Becoming-Animal: Chloe Wise

December 05, 2023

Chloe Wise’s show of new paintings at The Ranch this summer, Natural Causes, focuses on a series of cheap animal masks and the funny faces a cast of human characters might make behind them. Half her subjects are kids — painted from stock photos — the other half, grown-ups, playing in the nude. Their expressions, set against vibrant monochrome backdrops, are silly but self-aware — as “natural” as candy corn. Or emojis. Natural Causes is less a portrait show than a parade of gestural conventions, of millennial models for expression. Montauk’s Ranch — once the oldest operational cattle ranch in America, now a barn-turned-gallery — still boasts a stable of horses. In her self-portrait for this issue’s cover, Wise poses with one of the farm’s competition-grade ponies. We begin the interview in media res, scrolling through screenshots of Chloe’s MySpace and discussing selfie face history, then move on to millennial trends in zoological iconography, rituals of play, and Halloween. We end with a monologue by Dr. Evil.

artwork CHLOE WISE
photography OLIVER CAMPBELL
interview OLIVIA KAN-SPERLING

Olivia Kan-Sperling— With poses and faces, people still do this [taking selfie from above] and this [mimics mirror selfie], but —

Chloe Wise— Yeah, we do them differently now. Back then, you didn’t look up into the camera; you looked down. Maybe because displaying your bangs — your scene haircut — was important, so you wanted to capture the crown of the head. Also, because this was the time of skinny jeans, it was about making your legs look little.

OKS— There was also the one, which hasn't come back, where your phone is lower and you're leaning in —

CW— You're leaning in, so your legs go further back, emphasizing a thigh gap. And you’re either doing a peace sign or you’re holding up your hands in confusion, like, “What? Who? Me? Why?" It was performative “awkward.”

OKS— Also squeezing your tits together. No one does that any more. Anyways, it’s interesting that there’s so much overlap between the faces you’re making in these photos and the expressions of the models in Natural Causes.

CW— Actually, when I started working on this show, I was scared it was going to cross into the territory of antlers, twee bands, “awkward” culture, mustaches, feathers in your hair — which is what I was giving, back then, as you can see. Every indie music video had an animal head on a guy with a suit.

OKS— Indie animals were specific types of animals, though. Wild animals. Quirky, authentic animals.

CW— North American animals, particularly: fox, deer, bear, owl.

OKS— The animals in this show are more generic zoo and farm animals: pig, elephant, dog, toucan.

CW— Right. With this show, I wanted to approach a more timeless aesthetic. The stock photos of the kids that I painted are from the 90s, which feels like the aesthetic period we’re more or less still living in.

OKS— At the same time, the adult faces here do remind me of a specific moment in millennial body language history. Maybe a Cobra Snake party photo. These expressions are very different from a Zoomer e-girl bad-mood selfie with a bratty pout. These are people “having fun.” They’re “Party Animals.”

CW— Exactly; they’re consciously representing having fun. These paintings never captured anything real other than the photos we staged in order to become paintings. For example, your smile in these paintings is very much a smile that is aware of itself, not the kind of smile that you break into naturally — like a yawn or a laugh or a hiccup — that takes control of the face for a quick moment, that is fleeting. This is the kind smile that stays, that you count down for, that remains past the point of being what it is.

OKS— What draws you to painting faces?

CW— I don't know what came first, being a portrait painter or being obsessed with faces. I’ve always been obsessed with faces. Maybe that's why I paint. But it’s also that, because I paint, I'm obsessed with faces. The face can express so much, so quickly, with so much more nuance than words can. When somebody consciously puts on a facial expression — tries to look like they're listening, for example — we can read that instantaneously. When you play with kids, the first thing you do is put your tongue out, make a funny face. The human face contains millions of functions, millions of muscles and possibilities. It’s been around much longer than language.

OKS— That’s what’s interesting to me about Natural Causes: you literally put the animal, the pre-linguistic, back into the human face. At the same time, you show that even non-verbal communication is always culturally determined, self-conscious, or unnatural: a type of language. Just like how the words we have for animal noises — oink, bark — vary across human languages.

