Lead image: ‘No_Code Shelter: Stories of Contemporary Life’ by Tod’s and Studio Andrea Caputo.
office spoke with Rankin over FaceTime about Back in the Dazed, the first retrospective in the UK showcasing his early work from the 90s. We discuss nostalgia, the ethics around shooting your subjects and critical analysis in portraiture. Don't judge a book by its cover, but what about magazines?
How did the idea for your retrospective come about? What inspired this timing?
Dazed started over 30 years ago and it just felt right, really. Last spring, we had a show called Dazed Decades. It was a really great, beautiful show but people were more interested in the 90s. That decade was the most groundbreaking work in terms of pushing the boundaries. Our photography was very different from other magazines.
I didn't really do any of my famous work from the 90s for Dazed, so my stuff here is specific and more experimental and exploratory. I was 24 when we started doing Dazed. It's quite mad when you think those photos are photographed by a 24-year-old. I was 34 by the end of it. In this show, you see the progression of me and the magazine. I started not being able to afford to shoot or print in color and you watch me grow up as a photographer. Few photographers become successful at that age, unless they’re coming from modeling or generational creativity. We all came from non-creative families. We got together at college, did a college magazine for three years, then did Dazed. I started doing magazines at 20, that's the maddest thing. Jefferson [Hack], the editor, was 18 when he became the editor of Dazed.
I read that at 28 (nearly how old I am), you laid out all the covers of Dazed you shot, put them on the floor, and thought to yourself, how good your life was. After shooting so many icons, what is it like to revisit those early covers? Does it feel nostalgic? Do you feel more critical of your past work, or mostly proud?
Good question; it changes a little bit. I did a book six years ago about the work from Dazed called Unfashionable. It combined my work in fashion, art and photography. When I looked at that work, it was quite basic technically but I was surprised it included the same themes. The human condition, the manipulation of imagery and media, the idea of taking celebrity and trying to democratize it and make it more accessible. I'm fascinated by the seduction of fashion and trying to make it more human. Those have been the same themes in my work for 35 years. I didn’t think that — until I looked back and went, “Oh God, I'm still banging on about the same stuff.”
Of course, I'm critical. A lot of current work lacks critical thought behind it. I don't mean that just in terms of looking at it and thinking “Is it good or not?” but thinking, “What's the meaning of it in the world?” When critical thought is in the work, you can feel it, \you don't need to ask. It's in your face. I've got that. It's built into me. I'm a 51% positive, 49% critique. You criticize me, I've already done it.
But I've enjoyed putting [the retrospective] together and looking at all the collaborations. I took them for granted then, but now I see how special it was. So many people in the photos or contributing to making the photos came to the show and it was overwhelming to see them all there. I’m not in touch with these people all the time, giving the work credibility beyond me and my relationship to it. I'm frustrated I didn't have a better relationship with some of my collaborators, but that's the arrogance of youth.
What’s it been like interacting with people at the retrospective who haven’t been reading Dazed for the past 20 years? It’s a magazine for youth culture but a lot of 18-25 year olds weren’t even born for these issues. I would love to know what it’s been like for you to witness their reactions to your work.
I have to be honest with you, I haven't really watched people look at it, but I’ve seen the social media response. I use social media to represent my work, not represent me so I'm not constantly on it, being performative. It feels like talking into a vacuum, but it’s been fascinating to see people post about [the retrospective]. People have their favorites and there's something affirming in that. The age range of people reacting to it is broad. I made this work when the magazine was distributed to 5,000 people. By the end of the 90s, we reached millions of people. But by that point, I was drifting away. Dazed was becoming less political and more commercial as a fashion and style magazine. I was more interested in changing things.
What was it like to watch Dazed become something on its own? Do you still feel connected to the magazine?
No, not really. But the ethos now is very similar to the ethos at the start. When we started, myself and Jefferson [Hack] made an agreement that we wouldn't be the editors once we felt like we weren’t the target audience or relating to the target audience anymore. We always said that you should make a magazine for yourself, not for your audience. Then the audience will come, but the minute the audience isn't relating to you, you need to move on. That's why he started AnOther and I started Hunger Magazine.
