Casino of the Underworld

July 16, 2019

The ceramic sculptures of Heidi Lau seem to have grown from the Earth itself, emerging from an oceanic past that stretches back before time to the origins of our world. The forms that clump and squirm within the overall architecture of the pieces are like souls caught in the underworld that have fused with the soil around them, ghosts that have become earth, earth that has become ghosts.

Her work blossoms from her upbringing in Macau, stories her grandmother told her about her ancestors in the afterlife. The pieces, on view at the Venice Biennale, reflect on these personal memories as well as a collective past linked to Macau and its recent transformation into a city known for its casinos, but which is rich in Taoist beliefs, folklore, and a clash of architecture from its 400 years as a Portuguese colony.

office paid Lau a visit at her studio in Brooklyn to talk about the underworld.

Text and studio photos by John Martin Tilley

When I arrived at the address in Brooklyn, I was surprised at the sheer size of the building—an old industrial warehouse that occupied an entire city block, with patched-over windows and a foreboding brick exterior. Heidi Lau met me at the door and led me up a set of metal stairs and down a seemingly endless hallway, where distant sounds of art making could faintly be heard. Her studio was a lot like her: small, bright, unassuming, full of little surprises. Her sculptures seemed to listen as we talked about them, as if they might worm their way out the door the minute we weren’t paying attention.

Tell me about your work.

So as you can see, this is like my cave. I got my own kiln maybe four years ago, and before that I was sharing in a communal ceramics studio, and it was harder to make larger work, if you can imagine—because usually a lot of pottery studios are good for making fifty bowls, but no so good for making sculptural work. But I got the Joan Mitchel Foundation grant and that’s when I decided I needed to take it to the next step. So, this has been where I make everything for four years. Everything is hand-built here, and I don’t actually use that many tools, other than this little awl. Everything is basically made by my hands. I guess I can talk about these two things I got back from MAD [Museum of Art and Design], the Burke Prize show.

I love the MAD Museum, they’re like my favorite museum, because nobody knows it’s there.

They always have really interesting work. It’s kind of crazy, they started doing this thing called the Burke Prize, which is a $50,000 grant for anyone that works in ceramics or craft-related, so the Burke Prize exhibition is the 16 finalists, so I was one of the finalists, and these two pieces were showcased. I guess a lot of my work is inspired in many ways from growing up in Macau, where I’m from, my family was and still is very Taoist, and very superstitious. I always remember the first memory of going to a temple with my grandma and her telling me, ‘This gatekeeper of hell is your great grandfather.’ I guess she was really sick as a kid, and then her parents did this Taoist ritual on her so that the gatekeeper would keep her out—that story really stuck with me in many ways, it’s this strange familial connection to the underworld, or just things you cannot see. I guess this arched piece is sort of based on imagining my grandma going through an arch-like doorway into the underworld, but also returning from the dead as well. I was reading a lot of Taoist literature on the descriptions of hell, because there’s actually eighteen levels, so it’s dependent on what sin you have committed, you’ll be thrown into a different level.

Now is it a similar concept to Judeo-Christian hell, like it’s a place strictly for punishment, or is it hell as in just the afterlife?

It’s just the afterlife. There’s no heaven, it’s just the afterlife. And you can leave, you have a choice to leave. Actually I did a piece in the Socrates Sculpture Park a few years ago, I made this grotto based on this idea where at the end of hell there’s a bridge and an old lady who serves you a bowl of soup to erase your memory, so that when you pass on, you don’t remember. But there are a lot of spirits that get stuck there, because there are things they don’t want to give up, so they would rather be in hell forever, and it’s kind of like their bodies start merging with their environment. So that enters a lot of my work, it’s like anthropomorphized environment—people have turned into their environment because they have been there for so long because they couldn’t get out or didn’t want to get out.

So where does the bridge go?

That’s so you can be reincarnated.

Ohhh. So the spirits that choose to stay, they don’t want to forget their life.

Yeah, so they would rather be in hell forever.

Above: Lau in her studio; staircase approach to her studio.

They’re holding onto their memories.

Or they’re waiting for someone.

It’s kind of romantic.

It is romantic. But also it’s like forgetting is worse than not death, but…

It’s a second death.

It’s very powerful to me. So much of my work has to do with memory, and the stories that my grandma told me about herself, and then me using that material to make something that wasn’t even true to begin with or had never existed in the place.

They’re almost little depictions of the underworld.

Definitely. It’s like a snake that has turned into a body limb, maybe at one point he had a whole body, but after a millennia, only what you needed was left.

It’s almost like they’re merging with the Earth.

Yeah. And they’re shedding maybe what they don’t need.