CW— Verbal communication is so incomplete; that’s why we have body language. I think we yearn for that complete, continuous, pre-linguistic oneness that animals inhabit. I think we fear and envy them for it.

OKS— Is painting closer, for you, to a more “animal” mode of communication?

CW— Maybe if you asked a gestural abstract painter, they would say yes. But I think my painting is closer to language, not only because it's figurative and quite literal, but also because it uses an alphabet of recognizable facial expressions and types of poses.

OKS— Exactly! It's strange to me that critics often emphasize that you paint people you know. To me, your paintings aren’t primarily portraits of individuals. They're more like depictions of social types or emojis — models in the literal sense of being a model of a society.

I think my painting is closer to language, not only because it's figurative and quite literal, but also because it uses an alphabet of recognizable facial expressions and types of poses.

CW— Usually, the first time I paint someone, I do want to do them justice, so achieving a likeness is important to me. But that isn’t the point of my painting. It’s not like I'm a hired portrait painter. Since I've let go of trying to represent a subject, I’m able to use them as a form or symbol or embodiment of this abstract combination of gestures and feelings. I paint people I know because that’s who's around. I don't get to tell Heidi Klum — actually, remind me to come back to Heidi Klum dressing up as a worm — to come over and put on a scuba mask and take off her panties.

But it’s also that I'm compelled to paint people that I've looked at in real life — to explore specific colors that are happening in this person's face, or that weird look they gave. I'm sitting here and looking at you and noticing all these tones and reflections, painting you in my head.

OKS— Natural Causes is so much about appearances: managing appearances, knowing you're being seen. I remember hanging out with you when you had just spent the morning deleting every photo of yourself from Instagram. But some of them are back now. Why did you un-make that decision?

CW— Well, occasionally I just have a random lack of confidence, where I look back at my career and regret the fact that, in my case, the art was never separated from the artist. If nobody ever saw me and I wasn't on Instagram in a horse costume, yeah, maybe my work would be taken more seriously. But why should I not be able to be myself and make rigorous work? To be vapid and silly and playful and intelligent? I want to fight for the ability to possess multiple, seemingly dissonant or incompatible qualities. Which includes the desire to post photos of myself online.

OKS— I think that this also gets at one of the paradoxes explored in your show. Real freedom of self-expression is also the freedom to produce a fake or mediated version of yourself. That’s a natural human desire: to play pretend.

CW— Yeah, and who will care about my Instagram when the earth is charred and unlivable? Who will fucking care that I showed how much fun I was having in my Skims outfit? Oh my God — I just bought so much Skims yesterday —

OKS— Wait, yeah, I want to talk about Skims … Is there anything else you want to —

CW— The horse outfit in the cover painting is Skims. I just sewed hair extensions on the ass as a tail. It’s literally a ponytail.

OKS— That was your Halloween costume last year, right?

CW— Yes — which totally relates to the show. Halloween is this amazing ritual where we get to shed our identities, knowing that we’ll come back to them. Humans have always been doing this, whether it's Carnivale or Day of the Dead: creating a moment where the order of things is temporarily reversed. Chaos is produced as a treat so that you can be a more complacent, civilized subject when the clock strikes midnight and you take off your costume.

Sex is similar: a type of playtime or role-play or sanctioned discontinuity within daily life. That’s why the adults in these paintings are nude. (Interesting that Halloween, for adults, is about sexy animals.) For most people, BDSM wouldn’t be fun if it were their whole life. It has to be a kind of recess from your standard subjectivity.

I’ve been interested in Deleuze and Guattari’s concept of becoming-animal. “Becoming,” for them, does not produce an end-result. If becoming-animal were to reach its conclusion, if the human can no longer remove their mask by choice, that’s where horror and violence come in. That’s a werewolf. But when you dress up for fun, it’s the process of becoming-animal that is at play: you’re neither Chloe nor Horse, you’re the third term, you’re “being both” — which is becoming. That’s why I chose to paint these portraits as floating heads, without a background that indicates where these moments are happening. I wanted to show this ambiguous space where you’re literally suspended between worlds. A continuous space. That middle ground is what language cannot describe. And I think that's what art can get to.

