in 2020 during the pandemic, but I was immediately reminded of certain rituals in my tribe which incorporate masks. Initially, I tried to make them on paper, but I soon felt the mask’s cultural weight wasn’t being represented. So, after some experimentation, I arrived at the wood. I got these single sheets of birch wood sliced in Canada

Left: Untitled Mask #6, Acrylic on wood panel, 40" x 52", 2020 Right: Untitled Mask #5, Acrylic on wood panel, 35" x 65", 2020

and shipped here. I then fabricated the masks by stacking the sheets in layers, one on top of the other to form a panel two-and-a-half inches thick. The reason I wanted layers is that, for me, layering the wood also represents the layers of our history. How do these masks relate to your tribal culture? Cameroon has a little over 240 tribes and dialects whose distinctive features are brought out in their masks. I wanted the wood to represent the lineage of my family and tradition. I tried to add myself to this history because, after some 50 sheets of wood, I would have four more sheets of just paint acting as a continuum of the wood layers. I am inserted when I pick it up from where my ancestors left, but I continue with a different lens. So, you want to be a part of that tradition, but at the same time break away and be yourself. What else do the masks speak to? They told me something more profound. When I was in Spain for over two months working on the other solo, we made another wooden mask for demos in Italy. But these masks came out different; instead of being hollow in the back, they were just solid wood. This added something like 200 pounds to each mask panel, so they took on a whole different form. Just their sheer weight and the fact that it takes more than three people just to move this mask is symbolic. It takes a whole village to raise a child, so I want it to depict how it takes this many people to carry a fraction of our tradition. In the bigger space, you have the centerpiece and title of the show, Don’t Take This Too. This is a self-portrait. Here, we have me clinging on to this white chicken. It originates from the voodoo tradition back home. Of course, voodoo in the West is demonized, but it’s just a way for us to revisit our ancestors, the spirit world, and nature. It’s a way of life. With this painting, I wanted to regain that sense of pride in who we are and the natural place of our culture’s spirit world. We have this one ritual where a live chicken is sacrificed, and its blood is offered to the spirits. In return, the spirits will bless our daily activities as a farming community. I was trying to say that this restorative chicken is all I have left of my tradition, so please don’t take this away, too. Speaking to the outside world, I’m saying that so much has been stripped from my people by the past colonizers: the idea of self, the notion of power, the concept of pride in who we are, the idea of just praising our ancestors and nature. So, I’m saying, “Please don’t take that away, too. Because here I am, naked, vulnerable; I’m in this grassy field lying on this cold piece of stone saying, this is all I have left. Don’t take this away, too.”

Above: The Light In Me, Acrylic on Belgium linen, 48" x 72", 2020

That piece is positioned in between portraits of my two mothers, my biological mother Nicole on my left, and my adoptive mother Beauty, on my right. These two women pretty much shaped me; they protected me and nurtured me in my youth— and, in this way, I honor two wonderful women who have been so significant in my life. My family has been so dominated by male figures that I had never appreciated that having an African woman or a mother figure around did way more than being around men. I am continually searching for such relationships.

That’s why you see me painting a lot more women as mother figures than before. It’s an exploration of new ideas and being fluid as new thoughts come and go. Tell me about this second show. The show opened on March 4 at the Luce Gallery in Turin, Italy. The theme of this show feeds a little bit off the first show that depicts my roots. I’ve arrived at the point where I know what I want to make, to make a very dear statement to the soul

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of Africa and Europe. So I had to make sure that these works were created on European soil. I use various soils in my work, and I wanted this soil to be from that continent. At its core, the Italian show is a documentation of people migrating from the African continent to Europe. I wanted to show the hardship, the struggle. What’s interesting about it is that different mediums are used, splashes of watercolor, for example. All these works revolve around water, and through water, I wanted to document the journey that these immigrants take through the Mediterranean and arrive at, for example, Spain, because that’s where I was. While I was in Spain, I started getting weird looks, as if I were one of those immigrants arriving in banana boats. I experienced being in their shoes, too, which was both scary and exciting. I made about fifteen pieces for that show four months ago, and each idea just kept evolving from the other. Have you seen In Search of Reparation? It’s one of my favorite pieces from you. Thank you so much, because it’s one of my favorites, too, and it also came out of the series depicting those migrations. I think the world needs to see it because these are events that are so visible in Europe. Still, Europeans are blinded because they are the reason these immigrants are running from the very continent their European ancestors once colonized. And they wonder why we’re flocking to their coastlines, not realizing they were responsible for taking everything! In Search of Reparation describes immigrants

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fleeing in an overcrowded boat, many sinking, halfway submerged in the water. After that piece, new paint started appearing where you have these little heads poking out of the water—I call them fallen angels. In The Last Note, those heads start to sink more profoundly in the water, four of them are looking up into the sky as if accepting that this is the last dance. Their heads look up in prayer to the Lord as if to say, “Just take me!” As I was painting these figures, I kept thinking, “What if these figures, after they die, come back as spirits trying to help the other immigrants get to their destinations? Could that show the way for the next generation?” Like you and me, we’re paving the way for whoever comes after us to have a better route. Absolutely. But now, what if we just have some of these figures standing up for themselves? What if we portray people who made it? I started painting this vision and posted maybe two of those pieces on Instagram—passengers arriving at the coastline after going through those treacherous waters. Then, I wondered about documenting these voyagers after their arrival, and started painting them as just single individuals standing in front of this beach wherever they landed, facing the same immigration procedures I did when I arrived in America. So, yeah, man, this is the next show. I love both shows, but man, the show in Italy broke me. It gave me a run for my money, man. There I was, it was the pandemic, and I was this solitary Black