If you said to them I left because it became commercial, they'd say I was the person that was good at making money and commercialized lots of it. We sold the back cover and I would shoot it. That was completely commercializing but we did it in a unique way nobody had ever done before. Back then we were about creating culture, creating moments, creating what I guess you'd call “breaking the internet.” We were never about reporting or taking photos of culture. We were making it. We started Dazed to be a platform to voice independence, unique thinking and youth. I love it when it still does stuff like that. I'm proud and jealous all at the same time.
Exactly. I love bits of it. There are times when it feels like rinse and repeat. But when you leave something, you leave it. You should never be the back seat driver. I let it go seven years ago. I like to watch it from a distance and hope that they do well. It’s a bit like watching your grown-up child fuck up sometimes or be really successful.
We were international in our outlook. We never thought about just Britain, just England, just London. We always wanted to reach more people. Jefferson was the reason we were one of the first magazines to have a website, do broadcast publishing and have a TV show.
A lot of the things that Dazed talked about preempted a movement in purpose or in identity. We were talking about fluid identity and representation and equity back in the 90s. Vice never did that. They did drugs and parties. We've been criticized for being party kids too, but we were never trying to be sexist, racist or laddish. We were interested in art, culture and music. I read recently the reason Vice failed was because they tried to change with the times. The one thing you should never do is try and change with the times. You should always stick to your unique view. Dazed had that early on. We didn't trust the platforms.
When I left, I just wanted to be a photographer again. I was like, I'm done arguing. I don't want to debate what's going to go in the magazine. I don't want to have to chase the pages, having the fight about if you can get a cover. I got really tired of it. Also, we changed. I always like to think of this as a band. At the beginning of the decade it was just me and Jefferson. By the end, the band had decided to move on and have solo careers. We put a new band at the end of the 90s and I didn't fit in, really. Life goes on, you just have to let it go. It’s a bit like Fleetwood Mac. They have 25 incarnations.
Frankly, we became too successful. We started as kids at college and by the end of the 90s we all became successful on our own. Most of us continued to be successful. It's like not one of us gave up and left to become a gardener.
It always makes sense in retrospect, but in the moment, it must feel like a lot of risk and uncertainty.
We never thought we'd survive more than a couple years. The drive and ambition we brought to [Dazed] was about that early 90s opportunity. A lot of people who hit the 90s wanted success and took lots of risks. We had just come out of recession. They were like, why not? What have I got to lose? I look at that moment now and I'm proud we were there and did it.
For me, the purpose of photography is to reveal, and be a window into a world. But by the time I was becoming a photographer, that insight from the fifties, sixties and seventies with Life Magazine and Picture Post in the UK was almost over. Don McClellan had been around for 30 years — I never thought I could be as good as him. It felt pointless. My dad said to me, “Do something you're good at. Don't fight against what you are good at.”
I was good with people. I realized quickly it was my strength. Documentary was not my skill, but I wanted to talk about societal problems and create insight on it. I thought this through when I was 20. I was doing a degree in art photography, but I was also making a magazine. I was looking to communicate thoughts and ideas I had when I wanted to be a documentary photographer. I’ve always wanted to make work that changes the way that you look at photos or what the photos are about, to break down preconceptions about identity or race, even though I did art photography and portraiture. I was seduced by it.
I’ve heard a great quote, “If you're a really good photographer, you generally love your subject.” I loved my subject, whether that was a portrait of somebody famous I was trying to make more revealing, or a fashion shoot where I was trying to say something. You can tell that I loved it.
But when you take a photograph, you have a responsibility to yourself, to the subject and to the audience. Even if you're doing a commercial image, you have to have an understanding of what you are doing, why you are doing it, and how you can defend yourself to critique. I don't have a real belief in what is right and what's wrong for other people. I just know what's right and wrong for me. And consent around photography is so important. I ask for permission to take the photo, put the photo in a show or in a book or in a magazine. I include the person in editing the picture. I've been doing that for 30 years. When people say no, I respect it. I get annoyed, but I still respect it.