I wanted to show this ambiguous space where you’re literally suspended between worlds. A continuous space. That middle ground is what language cannot describe. And I think that's what art can get to.

Games are also where we get to negotiate realities from our daily lives we couldn’t confront otherwise. I think that we need these rituals on a foundational level. The object of the animal mask reifies the fact that you are not, in fact, an animal. We play as animals in order to be more human. When we do that, we’re also tapping into the kind of pre-individual unity or oneness that animals, for us, represent. On Halloween, we rarely dress up as a specific horse. We dress up as “Horse” — a generic, general category. So we’re not just taking a break from our own individual subjectivity, we’re taking a break from subjectivity, period.

OKS— I think this ties back to selfies and photos in a way: I like taking photos of myself because it introduces a rupture into that continuous present; it’s like a break from consciousness. And it’s funny that people at parties usually feel more free to behave bizarrely if they’re being recorded. The camera is like a mask or alibi: “This is just who I’m pretending to be for TikTok. Of course I wouldn’t randomly do the worm.”

CW— Totally. And speaking of worms — here I can finally get back to Heidi Klum — remember when she dressed up as a worm for Halloween? I should paint that. That costume was amazing because she came too close to actually becoming an animal. She went past the safe sort of playing pretend and into the grotesque. She actually looked like a worm. That, for me, is where art and humor and beauty and real meaning begin.

I go so hard with costumes, too. This year I want to be Dr. Evil. I’m such a theater kid, which is always revealed on Halloween. I even have this monologue memorized. Ready?

“My childhood was quite standard, really. Summers in Rangoon. My mother was a 16-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father was ...”

Art

The Things People Are Ashamed To Take Photos Of: The Photography and Films of Yuhan Cheng

Yuhan’s latest exhibition of photo and video work titled 窗子外 Outside the Window, Inside the Tank 鱼缸里 takes its namesake from what could’ve been a mundane encounter. A month after moving to New York City from Chengdu, China, they stumbled across an abandoned fish tank left curbside. It reminded them of “the rotating fish in a tank that faded into the background of their mother’s home in Chengdu”, a thread connecting childhood familiarity that transformed into a symbol of greater significance in adulthood. A tank is a world within a world; a microcosm secluded from the broader chaos of the outside. Since then Yuhan has captured the other kinds of “fish tanks” closest to them in their photography and short films. Not literal ones necessarily– but intimate confined spaces in Chengdu and NYC where time stands still.

In the midst of taking snapshots of loved ones, Yuhan decided to turn their tender but examining lens on themselves. They realized shooting self-portraits unraveled a deeper understanding of their own nonbinary gender and queer sexuality. Yuhan admits in one of their short films “I hide from looking at my own body.” Yet, in the seclusion of their room which doubles as a dark room, Yuhan began to develop their first nude photos chronicling the subtle wounds; bitten cuticles, bruises, and scrapes they’ve accumulated involuntarily, once again documenting the things people choose to hide.

窗子外 Outside the Window, Inside the Tank 鱼缸里, debuted at FAR-NEAR Studio Hours a gallery in Chinatown focused on expanding the art world's view of Asia and Asian artists curated by Lulu Yao Gioiello. The event merged Yuhan’s works from the past three years, including 70 photographs, three short documentaries, and one installation. There was something uncanny about the gallery’s atmosphere – from the dollar store teal green curtains obscuring every window to the clusters of framed photos mimicking how photos of relatives are displayed in one’s childhood home, to the darkened lighting that was both disorienting and cozy. All these details were meticulously chosen to imitate the rooms depicted in Yuhan’s films and photography. In other words, the audience was invited to Yuhan’s “fishtank”, to share the odd balance of comfort and unease of being known intimately. We talked to Yuhan at Cafe Reggio to understand how their latest body of work came into being.