figure roaming the streets for months. I visited different Spanish coastal towns because I wanted to study the water and capture the experience of traveling through it. The Mediterranean is crystal clear, and the yellow and red stones on its bed give their color to the water. I want to know more about your own experience. You moved to South Carolina when you were 13, right? Yeah, I was born in Cameroon in 1994 and moved to South Carolina with my father in 2007. I went to a school there and later to the University of South Carolina. What about your university experience? I attended the University of South Carolina’s sister school, which was closer to home. I was studying graphic design while working in my studio. About a year before I graduated, after switching my major three times trying all these things that were not working out, I switched to education, hoping to teach. At the same time, my studio work was fast developing, so that last year of undergrad, I had a frank talk with my advisor about my future. The upshot is that I was allowed to count my studio work as accumulated credits for transfer to Hunter College in New York. Hunter was impressed with my work and, thankfully, gave me a place. After I graduated, Clemson College offered me a full ride to their master’s program, a stipend, free studio, and housing. I am so grateful for all that. Awesome! So, tell me about your creative process, how you go from blank canvas to finished painting.

Above: In Search of Reparations, Acrylic on Belgium linen, 120" x 60", 2020

A lot of the time, I start from sketchbooks or photographs, old family albums. From there, I begin imagining these shadowy figures whom I’ve never met before. “What if they were living here with us or in a space where we get to meet each other in person?” How I visualize their personas and create an environment for them appears in the sketchbook. From the sketchbook, though sometimes without, I figure out a few compositional elements and go straight at the canvas. I toggle in hand all the paint I have in my studio and, after my first layer, there’s this assemblage of paint deposits using different fluids and other mixtures. I leave that aside to dry for two days. Whenever I come into the studio, the paint’s still all wet and fluid, and it keeps moving throughout this period. By day three, I don’t know what to expect. That’s the most exciting part of the process because, when I come back, I have to figure out what’s in front of me. It seems like I’m creating a sculpture because I have to hammer out that painting from all the distracting elements. It’s just like throwing up a slew of colors on the canvas and textures, and now I have to grab all that and shape it into a world that is meaningful to me. At the back of my mind, I want to revisit these people I met in this photo album and possibly juggle with several elements simultaneously. Is Lil Wayne still your music of choice in the studio? Man, just listening to “God’s Plan” in the studio last night was amazing. I’m going through his mixtapes, the whole dedication series, and Tha Carter III, which is a classic. I’m huge on mixtapes, and I go into deep catalogs and just listen to his sound. Whenever you listen to his old things— because he was hungry—you can only hear the energy. I’m hungry, too! When I see paint, I want to go for it. So it’s just that simple: good music, good paint. The last time I was in your studio, it looked like you worked on multiple pieces at once. So, how do you balance the diverse images on different canvas? I treat them a little bit like music, too. I’d be on an idea for a while, and I’ll let it breathe. Then I start something else and allow insights from one piece to spark off the other. I’m always generating ideas, which I capture in my notebook. I still have five tabs open in the studio. I’ve heard you describe the technique you use as swirling the paint. Is that an accurate portrayal? I would describe it as musical notes, man. Whenever you’re listening to a good song, the notes carry into the next song, you know. Late in 2018, I spent half of that year trying to figure out how to paint black skin. My professor Collin Washington would ask, “What are you trying to

Above: Fallen Angel #2, Acrylic on linen, 30" x 40", 2020

show with this skin?” He was pointing out other artists, “Look at this artist. What is he saying this with skin?” He helped me understand that, just with the skin, you could just say so much. For me, I want to show the history of black skin—its inherent beauty. If you look at the strokes that make up the skin, you have five different shades of brown, and then some blues and some pinks, because black skin has light bouncing off of it all the time. Each stroke I put on the canvas reflects that. So, the next time you see a piece, get a little closer and try to make out how many different colors of, let’s say, browns or reds you could see in each stroke of skin.

What haven’t we discussed that you’d like me to know about you or your work? I have one observation to make. When people do a story on a Black artist, they make sure they preface it with, “Black artist is doing blah, blah, blah…” My thing is always,” Yes, I’m Black. But being Black doesn’t have anything to do with me being an artist. I’m just an artist.” You don’t read about them saying, “White artist blah, blah, blah...” So don’t bunch me into anything. Just give me my respect because people would try to politicize our color and identity. I’m not a Black artist, I’m a Black man, and I am an artist, period. @lnkoth

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Phlegm Monuments Large and Small Interview and portrait by Sasha Bogojev

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any artists enjoy tantalizing the media and public by playing cat-and-mouse in a practice that feels a bit indulgent, often frustrating. A few do have their simple, straightforward reasons, like engaging in illegal activities. But among such autonomos, anonymous practitioners is someone who’s among the friendliest, more approachable folks you could meet. Phlegm’s choice to maintain obscurity comes from his extraordinary humility and shy natural reserve. But having a major soft spot for outsiders, nonconformists, and the lone wolves prowling about, we were determined to get him on record to talk about his practice, his work, and his resolute DIY philosophy.

be honest, although lately I’ve been going through old memory cards to try and pull the work together to make a book of my murals. It’s wild to look at how much work there is over the years.