When you think photography is a feeling or capturing a moment, it becomes dangerous. People with cameras go, “Oh, it's art, because I say it's art.” Well, I don't really believe it's art because you say it's art. You can have what's called an eye, and a perspective. But where's your thought? Have you considered what damage or meaning is within that? Have you thought about your audience? If you're making it for yourself, good for you. Photography is an incredibly powerful medium, so it's easy to misuse it or to be too casual. I love the proliferation and democratization of photography, because we can all hear it, see it and speak it because it’s not politically held back. Everybody has the ability to look at something unless they're blind. Add filtering and programs or apps to make massive changes, it’s a whole other thing. That's exciting, but scary. I don't take photography casually.
'Highly Flammable', Dazed & Confused, Issue 31, 1997 © Rankin
You can seduce it out of them. There's lots of different ways to get trust from them, but they've got to give it to you. So I try to be more honest about that. Also, photographs are subjective. They're easy to lie with. I'm trying to look for some authenticity or honesty within the lie. I'm using seductive qualities to show and reveal and give something about the person but you want people to feel good about the photograph that you've taken. I'm not trying to give them depth they don't necessarily have. It's much more direct.
Sometimes I work with young photographers assisting me. They don’t understand why I use the same skills and tools to get a reaction out of people. I see them going, “I've seen it a million times.” But, look at the results. You’re just seeing under the hood. It doesn't mean it's the wrong way.
I can't even imagine what it's like to look back on your work from 35 years ago. But if you knew how it would all unfold, what would you tell your younger self who started Dazed all those years ago?
Be nicer. I was so determined to be successful that I was a bit of a dick. Ambition got the best of me and my character was defined by that. My ex-girlfriend, the fashion editor of Dazed at the time, said I was “a show off and a bit of a dick when lots of people were around” but “on my own, I was thoughtful and considerate.” I’d also say the people you work with aren’t going away. I came from nothing really and I had no understanding of the business, the medium or the media. I was performative about being a photographer. I was pushy which wasn’t great for my reputation. I didn’t have knowledge of etiquette. I had an arrogance of naivety.
By 2005, I was like, “that's not what a photographer is.” I wanted to be a captain of a ship, not a dictator. I’d also tell myself to have more self doubt. I learned humility the hard way. It's not a bad thing to learn things the hard way because you definitely never forget them. At the same time, one of the best things about my early work is that I was a blank notebook. I developed my own taste and learned by myself. No knowledge was on my shoulders. Nobody told me this is good or bad. Everything was instinctive.
The sheer number of presentations made it impossible to see it all, and just like a choose-your-own-adventure book, no two tales of design week are alike. Taking part in each design week is a commitment, and it’s together we ke going, until the last show, the last party, the last drink. So we followed our friends and let the stream of openings and parties guide us from one installation to the next, fueled by childlike curiosity and the deep desire to be transported into otherness, even if just for a few moments. The commercial value is, of course, underlying, but during those days, it somehow feels beside the point. Design week might technically span over a week, sometimes two (or three, who’s counting?), but the obsession for that one piece, the way that material caught the light, the feeling of being in that one room, or the memory of that one late-night conversation outside so-and-so’s exhibition lingers on. What follows is just a glimpse of what we saw, loved, and are still reeling from.
Milan
Photos by Sean Davidson
Tbilisi and Paris-based Rooms Studio introduced a series of six sculptural, mix-media beds – their firsts – with their 5Vie installation, Bedrooms, emphasizing the role of these deeply personal spaces and how they carry the most intimate elements of our inner worlds.
Bedrooms, Rooms Studio
Australian studios Volker Haug and Flack presented Me and You, a lighting collection born from an unexpected mishap: during a Flack installation, a vintage light broke and urgently needed to be replaced. The aesthetic language for Me and You naturally unfolded, showcasing Flack’s artful signature blend of interior and industrial design.
Zürich-based, British designer Grace Prince presented Attentive Still, a series of four new glass and hammered works that explore balance and structure, developed during her Numeroventi artist residency in Florence.