Initially, I was exploring my friends’ identities through the lens, but slowly, it became a tool to confront and understand my own queerness and gender identity.

Ora Margolis— Were any memories/childhood experiences you had in Chengdu important to how you've developed as an artist?

Yuhan Cheng— Growing up in Chengdu, especially in a military household, shaped and gave me a source of contention how I understood my identity. There was always a sense of conflict when it came to my body and feeling like I didn’t quite fit the expectations around me. This tension has been a driving force in my practice, pushing me to explore identity and belonging in my work.

Tell us a bit about your latest exhibition Outside the Window, Inside the Tank at Far. What headspace were you in when taking these photos?

YC— Outside the Window, Inside the Tank is about the fluidity of self; our bodies, our environments, and our identities. The idea of water as both a symbol of confinement and freedom is central to the photos and film that comprise the exhibit. This fluidity much like how I see my experience moving between Chengdu and New York, where similar feelings follow me no matter where I am. Water mirrors the body, the frame, and the room, which are all containers of the self.

Previously, you’ve said you wanted the exhibition space to look "like your room". How did you make that happen and why is your NYC room important to you?

YC— My room in NYC is an extension of my identity. It’s where I feel vulnerable and where I explore myself most openly. It’s a manifestation of my sense of self. I recreated certain elements in the exhibition—the green sheer curtains, the dollar store shower curtain with bubbles, and the center installation depicted a self-portrait deteriorating in water, reminiscent of a fish in a tank. This room, like any other room or container, magnifies the tension of self-exploration.

Has your idea or comfort with your gender identity and /sexuality changed since you’ve delved into photography?

YC— Yes. The process of photography and filming has been a mirror to my own understanding of self. Initially, I was exploring my friends’ identities through the lens, but slowly, it became a tool to confront and understand my own queerness and gender identity. The process of photographing my queer friends and then myself allowed me to come to terms with who I am.

How did you and Lulu Yao of FAR-NEAR Studio meet, and what makes her a good collaborator?

YC— We first connected when I reached out with my series Princess of Funan River. Lulu understood the struggles and complexities in the work and she invited me to expand on those ideas with her. Our collaboration has worked because Lulu truly resonates with the themes I’m drawn to, like fluidity, transformation, and the intimacy of navigating belonging.

After completing Fish Tank and Remnants of an Amateur Film, what kind of movie do you want to make next?

YC— Right now, I’m more focused on writing. I need to understand what I want to say before making another film. Writing helps me find clarity;it’s a crucial part of my process.

What kind of camera do you use and why?

YC— I use a Canon AE-1. I started with it and I still love it. It's small, spontaneous, easy to use, and light. It allows me to capture moments naturally without overthinking.

What's your biggest fear?

YC— Being disconnected from my sense of self, from others, and from the things I love.

When do you feel most like yourself?

YC— It’s during those fleeting moments when I complete a project. That feeling fades quickly, leaving me searching for the next project to reconnect with that sense of fulfillment.

How do you want people to feel when they interact with your art?

YC— I want them to feel whatever resonates with them. I don’t want to prescribe the experience; it should feel right for each person.

Your work focuses on the close knit communities that surround you or various metaphorical “fish tanks”. What communities do you feel closest to?
YC— The queer artist community, both in Chengdu and NYC, has been a source of comfort and understanding for me. There’s something about shared struggles and shared creative language that feels like home.

What's the biggest difference between living life as a queer artist in NYC and in Chengdu?

YC— In both NYC and Chengdu, I’m learning more about myself. NYC offers a sense of freedom, while Chengdu is home, a place of comfort and history. Neither place defines me but both are significant parts of my path.

What are your next moves/goals?

YC— I want to continue exploring both film and photography, expanding my narrative style and experimenting across mediums. During my show, I found new ways of seeing my photographs such as by adding a window screen between frames or letting a self-portrait fade and grow mold in water. These approaches allowed me to see my work not just as 2D images but as 3D objects.