I met the artist back in 2013 when he came to paint in my homeland of Croatia, and we quickly bonded over skateboarding and similar interests (seemingly) unrelated to the arts. Later on, we added parenthood and family life to the mix and have kept in touch through the years. And yet still, once we finally arranged a facetime chat to do this interview, Phlegm… just... couldn’t do it. The thought of expounding about process, about himself, is so foreign that even the suggestion of spotlight throws him off balance and renders him almost speechless. Eventually, to everyone’s absolute pleasure, we agreed to converse through the more relaxed form of email, resulting in this special conversation, one of the very few Phlegm has done over the years.

You’ve been putting a lot of focus on interacting with the environment and existing elements in your murals. What drives you to work in that way? I’ve always felt a painting on a wall reflects a direct relationship with the architecture and the environment. Anything else just feels aggressively placed, like advertising. It has always been important to me to make sure the work is in some sort of harmony with where it is. I want it to be powerful but not scream, “Look at me.” It should have the same energy and scale as the building. The same applies with installation, but it’s more about the volume of space between you and the architecture, I think. It feels less harnessed to the surface, though maybe that’s because an installation is so temporary.

Sasha Bogojev: Your practice has gone in so many directions and you’ve done so much, how does that feel, looking back at it all? Phlegm: It feels like I’ve just scratched the surface of what I want to do, really. I don’t often look back, to

I can only imagine! What are some of your personal highlights, your favorite pieces, projects you’ve done? Having the chance to travel so widely has been unexpected and amazing. I feel very lucky to have been asked to paint in all these many places. To have this huge body of work, where every wall is a response and connection to the place you’re in and the people you meet, and have those experiences bonded with my work like that is something very unique to painting public space.

Yeah, I was gonna ask about that. But first, I wonder what drives you to constantly change technique, medium, scale? Does working in that way ever get confusing or stressful? I’m always following the points in my work where I feel the learning curve is the steepest, I guess. That often means some uncomfortable work or some real study. I really thrive on immersive research on a subject or skill. If my brain attaches to something, I keep thinking about it day and night. Also, although it often looks like I’m jumping around in scale or in projects, in general, I’m really never jumping around. There’s almost always a plate in the studio I’m slowly engraving, even while I’m doing big walls. There’s always a natural relationship between the things I do. Working on my books and stories helps keep the narrative fresh in my mural work. Copper engraving trains you to work really flawlessly with your line work. I find when I go to painting walls, I carry some of this rhythm with me, and I can work with more confidence. Also, the hours spent engraving are grueling, so breaking it up with time outdoors painting prevents me from turning into some sort of hunched-over hermit living in a dark shed.

In addition to all the walls, Mausoleum of Giants was a pretty impressive undertaking. How did it feel to see the city where you grew up in respond so well? It’s hard to describe how it felt. I still can’t really believe it. After so many months of hard work in an abandoned factory, to open the doors to crowds like that was astonishing—heightened, I think, because I’d spent so much time alone in a damp freezing cold space with such a small tight crew of friends making it in secret.

I feel like scale has always fascinated you. I think my focus has always been heavy detail whatever the scale. Large scale, to an extent, frees you up so the movements are more physical and open. The smaller engraving work is really about maintaining a high level of concentration that’s more like meditation than anything else. My smaller work is mostly focused on being viewed in the books I make, so I rarely think about the scale in between book size and mural size.

I think we ended up with over 12 thousand visitors. I finished by spending the last of the budget buying sweets to give out for the people in the queue each day and chalks for the kids to draw on the floors. The camaraderie in the queue was so heartwarming, and people’s responses were so emotional and personal. Or maybe it’s just because they got out of that queue! I think I’d have cried too.

Hypothetically, if you had to stick to one thing, what would that be and why? Partly engraving because I would really love to have a big body of engraved work to my name, and it takes a lifetime to do that. I don’t think a lot of people realize just how many months of work go into a copper plate. Time works like it did 400 years ago. I struggle to find a way to document it on Instagram without boring my followers’ teeth out. But yeah, if I had to do one thing, I’d likely engrave, because I feel there’s so much scope there for me and it really devours time.

Do you have any regrets about your past work or missed opportunities, and if you do, how do you deal with those feelings? No, I don’t have any regrets. I’m exactly where I want to be. Some days I feel I shouldn’t have been so strict with keeping the galleries and art world at

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arm’s length, saying no to so many opportunities or wondering if I should have played the game a bit more. But that’s like wishing you were a different person. It’s pointless. I know I had to do it like that to maintain sanity and keep the control and privacy I like.

When did engravings enter your life and how did they become such a big part of what you do? I’ve done engraving and etching in copper

Above: Space, Copper engraving, 3.94" x 2.95", 2020

long before I worked under the name Phlegm. Engraving has mostly been in private until the last three years because I wasn’t very good at it. About four years ago, I decided to knuckle down and really practice every day. I got very swept away. I know you could nerd out about this for the entire interview, but what are some of the most impressive aspects of it that fascinate you? It’s all about 16th century copper engraving for me. You look at a finely cut copper plate by Albrecht Durer like Death, The Knight and The Devil, or Melancholia, and it’s as alive as any painting. The level of detail and the depth of tone are really breathtaking. Lines cut with a burin differ from lines using acids as for etchings. You get this sharp quality to the line. My obsession really took off when I started seeking out the originals in museums to look at in person. Something about that history preserved in print really fits with some of the things that drive my work too. In seeing them in