Me and You, Volker Haug and Flack
Attentive Still, Grace Prince
For their first Salone, NYC gallery VERSO’s showcase highlighted the fusion of traditional craftsmanship and cutting-edge design from Palma and Bravo studios, reflecting the cultural identities and material use of Brazil and Chile.
VERSO Gallery Showcase
Montréal lighting studio Lambert & Fils teamed up with Milanese designers from DWA Design Studio to present the third iteration of Caffè Populaire, introducing their latest collection, ISLE, designed by Zoë Mowat, in conversation with UNICO, a series of vessels designed by DWA using recycled plastics from Pedrali. The garden bar concept invited guests to enjoy drinks served in Sophie Lou Jacobsen glassware and snacks by LA-based food art studio, Ananas Ananas.
Barcelona gallery VASTO presented sisters Anna and Maria Ritsch's Cup Holder, a photograph from their ‘Dissolving Series’ which transforms 3D printed objects into abstract photographic compositions, alongside a curated collection of functional collectibles and avant-garde stonework by emerging designers, at the newly enhanced Marimar Club.
Caffè Populaire, Lambert & Fils and DWA Design Studio
Cup Holder, VASTO Gallery
5VIE presented Omi Iyọ, a powerful installation by Nigerian designer Nifemi Marcus-Bello, curated by Design Miami Editor-in-Chief, Anna Carnick. The polished stainless steel piece, resembling a boat's hull, symbolizes the perilous journeys of undocumented migrants from Africa to Europe. Reflecting on human impact, the installation, filled with salt flowing to form patterns below, honors the memory of those lost and emphasizes our interconnectedness amidst Italy's significant geopolitical role in migration debates.
Itinerant organization CONTRIBUTIONS Design presented Passaggi, a collaborative installation bringing together the voices of designer Sophie Lou Jacobsen, art director Giulia Nardi of COSE Journal and photographer Adrianna Glaviano. Presented at Spazio Martin, Passaggi explored the emotive powers of domestic objects.
Omi Iyọ, Nifemi Marcus-Bello and 5VIE
Passaggi, CONTRIBUTIONS Design
Milanese giants cc-tapis and Tacchini unveiled the Rude Arts Club, introducing British trailblazer Faye Toogood and Tacchini’s first collaborative furniture collection and the third installment of Toogood's handmade rugs with cc-tapis. The exhibition transformed unique rooms with tactile lights, plush fabric-clad walls, and sculptural furniture, blending wit and style.
FormaFantasma’s La Casa Dentro at Fondazione ICA presented a selection of new works exploring the home as both a physical space and a nexus of personal identity and collective memory. A Salone favorite, the exhibition blended rationalist design elements with sentimental and decorative features inspired by childhood memories.
Rude Arts Club, cc-tapis and Tacchini
La Casa Dentro, FormaFantasma
New York
Nick Ozemba and Felicia Hung — the dynamic duo behind Brooklyn-based design studio In Common With — celebrated the much anticipated opening of Quarters, an expansive 8,000-square-foot space designed like a well-appointed home where everything — furniture, lighting, art, and even pantry provisions — is shoppable. The opening night was the talk of the town, with the space being christened with late-night dancing and drag performances, rightly so.
Sight Unseen’s co-founder Monica Khemsurov launched Petra, an online collection of artistic hardware by leading designers at Blue Green Works’ Chinatown showroom. Featuring handmade fixtures by over thirty contributors from around the world, Petra includes exclusive pieces from metal pulls by Chris Wolston to BD Barcelona’s licensed reproductions of Salvador Dalí’s elaborate 1937 ‘Rinoceróntico’ door handle. The design week showcase also included ten cabinets and consoles by ten designers commissioned for the occasion by Khemsurov and Sight Unseen's second half, Jill Singer, including Steven Bukowski, Rest Energy and Studio POA.
Quarters, In Common With. Photography by Hunter Abrams.
Petra, Sight Unseen and Blue Green Works. Photography by Pippa Drummond.