I want to keep pushing the boundaries of how photo and film can interact, and I’m also interested in trying photojournalism. My focus remains on collaborating across mediums and continuing to accumulate experiences that I can translate into sincere honest work.

Art

Rare Prints, Raw Pulse

November 12, 2024

Based in Milan, Veins Books is a carefully curated online archive dedicated to rare and cult publications on photography, art, music, and underground culture, founded by Nicola Bortoletto. With a sharp eye for unique, avant-garde titles, Bortoletto has created a haven for collectors and enthusiasts who share his passion for visual culture’s more esoteric side. As a member of Ann Demeulemeester’s creative team, Nicola brings his discerning aesthetic and devotion to print to both the fashion and publishing worlds, bridging the two through his dedication to rare publications.

In October, Veins Books emerged from its online format, presenting its carefully assembled archive to the public in Milan for the first time. The pop-up event not only showcased iconic works by artists like Robert Mapplethorpe and Joseph Beuys but also introduced Milan’s art scene to a fresh, curated space. This initiative reflects a growing desire for a vibrant artistic community in Milan, a city that is increasingly embracing its underground culture. As Nicola notes, the local scene is thriving with artists, photographers, and musicians eager to connect and share their visions.

By Francesca Fontanesi
Photography by Francesca Fontanesi

It’s like flipping through Tulsa by Larry Clark with the perfect song playing in the background

Why did you choose the name Veins Books?

The name Veins Books felt like a natural choice. I wanted something simple, almost intuitive. I spend hours in bookstores, often with my arms resting, and the veins in my arms become visible. It resonates with that image of veins and books linked physically. There’s also a nod to The Velvet Underground. In their song Heroin, Lou Reed sings, When I put a spike into my vein, and that line stuck with me. It aligns with themes I’m exploring in my research. There wasn’t a long, romantic process to it—it just felt like the right fit.

How did you start collecting and selling books?

I developed this fascination with books back in high school, around age 17. I went to an art high school in Padua, Italy and they had an amazing library with some pretty unconventional titles, you could say. They had first editions, like Arte Povera by Germano Celant, "Multiples" by Joseph Beuys, The Fourth Sex, by Raf Simons. Gorgeous editions. That library was my entry point to theseartists and to informal art, Arte Povera, American Minimalism and so on. Later, I came across American land artists like Richard Long and Walter De Maria. My interest started mainly with visual art and then widened into other fields, eventually leading me to create Veins Books. But it all started with a deep connection to the art of the 1950s-70s.

So your passion for publishing really took off during that time.

It was all about research back then. I always had this drive to look at, photograph, and photocopy these books—and, of course, to own them. Later, when I had more financial means, I began collecting them, partly to prepare for what I hoped would become my career. But mostly, it was for research, since I was also creating my own visual art, primarily two-dimensional work, like compositions with tar, fire, and pencil drawings on paper. I sought inspiration in both words and images. So yes, research and image regeneration were pivotal for me: the collection grew, and eventually, I felt the need to show the path of this research. It’s like this idea in the book "Arte Espansa" by Mario Perniola,where you look at what it means to be an artist today: where all arts blend and yet nothing is singular. It’s a bit like the distinction between inside and outside artists— artists who want to display their work, live off it, pay bills, and sell. It’s this concrete, driven vision that led me to open two open libraries in my small apartment in Milan, opening my doors and curating the space. Initially, because of budget constraints, it was all very DIY, much like Hans- Ulrich Obrist, who curated exhibitions in his New York kitchen.

How and where do you collect books from?

I find them from all over—online shops, eBay, Instagram. Sometimes I’ll see a post about a particular artist or book and go from there. I also try to pick up new books while traveling. I’ve found great ones in Paris, at Boo-Hooray in New York, Motto Books in Berlin, and at the Milan book market every month. It’s really a mix of online and in-person discoveries. There’s no strict formula; it’s an ongoing, instinctual search.