Above: Luxuria, Copper engraving, 11.5" x 8.3", 2019

person, you appreciate how textured they are. Intaglio prints are essentially embossed. The press forces the paper into the line, so deeper and darker cuts achieve heft and boldness, which are often lost when you just look at them in books. It must’ve felt like a milestone to see your work alongside such examples when you took part in The World of Bruegel in Black and White at the KBR in Brussels! It was an immense privilege to get asked to do that. It also came at a time when I was really starting to try and step up the intricacy of my engraving. Getting to see a copper plate of mine hung alongside the entire printed works of Breugel was something else. The mural was something we kept working on, trying to make happen, but there were so many hurdles. Then, suddenly, right at the end, it all came together! I’d spent a pretty solid

three months in a dark shed engraving every day, so to suddenly be outside in the middle of Brussels, painting the side of the royal library was bizarre. When you’re making your own engravings, what are some of the elements you find challenging? There’s far more at stake when you mess up. A little slip with the burin while working on a densely cross-hatched area can mean days of work to fix. How do you even fix that? It’s more a case of you don’t mess up. It’s also a case of getting good at hiding it! You have to work in a calm, focused state. You get good at checking yourself. If I can’t get in the headspace, then I won’t work on a plate. Small mistakes do happen sometimes. The area can be carefully flattened out with a burnisher. So, when working on very fine engravings, it’s never totally perfect. PHLEGM JUXTAPOZ .COM 129

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Above: Miniatures, Mixed techniques, copper engraving, wood engraving and etching, 2.95" x 1.6" and 2.2" x 3.15", 2017-2021

Another challenge is that it’s not as clear as working on a drawing. You cut into a bright copper, so it’s often partly reliant on feeling as much as sight. You feel the line through being familiar with the angle of the tool and the resistance it has in the metal. The lines you cut can be seen as dark if you have light hitting the plate at a certain angle to create shadow in the cut. So, on top of all this, you never get a clear picture of how the work is looking unless you do a progress print to check. You can get a vague idea by just rubbing boot polish over the plate as you work, but it’s obviously not as clear as when you work on a drawing on paper.

when I speak, but I really don’t feel so comfortable connecting with people. I don’t at all mean that to sound bleak. I just think that drawing has always been a part of how my brain breaks down its thoughts, much like the brain does with dreams. I don’t sit down in the studio with the belief that I’m about to create a profound masterpiece; in the same way I don’t expect every word that comes from my mouth to be deep and meaningful. Some months my work is heavy with worry and anxiety, other times it’s reflective. Other times its just playful or relaxed or stupid...either way, I’m still drawing each day.

Obviously the technical aspect of your work is very important. At which point does the content come into the picture? I think the technical aspect in artwork I admire is what makes me open to its meaning. There is something beautiful in seeing someone’s time frozen in something like that. You can feel an artist’s commitment to what they are trying to express.

In general, how would you describe what your work is about? Do you have a particular message, emotion or story you want to convey? I don’t think I have any fixed theme I’m consistently drawn to. But, looking back, I can see I often gravitate to certain things. I like to use the detail and density of my work to force people to look for a long time and notice details on repeat views. Or it’s just a matter of pushing people to look closer at something, like complex machines that have a simple job. I’m interested in all the

I process everything through drawing. Maybe I’m too shy or I can’t access the right part of my brain

Above: Robot, Spray paint and acrylic, Melbourne, Australia, 2017

tiny, moving parts that make a thing happen, as well as the possible multiple narratives. I like the idea of my work being a poetic parallel world to ours. Or even just a version of our world that is displaced and warped. I try to displace time in my imagery, make something seem old but then also keep parts either from our present or a slight fantasy. So it’s partly a product of my imagination but also a digested and chewed up version of what I see in our world. I’m careful not to go full Tolkien. I enjoy fully visualising details of a world but like to keep it fluid. I’m not set on drawing maps and writing ballads. Part of my proces with ideas is to storyboard short stories in my sketchbook and imagine a sequence of events, rather than just trying to focus on a single image. That way, when I use an image from that story, it’s part of an untold narrative. You can guess at it, but it’s only ever a small part of a picture. I feel it helps me come up with something that feels real, or it distracts me from the pressure of making an image that just looks cool. Obviously

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I do want it to look good but that often feels like a shallow starting point. Did these themes evolve over time, especially with the big changes in your personal and family life? I think, before having children, I was more interested in the complexity of history and world events. Since having children, I can see a turn to more personal complexities and relationships in my work. Looking back, a lot of it looks far more industrious and impersonal than I intended. So yeah, having kids has made me soft. How do you feel about mixing your real, family self with you as Phlegm the artist? I’ve always wanted my work to be honest, even if I don’t directly share my life. I think because it’s all refracted through a different lens and mixed up, it’s never too direct. I think so much just gets into the work fairly unconsciously too. Now I can look back at a lot of the creatures in my work and realise most of them slowly became bigger and rounder as my partner was pregnant. You just suck all the information in around you like a sponge and it gets mixed together. Everything from anxiety about becoming a parent, to books I’m reading on the English Reformation or evolution all just get mixed up together. You’ve been notoriously relying on DIY ways of doing things with a few exceptions. Was this ever a conscious decision, or did it just happen this way? I’m introverted, shy and extremely reluctant to stand up and say I’m an artist. This interview is

one of a handful I’ve done over the past 15 years. I only seem to thrive in some sort of bubble. DIY has always let me put work out but not really be forced to stand by it. First, it was self-publishing books, and later it was painting walls. Both of these activities allowed me to just work and not experience much of the art world. You just do it, then walk away. As you’ve mentioned earlier, galleries and/or agents have approached you to “help out” with your work. What prevented you from accepting those proposals? I’ve had a lot of offers but I think my path was set fairly early. I forged a really good following for my zines when I started out, and that carried through into my print work. I’ve always wanted to be judged by the quality of the work I do, rather than the status of the gallery I work for, or who I’m involved with and companies I’ve worked for. I also think

