The Bongs That Will Outlive Us All

When did you start working in ceramics?

I got into art in high school and during my senior year realized I wanted to go to art school but I got denied form a bunch of them. I was pretty bummed out but realized that I just needed to make more art and get better at creating. I ended up going to a community college that was kind of known for its ceramics program— in the area, and I was immediately hooked. So I set my mind to it and made my first body of work, I would say, that I then applied to art school with and ended up getting into KCAI which has a well known ceramics program. But the curriculum was very extreme, classic art school shit — and it was a total whirlwind to me. They basically made you choose between vessel or sculpture, so I chose vessel which then resulted in making hundreds of cups and bowls and plates. Basically learning every skill I needed to get ready to create “real work.” At the time it was all very technical, so we would throw most of what we made out. When I got to my senior year of art school, I was very excited to just have some fun, and as a result ended up making bongs and ashtrays and pipes. Just all of these disapproved objects in ceramics. The taboo of it really interested me, but I was also just a shit-head stoner, so I was like “ah this is cool, I wanna make some bongs.” I realized that I was embodying that stoner kid that would sneak bongs through the kiln and try to make wacky, funny work that excited me. So from there I really started to explore making those taboo items, which is kind of where I’m at today.

I know it’s weird talking about high school and art school in an interview about my artwork now, but it’s also a part of my life, and that’s really how I started making art and I can’t forget about that. I’ve always tried to stay away from talking about that in interviews, but I don’t know, you can do what you want with it.

I think in our society there’s an unnecessary taboo around immaturity, so we try and separate our present selves from our youth, maybe it comes with trying to contrive nobility into adulthood, but we don’t want to bring the learned and matured versions of ourselves back down to that level of youthful naivety. At the same time it’s such a formative part of all of our experiences, whether you’re a creative or not, and I think it’s odd that we actively try to disassociate ourselves from perhaps the most formative part of our lives. I mean its still us, regardless of age. Something I like about the way you utilize your medium is that you don’t omit those youthful and nostalgic qualities. The pieces remind me of being in kindergarten, playing with air dry clay. But it’s elevated because the work isn’t coming from a kindergartener.

For a long time I’ve really thought about authenticity, and what I’ve realized is that, for me, a lot of this started because I wanted to replicate objects that I either couldn’t get or that didn’t exist. Recreating Supreme accessories, or making fake merchandise from brands that didn’t exist. And I’ve found that the most genuine output when creating that is to be able to render these objects very naively. The raw output is very important to the work, that raw naivety. So it really does come down to having the ability to make something very well, a high level of craftsmanship, but still being able to use it to say different things without compromising its utility or appearance. But it’s important to me to make it look naive, I think it adds a side of humor to the work. If I were to render a lot of these objects realistically, whatever that means, so much of it would get lost, it would lose its authenticity.

I think that ties perfectly back into what we were saying about this force that is youth. Naivety is one of the more central adjectives associated with youth, and if that’s something that pulsates throughout your work, I think it’s almost necessary to confront how it plays a role in your process.

Yeah, maybe that’s it. That’s a good point. I’ve considered the many ways I could make art, but when I think about it, it’s really just about total genuine output. So I’m not really conscious when I go to the studio being like I need to embody this shit-head high school kid. I’m not thinking, “what would this guy do?” But I do think there is a level of subconscious rendering that happens when I make stuff — I know I want it to look a certain way.

I need to ask this before I forget, my sister wanted to know. How do you do the transfer of those prints onto the clay — like the horse in the middle of the ashtray?

I use two main decorating methods. One is just hand glazing, and the other is using fire-on ceramic glaze decals. So those are printed by a specialty printer that actually has china paint — you add that to the ink hoppers and then it prints out images. And for me that’s been one of the most exciting aspects of my studio practice recently, just being able to take images and memes and fire them on.

I'm obsessed with the minion ashtray.