How many books are in your collection right now?

Between 350 and 400.

Do you have any criteria for collecting?

There’s not really a strict criterion. I just go with what feels right and what fits with the collection at Veins Books. I have a particular aesthetic, and there are certain artists I gravitate towards, but I don’t limit myself with hard rules. If I come across a book and it feels like it belongs in the collection, I go for it. It’s an organic process that lets me stay open to new finds and ideas. I’d love to know if there is a book in your collection that holds special significance. It changes often, but Arte Povera by Germano Celant will always be special to Veins, for how it influenced the whole project. I’m also obsessed with certain artists, like Robert Mapplethorpe, Richard Kern, and Larry Clark. Their ability to provoke, to ask questions that challenge the ethics of art—it fascinates me. Celant, with his visionary ability to capture an entire movement with a single term—Arte Povera—probably created the last true art movement, recognizing that those artists could connect in a unified way. That book will always be fundamental. Then there’s Mapplethorpe Early Works, an edition with the “Altars” and other framed compositions, which is one of my favorites. There are others too, like Berlin by Hedi Slimane, with iconic photos from my teenage years, like the one of the boy on the ground with the Mercedes-logo leather jacket, which brings back strong memories. It’s always hard to pick—every book holds a unique meaning.

Any books you can recall having trouble giving up?

There were a few books I took off the price list at the last pop-up in Milan. For instance, in the

office, we call Ann Demeulemeester’s book “the Bible”—it has all the photos from the shows before

Sébastien Meunier took over. That was the first one I took off the shelf because I just couldn’t part

with it. I imagine it’s one of those books that, years from now, I’ll look back on and think, this is the

book I showed during my interview about three and a half years ago. That one was tough to let go

of, for sure. Mapplethorpe: Early Works is another I sold but immediately regretted and had to buy

back. Some books feel like a part of you, and it’s hard to imagine not having them around.

How did you decide to open a pop-up in Milan?

The decision was partly practical—Milan simply made sense. But on another level, it filled a gap. Milan has a few niche bookstores, but nothing quite like what I’m building with Veins. I see Veins as closer to the curated spaces you’d find in New York or Paris. The positive response to the pop-up confirmed that there’s a community here that values this kind of experience. It feels like we’re helping to build a local scene and a space where people can connect over unique works. A few years back, there wasn’t much of a following for this kind of scene in Milan, so I’d often go to Paris to find that vibe, those artists, that outlook. There’s always been a pull toward Paris, Berlin, and London within Europe. But now we’ve realized that this scene does exist in Milan; it’s just that no one had represented it in a cool, grounded way. When we did the first Nausea Twins live event, it was clear that the same people you’d see at La Perle, Le Connétable or PCC in Paris, or at 80mmBar in Berlin, are right here in Milan, too. Milan isn’t just what it’s been in recent years—there’s room for an artist scene that hasn’t been fully recognized yet. I wouldn’t call it a “movement” exactly; it’s more like a space that’s now open, and it’s very real. There are artists, photographers, musicians, brands—all with a desire to establish a vision. And as more people discover it, that vision only gets stronger. Honestly, community is almost everything to us. It’s exciting, even though, at the end of the day, we’re not doing anything revolutionary.

What are your thoughts on the accessibility of artistic knowledge?

Art and fashion often feel elitist. Exclusivity has a certain allure. It works in a lot of cases, and it’s part of the proximity experience. Think of Chrome Hearts, where you can only enter by appointment, two people at a time, with a gate and a bodyguard. That mystique around an artist as this one-of-a-kind figure is compelling because it builds that dream of being that person. But at the same time, if it weren’t accessible, I wouldn’t have been able to form myself. So a bit of exclusivity is good when balanced thoughtfully.

What about Instagram? And what’s next?