"I had to do it like that to maintain sanity and keep the control and privacy I like." having this DIY ethos with everything I do helps me keep things personal and prevents me from getting swallowed up. Even when I get books commercially printed, I tend to hand-emboss or print an element of it myself. I like my hand to always be part of the process, partly because I want that connection to people who buy my work, and also I feel strongly about only producing what I can personally handle. Our society seems addicted to the idea of growth. I’m interested in artistic growth, but I have no desire to become bigger, have assistants, produce more. I don’t believe that’s success at all. Yeah, the question of being a successful artist… What does it entail for you? I honestly don’t really know. I’ve spent so long distancing myself from it all, so I can’t tell. I feel very honored that I have a following big enough to support me enough so I can get lost in my work all these years. I think becoming a successful artist happens in two stages. You start to produce work that’s focused and driven. It communicates something to people and they become drawn to it. I think this side of art is the real function of art in society, and it’s where the real beauty is. When I’m passionate about

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a body of work and I can feel people really engaging and responding to it is when I feel the most successful. But then follows monetary value, and as your status grows, you create a gravity that seems to envelop all those other more subtle elements. I certainly experienced this in my life and I recoiled from it, wanting your work to resonate with everyone when only a tiny handful can afford to have it, for example. Even when most of your work is free in the street, it feels off. You create this power imbalance between you and the audience. I want to connect to people with my work, not put myself on a pedestal. After all these years, you’re still just being Phlegm, not too keen on being in front of the camera, behind the microphone, or known by your real name. I like to be private, and frankly, I’ve never felt comfortable being called an artist. It all makes me feel awkward and anxious. The more I have to mix with it, the more it gets in the way of me being productive. I think the world has a preoccupation with celebrity, and status, and monetary value. These things feel like clumsy byproducts of something far more beautiful about art that a lot of people miss completely. I try to maintain a work life where I don’t have to see any of that. With a lot of the old sixteenth-century engravers I study, all you learn about them is a name, a birth register and a death register. What’s left is this incredibly beautiful body of work that reflects who they were in the most subtle way. @phlegm_art

Lower left: Mob Before the Beast, Dip pen and ink, 4.33" x 2.75", 2021 Upper right: Cell, Dip pen and ink, 4.33" x 2.75", 2021

Above: The Rider, Dip pen and ink, 9.65" x 7.5", 2020

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EVENTS

WHERE WE’RE HEADED

Beyond the Streets on Paper @ Southampton Arts Center, Southampton, NY July 17–August 30, 2021 // southamptonartscenter.org Los Angeles and Brooklyn in 2018 and 2019 each hosted massive Beyond the Streets exhibitions, casting a wide, comprehensive scope on the world of rule breakers and mark makers, as well as the growing context that graffiti and street art bring to contemporary art. Now, in 2021, the physical world opens with a smaller scale, intimate show, Beyond the Streets On Paper, a powerful, historical homage and celebration of an essential practice seen throughout contemporary art. The show explores experimental processes and imaginative works seen on paper from artists immersed in and inspired by graffiti, street art, hip hop, punk rock, zines and underground art. Beyond the Streets On Paper explores the intricacy of this unique, revolutionary and still growing movement, which was formulated in the democratization of materials and surface. That the works are on paper, a medium of humble immediacy and the seeds of this culture's growth into international phenomenon, offers a fresh approach to understanding the immense changes we have seen in contemporary art and society over the last 50 years. When Beyond the Streets began connecting the dots between the generation of subway writers and the works of Jenny Holzer, Guerrilla Girls, to even Takashi Murakami and his Kaikai Kiki universe, there was a realization that much of artworks we appreciate today have emerged from that Art Brut-ish tradition of creation outside of academia. And even those on the inside couldn't help but pay attention. After what were considered monumental showcases, Beyond the Streets On Paper returns to the roots of the culture with new faces and practices. From Escif to Aryz, Sofia Enriquez to Jamilla Okuba and almost 100 more artists, it’s a welcome return to the stage.

teamLab: Continuity @ Asian Art Museum, San Francisco Opens August 2021 www.asianart.org So much of what we have missed over the past 18 months or so is experiential events, being somewhere in the flesh and immersed. We’ve all tried our best, with online viewing rooms, print drops and gallery shows when it’s been safe, but there are those certain kinds of exhibitions that have to be done in person to get the full breadth of the artistic vision. The Tokyo-based art collective, teamLab, are the definition of this. Exclusively at the Asian Art Museum this summer, teamLab: Continuity (which was originally slated for 2020), will be the inaugural showcase of the new Akiko Yamazaki and Jerry Yang Pavilion, a major part of the AAM’s transformation and what will be San Francisco’s largest new art exhibition space. And teamLab is a monumental start. The movementsensitive space allows viewers to walk through the art, with each visitor having a completely unique immersion unto themselves. The digital animation is “derived from dynamic algorithms that react to visitors’ locations and movements within the interconnecting gallery space.” That has always been what has made teamLab’s work so special: what we want in this day and age are our own experiences, and yet the capability to share it with others simultaneously. “teamLab: Continuity is the perfect way to reintroduce our transformed museum to a City and a community that is learning all over again the joy of coming together for shared moments of wonder,” says Dr. Jay Xu, Barbara Bass Bakar Director and CEO of the Asian Art Museum, “Moments that ignite our imaginations while reflecting our own communal and ecological fragility and deep need for tenderness and hope.”