Yeah dude. I’m obsessed. Just taking random stuff out of context and putting it on my work. For me its so fun because I have this ashtray form, a blank canvas for me to make as many pieces of fake merch that I want — an endless merch machine. One day I’ll be like minions are sick, or another day I’ll be like oh damn this Eames lounger decal is looking really fresh. Just making weird stuff — it opens up so much more for me. I do love the hand glazed look, but when you put a really crisp and clean image on a fucked up form, something happens.

Exactly. I love the contrast between those elementary pinched out vessels and the perfect decals. Something interesting about your work is that you could easily smooth all of those bumps and flaws out. You went to art school, your proficient in an abundance of ceramic techniques, but you make the conscious choice to keep it campy in a sense. And to have that tactile campiness of the clay in direct association with those computer printed decals that lack flaws is so funny and great.

I appreciate that. It’s fun because I really make everything for myself, to be honest. A lot of my studio practice is just based on random pairings. And it’s not like every time, again, I’m consciously thinking about it. But I do like to think of the notion of sympathetic magic. Do you know what that is?

I do not.

So basically it’s the idea of creating something with the idea that it’ll have an effect on the world in some way. So having a voodoo doll is a form of sympathetic magic. Another form of that is infinite pairings, bringing two totally random things together and making this random result — a one plus one equals one million kind of thing. So being able to have control over that equation is how I thrive in the studio and is one of the things I try to think about whenever I’m making my work. Which is why it does feel kind of random, because it totally is.

That idea of taking disparate elements and realizing them together through a work is very applicable to all mediums — not just ceramics. Are you considering taking that approach to projects outside of clay?

Always. A lot of my creative process involves making furniture or clothing or other home goods just as much as I’m making ceramics. Recently I made this Garfield chair. It’s like a Donald Judd Garfield chair — a flat pack pre-fab Ikea kind of thing. It’s really weird, but I’m really excited about it. I’m hoping to sell these soon, they’ll all be a flat pack assemble-at-home kind of thing. So there’s this interactive element to it that I’m not able to experiment with in ceramics. Theres a permanence to ceramics. Whenever I make something I think of its life span, how long a ceramic object can last buried in the ground for thousands of years, whereas this Garfield chair will eventually disintegrate.

But that’s liberating in a weird way, it becomes less sacred.

Yeah, for real. Like these ceramic pieces could be around forever. This Minion ash tray is gonna outlive the entire world. A future civilization will find this post apocalyptic object in the ground and be like the fuck is this? What is this shitty looking Minion ash tray?

Art

Pamela Sneed’s Speaking Tongue opens at Dashwood Projects

November 15, 2024

Pamela Sneed’s latest exhibition, Speaking Tongue, will be on view at Dashwood Projects from November 20 to December 21. The show features twenty watercolor and ink paintings inspired by her recent trip to Kenya, where she was deeply moved by the elegance of giraffes, the landscapes, and the energy of Nairobi.

Blending her background as a poet and visual artist, Sneed’s work reflects on themes of identity, nature, and connection. Her paintings capture the beauty and spirit of the animals she encountered, alongside reflections on her own experiences as part of the African diaspora.

This exhibition marks Sneed’s first solo show with Dashwood Projects and will be accompanied by a new book, also titled Speaking Tongue, to be released in December.

By Enzo Holdt
Artworks by Pamela Sneed

Art

Tiebreaker - Alvin Armstrong

November 15, 2024

There is a moment of silence right before the play. Just before the racket strikes the ball as it hangs weightless in the air, breathless and charged. It’s the fleeting yet decisive instant that can alter the course of the match, determining who wins and who loses.

Alvin Armstrong depicts this crucial moment in his new exhibition Tiebreaker, symbolizing the risks and rewards of competition. It’s an implication of something else at stake, where athletes push not only their bodies, but their spirits to the absolute limit.

The dynamic figures embody the strength, grace, and agility juxtaposed by the vibrant color palette evoking not just the joy of competition but the charged energy of the court.

Tiebreaker is opening Thursday, November 16th at Anna Zorina Gallery.

By Rea Brayshaw
Artworks by Alvin Armstrong

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.