Instagram is essential. I love seeing the variety of profiles and how each one personalizes its own space. In my case, it started as an archive of the volumes I owned, and from there, everything started: the pop-up, the e-commerce we’re about to launch. The big goal is to find a permanent space in Milan. I’m also considering doing more pop-ups

abroad. There was almost a chance to go to Los Angeles, but it didn’t quite work out. I’m not rushing; I want to build Veins Books slowly and sustainably. The first pop-up was great, so I’m planning the next one in January during Fashion Week. We’ll see where it goes from there.

I can’t end this interview without complimenting you on the playlist from the Milan pop-up.

Thanks for noticing! Music is an integral part of Veins Books. As I mentioned earlier, there’s a definite influence from the New York scene—the Velvet Underground, CBGB, The Cramps, Richard Hell, Patti Smith, Dead Boys, Television—and, of course, European influences like Public Image Ltd., Siouxie and the Banshees, The Fall and The Clash. These artists all seem to speak the same language as the books in the collection; it’s like flipping through Tulsa by Larry Clark with the perfect song playing in the background. Everything in Veins is about creating that immersive experience, with music adding depth and atmosphere that connect people to the art on a visceral level.

Art

Samsara: Death, Rebirth, and Birth

November 11, 2024

All of your favorite LES regulars were in attendance last weekend for Samsara, a group exhibition exploring the boundaries between dreams and perception. Curated by Zal Dormishian and hosted by PRIV.Y, the show presented works using a distortion lens co-designed by Zal and artist Luciano Picone.

The beating heart of Samsara was its emphasis on multidisciplinary approaches. Utilizing the lens inspired the artists to express themselves in new ways, resulting in seven remarkably different yet intertwined outcomes. The collaboration showcased works by Matt Weinberger, Armyan Nispel, Luciano Picone, Ant Aguirre, Oliver Leone, Poyenchen, and the curator himself. The weekend culminated in a closing reception with an illuminating panel discussion, free ice cream, and musical performances by Breaker Novogratz, Torri Weidinger, and OSIYA. Seeping through the events was a sense of community and deep consideration for the artistry at hand.

Interviews by Abby Dillingham
Photos by Lucy Ly

office sat down for a smoke break amidst the crowded sidewalk with Noah Berghammer, the founder of PRIV.Y. Noah discussed his take on combining forces with technology in the art world. He remarked that technology is "so viscerally a part of our everyday society now so I think avoiding using technology to enhance work is stupid or naive. But, real-live work and real-live showing of work is still the most important thing in the world." Samsara is just one of many shows PRIV.Y is expected to host. One of Noah's hopes is that these events will help deepen our appreciation for the work, getting people off of the sidewalk and into the gallery.

Using technology as a tool to chronicle Samsara, Noah hopes to include the online community and bring these experiences to them as well. He added, "I think we are at this interesting point where we know about the internet community and we know about the real life community and there’s this beautiful gap to bridge. So, how do you take IRL experiences and give it to the masses on social or by using tech? A lot of what we’ve tried to do with our events is use them to create culture where we are and then document it properly to give culture to people like…me when I was living in Wisconsin six years ago before knowing what New York was, you know."

Alongside all of the pieces was an element of the artistic process. This addition is heavily due to the curator's interest and love for understanding the methods used to arrive at the final product the viewer sees. At the show's end, Zal was able to give office some deeper context into the process of Samsara.

When did the idea for this show begin to unfold and why?

ZD: The creation of the lens began a year ago as I experimented with various textures to layer onto my digital photography. While analog grain will always be the most romantic, the environmental impact—from material shipping to plastic containers and the chemicals used in film development—makes film too wasteful for regular use. In my search for new textures, these lenses were created. Though I’m hesitant to call these lenses eco-friendly, they are far less wasteful than film which in turn creates textures that feel more relevant to today’s world." After the long process of creating the lenses, the idea for the show emerged from my desire to share a physical product in a tangible setting and inspire other artists to explore and incorporate the lenses into their own practices. Too often, artists unveil work on social media, only for it to fade after seconds. Like a musician’s album release party, I wanted a live event where people could feel the work’s energy and understand the process. These lenses are like adult toys— from Cameron Gonzolez Williamson’s CRT livestream distorted lens window display to co-designer and engineer Luciano Picone’s desk with lenses for hands-on exploration, we aimed to make this exhibition as interactive as possible.