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Above left: Aryz, Sketch Hangar 107, Gouache and lithographic pencil on paper, 28.7" x 36.6", 2019

WHERE WE’RE HEADED

Guy Colwell: Challenger @ La Luz de Jesus, Los Angeles Through July 4, 2021 laluzdejesus.com It’s still jarring to see a group of people, massed together, maskless, and even perhaps more jarring, to consider how quickly our perceptions of society and gatherings have changed in just under 15 months. But the way our roles in society are manifested, and hierarchies established, by birth, in some cases, has not changed. This is the heart of the work of Guy Colwell, the Bay Area artist who has, for decades, painted in the sort of social realistic style that is rare in the 21st Century. In Challenger, Colwell’s second solo show with Los Angeles’ La Luz de Jesus Gallery, the works speak to the “plasticity of human hierarchies,” and the results thereafter. How much these works speak to the times in which we live, many painted before the pandemic’s global reach, is striking. One work, xi could easily be a commentary on the overcrowding of Southern California or Florida beaches in the early months of 2020 while a virus raged on. Seen in a different light and completed in 2001, Litter Beach also describes an even more pervading, historical plague of a society where “waste and pollution are choking the planet to death.” What makes Colwell so fascinating in that his work is a timeless, unsparing political commentary, heated with a big dash of biting satire. There is also something so quintessentially Californian in these pieces, portraying homelessness, extreme wealth, and debilitating poverty, all mixed together and often existing on the same street. He is often called a "Figurative Social Surrealist," with a comic-book aesthetic. In a world where we tend to skew toward safer dialogues, Colwell is out in front, challenging us in Challenger, to not cross the street, but arrive at the scene and ask the questions.

Albert Watson: The Light Behind the Lens, @ SCAD FASH Museum of Fashion + Film, Savannah Through September 5, 2021 www.scadfash.org There are portraits and there are moments in time. Albert Watson captured the latter, as an instantaneous time-traveling, era-defining photographer who was a provocateur in his approach to portraiture and fine art photography. Often, those ideas crossed over in his work. We have grown accustomed to a posed Andy Warhol or Kate Moss, each icon channeling a unique energy almost palpable to the senses. But the impetus for such visceral reaction can often be attributed to the photographer, and Watson (who shot the two legendary figures and others for the likes of TIME magazine, Rolling Stone, and Harper’s Bazaar, and over 100 Vogue covers) conveys a sense of larger-thanlife experimentation that transcends common fashion photography. In what is a long overdue survey, the Savannah College of Art and Design's FASH Museum of Fashion + Film presents Albert Watson: The Light Behind the Lens, Watson’s first solo U.S. museum exhibition. Seen as a whole, more than 50 works showcase Watson's incredible and groundbreaking use of light and shadow, which was guided by his early studies in graphic design and film. Perhaps what has made Watson so unique, spoken of in the same breath as Avedon, is that he pushed the photography medium to new heights and possibilities. Watson once said, "Really good portraiture is a two-way street where someone is throwing little gems out and you're grabbing them." The fun is that Watson has spent a lifetime throwing those gems back at his subjects, and the rhythmic relationship continues its healthy pulse.

EVENTS

Corey Lamb @ Hashimoto Contemporary, NYC June 19–July 10, 2021 hashimotocontemporary.com Part of the allure of Corey Lamb’s works, where bold subject matter writhes in colorful drama, is that some of the most erotic elements almost feel like abstraction. The way the Florida painter places male and female anatomy just front and center, sometimes in foliage or in straight close-ups, demands a double-take, as if Lamb is commanding you to re-engage with yourself and your body in the most simple way, yet it comes across as almost too complex to comprehend. Hashimoto Contemporary points out how the roles in his work, “The mother, the lover, the fool, and the serpent,” seem familiar but are balanced with deep greens and reds. Sex and self-pleasure are central, as well. In his last solo show with Hashimoto’s San Francisco space, 2020’s Verdant, Lamb talked about a “deep melancholy and absolute bliss” in the works, which, in turn, adds so much appeal to the near-eroticsm in his newest solo show at Hashimoto Contemporary in NYC. He portrays a delicate tension between the figures in the paintings, between our own relationships with intimacy and our understanding of roles in sex that is ripe for discussion. “Sex is so wrapped up in the idea of gratification that its utility is often forgotten or a complete afterthought,” Lamb told us in 2020. “My own way of dealing with this was through the presentation of the penis and vagina very directly and with a bit of humor.” But don’t let the humor fool you: there is a depth even in the straightforward nudes we see here. “I use sex or death as a sleight of hand to talk about other more complex aspects of a relationship,” he says, and it’s a revealing conversation that is bound to continue.