You know what they look like to me is coral. Do you get that a lot?

I do. It’s not necessarily conscious, but when I make work I do think a lot about dump sites and things that people had gotten rid of. It’s also me bringing in Macau also, because I grew up in a colonial time, and then Macau became a part of China again. So during that time there was a lot of social and identity upheavals that I feel like a lot of things were torn down to make way for new developments, and new urban policies—which is also when the casinos came in. I actually lost the house I grew up in at the time, so sometimes I feel like I’m imagining this wall that I had stared at a million times, being at a dump site by the water, it eventually will become a clay. It’s totally a material fantasy, but I think about decay and rebirth a lot.

Above: Studio views.

It’s like ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Everything is essentially the same material.

It’s also kind of works with the idea of reincarnation.

I’m not too familiar with Taoism. Do you still practice Taoism?

My grandparents were the ones who were really into it. It’s so stereotypical—my dad was really nihilistic, he’s a pragmatist, so he was like, my daughter is not going to practice anything. I think that’s why my grandma and grandpa would sneak in a believe system, little stories about how they honored the dead, and what a funeral’s function was in family and also in society. I’m trying to learn more about it, but I haven’t practiced it—except in funerals and weddings.

It is so interesting to think about the power of stories and family, especially in China, right? It’s really intense in China.

It’s almost political. Because of the Cultural Revolution my grandpa settled permanently in Macau because he couldn’t practice Taoism, because Communism is atheist—anything supernatural or spiritual is considered anti-progress. It makes you not want to be a useful part of society. Even now all the religions in China have to be officially permitted, it’s a very strict process. That’s not so much in Macau and Hong Kong yet, because they’re still special regions—we could still bury our dead, we don’t have to have them cremated, we could still have a Taoist funeral, there’s still a little bit more freedom. In the rest of China you have to be cremated because it’s the most efficient and non-religious way to bury a body, it’s an official thing. If you live in a very small town and did it on the DL, you could probably get away with a burial, but officially cremation is the state regulation.

China blows my mind.

I have a complicated relationship with it.

How long have you been in the United States?

I moved here for school in 2005. So a while.

Above: Studio views.

Do you feel your work reflects on your time here, or is it kind of a looking back at your time in Macau?

I think it’s a lot of things. I’ve always tried to identify as an artist from Macau as much as possible because our culture is already so invisible—for a city that has such a rich history and has been around for so long, when you hear about it now you just think, ‘casino.’ A lot of the press I’m reading now at the Biennale, that for political reasons Macau and Hong Kong and Taiwan can only be collateral exhibitions inside the China pavilion. Macau has been a colony for over 400 years of Portugal. Then after 1999 it became a part of China again, similar to Hong Kong.

So tell me about Venice.

It’s in a courtyard—after we saw photos of the space, it reminded me of an older building in Macau, this courtyard isn’t Portuguese but I feel like a lot of European buildings have a garden and a fountain similar to this. So it reminded me of buildings I had seen growing up, and I wanted to create a mythical corner when you walked in. So this fountain with the pond already existed, but the snake itself we created.

Now is your work a part of the functioning fountain?

Yeah, we made it for the space. The form itself is based on this Taoist snake goddess, Nüwa, it’s kind of a creation myth—she had slain a giant turtle and used his legs as columns to support the sky from falling, which I’ve always felt was a great feminist story.

It almost looks like it’s melting.

Oh good!

Like it looks as if it’s crumbling. But you said you were interested in decay.

Eventually the snake goddess’s body decays and becomes the Earth that we inhabit, her body became mountains and terrain. So I feel like when I was coloring the piece and working on the glaze, I was thinking about a landscape changing, or an energy that’s powerful enough that it changes a landscape. So it makes sense that it looks like it’s melting.

Above: Views of Lau's work at the Venice Biennale.

Almost like it’s fusing with its surroundings.

Totally. It’s also just perfect for the material of clay, because it does go through 2000 degree Fahrenheit heat in the kiln, it’s a very transformative process. These other pieces are like the turtle legs that the Nüwa used as columns. I like the pieces to look both architectural and like they’re a part of a landscape. When you enter the space, we included a quote from a cultural critic in Macau, Zhidong Hao, which says, ‘Not only are those from the outside unable to see Macau, the locals are also unable to recognize themselves.’ It’s because Macau has been under very dominant narratives for so long, I feel like it’s hard for us to imagine our identity in some ways. I don’t know this, but this was an open call put out by the Macau Art Museum for a proposal to exhibit in Venice—so when my curator and I started thinking about it, we thought this was actually perfect timing. I think my work has always been about Macau, but not in such an obvious way, but this felt like a good time to think about how Taoism fit into Macau identity, as well as a chance to look at a lot of folk beliefs that are so important to our culture but that you don’t hear about or necessarily associate with Macau.