How did you choose this group of artists for the show? In what ways do you all complement each other?

ZD: I have always been confident in my taste. From the visual artists whose works make up the show to the musicians who closed the event, I knew that if I curated artists I genuinely admired, it would resonate with everyone. So, in selecting artists, I reached out to those who, over my three years in NYC’s art scene, have deeply inspired my personal practice, in both aesthetic and philosophy. My taste being highly eclectic, brings a mix which enhances the show's aim to showcase the fluid versatility of the distortion lenses across artistic mediums. What unites the work is the use of the distortion lenses as well as the already surreal nature of many of the artists’ work. I included artists with both fast and slow creative flows to reveal the distortion lenses' range — from quick inspirations that can be recreated digitally to meticulous frame-by-frame analog work. Ultimately, I curated a show which I am a fan of, celebrating both the artists and the dynamic possibilities of these lenses.

What brought on the interest in the Hindu concept of the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth? How do you see this concept shaping the way we interact with the world?

ZD: David Carson’s quote, “Don’t mistake legibility for communication,” sparked my research into German Expressionism and Hindu philosophy—two central themes woven throughout this show. The parallels to German Expressionism, where artists, diverging from realism, used color and form not merely as aesthetic choices, but as profound responses to the societal turmoil of their time. Similarly, Carson’s design philosophy, which deconstructs traditional norms to give rise to new forms of communication, mirrors the Hindu cycle, Samsara, of birth, death, and rebirth. In both realms, distortion is not chaos—it is the key to unveiling deeper truths and discovering new perspectives. I find it is often forgotten that, while humans have created tools for the practicality of mundane categorization and communication of life, we each move through our own unique planes of reality. In the pursuit of efficiency, nuances and personality are sacrificed. Distortion, I have found, is an extremely effective way to break the illusion of sameness and allows one to express not just what they see, but the deeper emotions of how they feel. By distorting the work to the point of chaos, new channels of communication emerge, allowing for a deeper, more authentic way to express ideas and feelings beyond the limitations of our own minds or something as simple as words. This approach mirrors the Expressionist movement which around 100 years ago, when color was first used creatively to evoke emotion rather than simply depict life as it literally appeared.

How does the distortion lens further your exploration of these themes?

ZD: After sending my Ray Gun magazine scans to painter and typographist Ant Aguirre, we discussed how we could expand on David Carson's idea that, “legibility does not always equal communication”. Ant explored how many times a word must be distorted before it loses recognition and transforms into something new. For his piece, he took the word "turmoil," a complex concept reduced to seven letters for the sake of efficient communication, and distorted it repeatedly until it became an abstract painting, revealing a deeper, purer meaning of turmoil through his lens of Ant’s mind. In my own work, I was deeply inspired by my time living in a monastery deep in the forests of Thailand as I sought to convey abstract moments and visions of the surreal realms of peaceful emptiness often reached through deep meditation. In addition I was influenced by Egon Schiele’s portraiture, where he emphasizes a single detail or two while allowing the rest to slowly fade into the canvas. The liquid distortion lenses have, for the first time, allowed me to express the fluid, dream-like nature in which I perceive reality.

How do you feel about the use of technology in art? Is the lens an example of this?

ZD: From analog to digital, technology in art serves as a powerful tool to expand one's creative vocabulary and explore new forms of self-expression, breaking through the confines of one's own mind. Artificial intelligence, a major focus in contemporary discourse, often faces skepticism from traditional artists, yet I’ve come to see that AI is only as strong as the intention and input behind it. In a similar way, I view these liquid distortion lenses like AI—your input shapes the process, and the outcome remains beautifully unpredictable. As you refine your technique with the lenses, holding them at unique angles to capture intriguing perspectives, your control over the medium grows.