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SIEBEN ON LIFE

The Heavy and the Light A Six-Pack with Nathaniel Russell I was first exposed to Nathaniel Russell’s work back in 2013 when his humorous flyers were showcased in this very publication you’re currently staring at. I dug deeper into his portfolio, uncovering a vast output of multidisciplinary offerings, and was instantly a fan. I’ve been following his work ever since and thought that the waning pandemic might be a great time to hit him up for a quick six-pack. Michael Sieben: What was the hardest part of this past year for you? Nathaniel Russell: Not traveling. Going to different places for projects and seeing my friends who live in different cities is an important part of my life, and while I’ve always known that, it has become crystal clear to me the past year-plus how much it contributes to my creative process and psychological well-being. Did any personal growth occur during the pandemic, or can you think of any positives that came out of it? I spent more than a year interacting almost exclusively with my family unit, so I feel like this experience has made me a better parent and partner—at least I hope it has. It has definitely forced me to go inward in a more productive rather than escapist way. You recently did some skateboard graphics for Thomas Campbell’s UMA Landsleds brand. Will you continue working with the company moving forward? Thomas is an amazing, multi-faceted artist who I respect a lot. We've been friends for a while, so anything he ever wants to work on with me is pretty much a go. I'm sure the UMA brand will grow and evolve and I will be in the mix here and 136 SUMMER 2021

there moving onward. So the short answer is: I hope so! Got any tips for us anal retentive artists for loosening up? I would say get out of the studio and off the internet—go for walks, ride your skateboard, spray the kids with a hose, do some gardening, whatever you can do to be in your body in the moment and let your mind wander or not wander. I have always found the ideas and feelings come when you're not arting. Then bring that back into the work. Talking with other human beings also helps. Pretty much anything that is not based on the internet or a computer screen helps. I should probably follow my own advice more often. What was the best piece of advice you received as a young artist? In practical terms, being encouraged to learn how to use a woodshop and power tools. If you can make your own frames, you can probably make your own shelves and then realize you can figure out how to fix things and be more self-reliant in

general. In a more abstract sense, I think it was about trying to think outside of the familiar for different approaches and perspectives. I had a teacher tell me to try doing a drawing with a stick dipped in ink one time and I remember being a little amazed at the way the lines looked when I was a little out of control. I think you can think of that in terms of tools, medium or anything that you are a little too settled into. Do you have any upcoming projects you’re excited about? There are a lot of things in the mix right now: There’s a constant juggle that ebbs and flows between big projects and more modest, fun endeavors. I think it's that balance that makes it all workable. Right now I’m moving between a couple of album art commissions, a series of prints for my gallery in Tokyo, and putting together material for a collaborative words-and-music LP. I hope to keep on juggling between the heavy and the light for as long as possible. @nathanielrussell

POP LIFE

LOS ANGELES, NEW YORK AND LONDON

Thinkspace Projects, Los Angeles 1 The husband-wife duo, Giorgiko, opened a new solo show, What Is (and what is not), at Thinkspace this past Spring and shared the moment with their gallery family. 2 We see a dog, we want to share a dog. Heidi Johnson from Hijinx stopped into Thinkspace to see Giorgiko and the Thinkspace crew. Cattle dog, Fonzie, was the star. 3 And if you know, you know… the highly coveted crystal cookies made a delicious appearance at Giorgiko’s opening as well… 4 Fresh off their participation in the blockbuster Shattered Glass exhibition at Jeffrey Deitch, the Perez Bros stopped in to see Andrew Hosner.

Studio 525, NYC 5 With a nod to the passing of Ricky Powell, NY-based photographer Steven Sweatpants hosted his own slide show presentation, The Life and Times of Steven Sweatpants,in NYC. Jux contributor and author, Charles Moore (right), showed support.

Lyndsey Ingram Gallery, London 6 Nothing captures the moment quite like a pharmacy full of felt. Lucy Sparrow made a a house call at her new installation/exhibition/ interactive gallery, The Bourdon Street Chemist, at Lyndsey Ingram Gallery in London. 7 Pharmacist Lucy Sparrow dispensing happy felt feelings. 8 Ah yes, the tabloids fuzzy and funnily fake.

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Photos by: Birdman (1-4), the artist, (5) David Owen (6-8)

POP LIFE

NYC AND LOS ANGELES

Ross+Kramer Gallery, NYC 1 For two nights, MADSAKI and Todd James took over the Big Apple with their respective shows at Perrotin and Ross+Kramer Gallery. MADSAKI went to pay a visit to James’ show and ran into the man himself…

Superchief Gallery, NYC 2 Coby Kennedy stood tall for his solo exhibition at Superchief Gallery Soho, hanging alongside Superchief gallery manager Erica Roberts and co-founder, Edward Zipco. 3 And now that we are back to some openings, it seems like Superchief is back in its element… 4 Filmmaker Kiran Chitanvis and artist Anastasios Poneros came out with their 4-legged friend to offer support. 5 Mr Kennedy, taking over the scene…

Maddox Gallery, Los Angeles 6 Mikael B. in some Southern California cool on the opening night of his solo show, Flow State, at Maddox Gallery in LA. 7 Openings… are we back?!… 8 … and the man of the hour, taking centerstage.

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Photos by: The artist (1), Nick McManus (2-5) and Mikael B. Studios (6-8)

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PERSPECTIVE

Equity and the Ephemeral A conversation on copyright with Jeffrey Gluck In the transient world of street art, you are as likely to engage a defense attorney for criminal charges as you are a copyright lawyer for the infringement of rights. The evolving grey space holds the vandals, the activists, the populists and the opportunities, all engaged in a metronomic debate on what is criminal and what is just. Despite the angst, the art form has shape-shifted through public space, galleries, auctions and fairs and has arrived at the latest frontier: an expanding metaverse of new market extremes in the crypto realm of the Ethereum-based, nonfungible token, the NFT.

art culture. With the development of CXIP, Jeff is getting creative with legislation to ensure that protective rights for artists exist in both realms, with a progressive new approach to the NFT minting of rights. We unpack some of the complexities and confusions around copyright with ephemeral art forms and explore the vulnerabilities around migrating artists moving their practice from paint to pixels.