Now what’s going on in this other room? The Recreation Garden?

So this garden I constructed from memory, but it’s based on a garden that was built by the first casino owner in Macau in the twenties. Ever since 1999 we had an explosion of casinos going up in Macau, which has caused a lot of social and space problems. But at the same time, that’s why people know about Macau, it’s a bit ambivalent. I was trying to think about the urban space in Macau and the things that had influenced me as a kid, and I was kind of shocked to remember that a garden like this that nowadays local people just go and do Tai Chi and play chess, but it has a history where it was founded by a casino owner. I feel like when we talk about casinos now, it’s always about capital and progress, but the thing with this particular casino is it completely failed and he ended up hanging himself in his estate. So in a way, this has become his ruins, his monument, which now we use and don’t even think about the origins.

It’s almost like a casino of the underworld. So it’s like a garden with a little maze?

It’s accentuated, but it’s a Suzhou-style garden, where it turns around nine times—I don’t know why that it, but it’s a style of bridge. So imagine the negative space below is water, and you walk on a tiny bridge. This is really accentuated, it’s kind of from my imagination.

You should add a water feature.

I’d love to make it into another fountain. Another part of this garden was it had a theatre for Cantonese opera, which my grandma used to be an amateur singer—I would hear her from the kitchen. For this accompanying piece, I worked with this singer in Chinatown to record a song my grandma used to sing—so this actually has a speaker inside, and it plays this song called ‘Song of Exile.’ A lot of Cantonese operas, the stage is very temporary, the foundation is made of bamboo sticks, so this is kind of based on that. To me, it’s almost skeletal—they would put really colorful fabric on top. I imagined it to be like a stage, and also like a small birdcage.

It seems like you use the skeletal trope a lot.

I like imitating building materials, like the bamboo sticks, or the arches.

Above: views of Lau's work at the Venice Biennale, images courtesy the artist and the Venice Biennale.

Art

LIA by Iga Drobisz

Your work often explores intimacy and vulnerability. How do you create a safe and authentic environment for your subjects during a shoot?

The past few months, I’ve been working on two series of photographs: nudes of women in their own apartments and portraits of women before and after giving birth. Both series involve capturing them in deeply personal spaces—bedrooms or nurseries—where they feel at ease.

Shooting in their spaces, in their own beds, plays a crucial role in creating comfort. I choose film and cameras that show them in a way they find beautiful and empowering, emphasizing softness and warmth. It's a stark contrast to modern, hyper-detailed phone cameras that sometimes reveal more than one wants to see.

Your photography has a distinct emotional depth and texture. How do you approach the interplay of light, color, and composition to achieve this?

My process is highly intuitive. I’ve never formally studied photography or apprenticed under anyone—I learned by experimenting and seeing what felt right. It’s about trusting my instincts rather than adhering to rigid rules.

What role do personal experiences or cultural influences play in shaping the stories you tell through your images? Many of your photographs feel deeply narrative.

Growing up, I was surrounded by great cinematography. My grandmother had a TV, but my mom only brought home VHS tapes—films with substance. I think that exposure shaped how I see the world, how I approach subjects, and the narrative depth in my work.

What role does spontaneity play in your shoots? Do you leave room for improvisation, or is everything carefully planned?

To balance spontaneity and structure, I go in with a clear plan and strong direction, but I remain open to surprises. It’s about letting the subject feel like the shoot is about them, not me. That openness often leads to the most unexpected, meaningful moments.

What inspired the shoot with singer Lia? How did it come together?

Collaborating with Ruby and Naomi always takes me out of my comfort zone in the best way. For this shoot, we wanted to transform someone with an iconic face but also someone like Lia—someone with a clear sense of self.

Giving her a completely new look was exciting; it brought an unexpected energy to the set. The approach was playful and experimental. The night before, I had no idea what wigs Ruby would bring or what colors Naomi might choose. It was a beautiful mix of spontaneity and collaboration.

What inspires you the most?

Movies and music are big inspirations for me, as well as the work of other photographers like Carlijn Jacobs, Harley Weir, Rineke Dijkstra, Charlotte Wales, and Nan Goldin.

What emotions or truths are the hardest for you to express through your art, and why?

I don’t think I consciously try to express specific emotions when I work. Instead, I follow what feels right in the moment—what draws me in or excites me that day. It’s less about a deliberate expression and more about letting intuition guide the way.