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In 2019, The Supreme Court ruled that artists must register their artwork with the U.S. Copyright Office in order to enforce their intellectual property rights and be entitled to enforceable benefits. That is why there is the added step of formal registration. Do you think there is something about the culture of street art and graffiti that encourages a less professional approach to artists’ rights? With street art, I do think some artists don’t understand their rights, and that some corporations mistakenly believe that artwork outdoors is unprotected. When it comes to copyright protection, illegality can be irrelevant.

The recent shift in economies has catalysed a flood of artists and collectors alike to the Wild West of digital art. If you’ve been in the game long enough, you’ll feel a wave of familiar déjà vu watching NFT speculators mirror the “pump and dump” antics of street art’s heyday; and if you’re new, the seductive potential for growth and wealth can be intriguing. These new intangible spaces confront traditional notions of ownership and value by changing the context of our predetermined expectations. In these new realities, your collection will not fill a physical room with canvases or sculpture, but will be stored on a server as a link or jpeg. Reduced to data, stocks or bonds, how does one own anything in the digital world? More importantly, whether creator or a collector, how do you ensure it is protected? In practice, there is a precedent for successful settlements of multi-million dollar suits for the destruction or attempted ownership of graffiti and street art in public space. Entertaining corporate defense strategies include the misguided argument that “illegal” actually means “free game” (H&M and Revok), “he said, she said”-style politics with image permissions (Mercedes and Detroit), or, with props to the creative team, the argument that an artist’s claim to copyright is akin to a killer’s right to a murder scene (Moschino and RIME). Physically or digitally, there is much confusion over who has rights to what, and too cavalier an attitude about the responsibility to find out.

fixed to a tangible medium of expression is entitled to copyright protection. It is inherent the moment you finish your creation. There is an additional step you can (and should) take by registering your work with the copyright office.

Charlotte Pyatt: As one of the hot topics of the moment, what do artists need to watch out for when uploading work to the world of crypto collectables and NFT? Jeff Gluck: My concern is that fake and unauthorized NFT artwork has been popping up, a scenario where someone can take a screenshot or image capture of someone else’s work, mint it, and pass that off as their own work in one of the NFT art marketplaces. Ensuring that you have your copyrights registered is one way to combat this issue. For the avoidance of doubt, as copyright remains with the creator unless assigned, does this hold true for original works inside or outside of the studio? You are correct. Any original work of authorship

These mistakes have led to multimillion dollar settlements in favor of the artist. With such high profile cases on record, what do you think organizations are failing to learn? I am always surprised by how often this happens. You would think companies would see these big headlines, and put in place better safeguards. Sometimes it can be traced back to lazy in-house designers who don’t bother to learn the rules, and their company has to pay the price. Human error is hard to prevent and will always happen. Unfortunately, the bigger the company, the worse the oversight usually is. Other times, it is malicious, and big companies think they can bully artists around. My job is to prevent that from happening. With each case that we have, and every lawsuit we file, corporations learn more and more with each time they suffer the consequences. You are currently representing Futura against Northface on the collection FUTURELIGHT, the launch of which was supported by a 20 million dollar advertising campaign… The similarities appear so obvious, with the logo

PERSPECTIVE

and name together, it would be miraculous for that to have been an accident or mere coincidence. We hope they decide to do the right thing here. Futura is a legend. You recently led on a suit against Volvo, calling into question the vague terms and conditions for social media platforms. With Instagram becoming the Pinterest for corporates seeking inspo, should we be demanding more from site regulators to better protect our artistic communities? I don’t think we should place the burden on Instagram or on artists. The burden is on companies to know better, and do better, when it comes to allegedly stealing work from artists without permission. Companies are smart enough to know that they can’t just take images off Instagram and use them for their own commercial purposes. Every time a corporation steals from an artist, it is a lose/lose proposition all around. The crypto movement is challenging our understanding of ownership, demonstrating that the ephemeral cannot only be owned, but

Above: Artworks by Jen Stark and FUTURA

can be collected. Unsurprisingly, we see the transient world of street art present, and already subject to abuse. Tell us about CXIP. CXIP is the world’s first NFT copyright registration platform. Artists use our site to register the copyrights for their work, and we mint those copyright registrations into NFTs, creating the most advanced intellectual rights management protocol. CXIP also creates the safest marketplace to buy and sell NFTs because every single NFT on our platform is 100% certified authentic. We are very excited to have advisors like Darren Romanelli (DRx), Lucien Smith, Othelo Gervacio, ThankYouX, Roger Gastman, Casey Zoltan (Seventh Letter/Known Gallery), and a few others coming on board soon. Does this mean that you could mint two NFTs for each work? That is exactly right. Artists could have one NFT for the artwork itself, and one for the underlying intellectual property rights. You could sell both, or just sell the artwork while still retaining

your rights. Any artwork being registered on CXIP is certified by the artist as being original and legitimate. We are the StockX of NFT marketplaces. We certify every single work. There is a conversation around the uncertain ecological impact of NFT. Do you have a perspective on this? CXIP is developing solutions for these issues along with the community. There are promising layer two solutions deploying soon that have a lessened impact. It is also important to understand that many of the environmental concerns are misguided and not entirely accurate. Any advice for artists struggling with copyright concerns? My life has been dedicated to protecting artists and enforcing their rights. We have come a long way, but we still have a lot more work to do. Most importantly, whether you use CXIP or something else, please register your work with the copyright office. You have no legally enforceable rights without it.

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