Art

Luna Luna: Surrealist Spectacle Lands in New York

November 21, 2024

In the 1980s, André Heller, an Austrian artist, singer-songwriter, and former actor, was looking for a new place to showcase his art. He had already taken to gardens, creating a colorful, surrealistic character using 40,000 flowers, and to the skies, organizing a 'fire theatre,' which involved an over-the-top fireworks show complete with steel-frame sculptures set on fire. But he had never tried out a fair.

So began "Luna Luna." Created as the world's first art carnival, "Luna Luna" combined the spectacular with the absurd, showcasing original rides and attractions from rising and already-at-the-top artists in Hamburg. Nearly forty years since its debut, followed by foiled plans for a worldwide tour, breached contracts, and 44 storage containers, the art fair has finally returned, calling New York home after re-debuting last year in Los Angeles.

By Hailey Johnson
Photography by Delvin Claro and Sabrina Sarnitz, courtesy of Luna Luna LLC

On a recent evening in Hudson Yards, a small carousel featured characters in quirky, Twister-like poses and an outstretched dog with seven legs. (Almost a century old, the rides are no longer rideable.) Goofy wooden sculptures were elevated in another corner, some of them cross-eyed or with a horn for a nose. A geodesic dome glowed, with Gregorian chants hovering somewhere above it.

"It's an art experience like no other," Michael Goldberg, Chief Experience Officer of Luna Luna, said recently. "People get to see artists do things they've never done before," he added.

Goldberg, founder of Something Special Studios, a creative agency behind many Nike campaigns, was determined to resurrect “Luna Luna” after reading about it online in 2019. Goldberg shopped for investors, eventually teaming up with DreamCrew, a media company co-owned by the rapper Drake. (Details on the company's investment remain vague; sources have reported that DreamCrew spent over "100 million dollars.") In 2022, an intensive restoration process began, with a team of artists reviving many of the original works, which had remained in boxes in a Texas warehouse for over thirty years. Several had been in pieces. (The team reportedly had to rebuild each work "bolt by bolt.")

That night, at the Shed, fourteen out of the original thirty-five works were on display, including the small carousel (Keith Haring), the goofy sculptures (Kenny Scharf), the neon dome (Salvador Dali), and a towering Ferris wheel decorated in drawings of stick figures, upside crowns, and references to Jim Crow (Basquiat). Missing works are in a "constant state of restoration," Goldberg said. Meanwhile, new attractions are joining the line-up. For the New York show, the Puerto Rican duo Poncilí Creación was commissioned to create "PonciliLand," a blink-and-you-miss-it section where guests "can create fantastical characters out of custom building blocks." Poncili also developed floating characters, inspired by performers who circulated the original “Luna Luna” fairgrounds in 1987. Known as "Lovers," the two characters, large and dreamlike, teetered to one side, mumbling the kind of nervous groans one does before a fall. (They never ended up falling.)

I asked Goldberg if, given that today's culture doesn't quite look or feel the same way as it did in 1987, there was any hesitation in showing some of the original works. On a back wall, a tribute featured Manfred Diex's "Palace of the Wind," a show featuring performers who fart into a microphone; on another, two ornate pedestals held sculptures of spiral poop.

"I don't see any reason why we wouldn't show any of these works," he said. "A lot of the time, art is exclusive and uninviting. The big difference between “Luna Luna” and other art experiences is that it has many sides to it, and things that have a bit of humor and playful energy. "As for "Palace of the Winds,” the decision to keep it was simple: farting is universal. He went on: "The “Crap Chancellery" is, conceptually, one of the most important works in “Luna Luna.” Daniel Spoerri's dad was killed in the Holocaust, and the work was inspired by Albert Speer, who was Hitler's architect. He took the facade of what was meant to be a Nazi shrine and turned it into the facade of a bathroom with two steaming statues of shit standing on the outside. These works are extremely important and are things that we would definitely want to honor and draw attention to."

As “Luna Luna” further develops, the show will likely change. "It will continue to evolve as we go to different cities in response to the spaces that we pop up into and in collaboration with the local city," Goldberg said." With it, there will be new characters and new stories to tell. One aspect that won't change, though, as Goldberg assured, is a long-held sentiment about a potential partnership. At one point, early on during the original “Luna Luna” era, McDonald's wanted to buy into it. Heller said no, adding that he "didn't want it to feel like Disneyland." Goldberg agreed. Nonetheless, as I watched Kenny Scharf's dizzying swing ride go around for what felt like the hundredth time, with the cartoon characters decorated on it blurring together (one with a villain's grin, another morphed into a martini glass), I couldn't help but feel like maybe I was at Disneyland, only not as robbed, but just as entertained and exhausted by its rides and fantastical characters, and wanting to go again.

Luna Luna, Hamburg, Germany, 1987.

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.