Seoul-born, New York-based designer Minjae Kim presented Arbiters Corner under the sculptural canopy of the Gallery at Ace Hotel Brooklyn. This exhibition marked the final chapter of the year-long A!R partnership between Ace Hotel and multidisciplinary studio FORT MAKERS, and featured Kim’s work conceptualized during his month-long stay at the hotel. The central artwork depicted a chess game in progress, exploring themes of accessibility and conflict.
Spanning lighting, decorative objects and furniture, A Year Without a Kiln — Simone Bodmer-Turner’s latest solo exhibition at Emma Scully Gallery — was a marker in a year when the artist moved her life and practice from an apartment and studio in Brooklyn to a farmhouse and orchard in Massachusetts. During this time, Bodmer-Turner didn’t have access to her kiln, the primary tool behind her clay creations, and with this absence, she was presented with the opportunity to introduce different materials into her practice.
Arbiters Corner, Minjae Kim. Photography by Sean Davidson.
A Year Without a Kiln, Simone Bodmer-Turner. Photography by Dani Case.
Chinatown duo Sunfish unveiled their spring collection at founders Julia Eshaghpour and Kevin Hollidge’s own home. For this new series, the couple drew influence from techniques and design movements across time and place, teasing at the Art Deco trend with shino-glaze and handcrafted tile-clad tables, and wood-framed screens with hand painted depictions of birds.
David Michon’s excellent weekly décor substack FOR SCALE celebrated its first URL to IRL moment with the publication of an inaugural print newspaper at Colbo. The event coincided with Glamor Butch, an eclectic collection of objects from NYC artists and makers, selected by Michon’s discerning eye.
Spring Collection, Sunfish. Photography by Lucia Bell-Epstein.
FOR SCALE, David Michon. Photography by Jason Lê.
SuperHouse's The Odd Couple (on view through August 17), focuses on American art furniture over the past four decades, showcasing the diverse tendencies, philosophies, and narratives of transgenerational American artists. Highlights include historical pieces from the functional art and studio craft movements, as well as contemporary works demonstrating the lasting legacies of conceptual rigor and expert craftsmanship from artists like Pippa Garner, Dan Friedman, Michele Oka Doner, and Kim Mupangilai.
The annual group showcase Jonald Dudd made its return to NYCxDesign, this time curated by Charles Constantine, co-founder and creative director of Bestcase. Held at the former sex shop Contact Sports, the exhibition, titled Forbidden Fruit, offered a freeform exploration of furniture making, highlighting the work of 30 designers and studios.
The Odd Couple, SuperHouse. Photography by Luis Corzo.
Forbidden Fruit, Jonald Dudd. Photography by Matthew Gordon.
For their design week debut, artist duo Wretched Flowers presented Artifact V.2, their second collection of lighting and decorative objects inspired by historical objects from museum archives. Highlights included the revival of Tramp Art modernized using laser-cut stainless steel, and a tubular chainmail floor lamp with optional cast-pewter stars traditionally found on Amish quilts.
LA’s beloved Marta Gallery made their NADA debut with Correspondence / Coexistence, putting in conversation artists Myoung-Ae Lee, from South Korea, and Isabel Rower, based out of NYC. The dual showcase emphasized generational lineage and the evolving zeitgeist, with Lee's typology-defying canvases and Rower's ceramic works that playfully mimic cardboard structures.
Artifact V.2, Wretched Flowers. Photography by Wretched Flowers.
Correspondence / Coexistence, Marta Gallery. Photography by Sean Davidson.
Lindsey Adelman has long followed the porous border between art and design. A Realm of Light, presented at TIWA Gallery, displayed a constellation of oil lamps — some hanging and others sitting on surfaces — transforming the space into a warm, meditative landscape adorned with hand-stitched hanging panels by textile artist and La Réunion founder, Sarah Nsikak.
For the second consecutive year, West Village gallery Demisch Danant shone a light on Noé Duchaufour-Lawrance. The Lisbon-based French designer — a rare contemporary amongst the gallery’s roster of historical greats — showcased a selection of works from Made in Situ, a studio project that advocates for a practice rooted in a specific territory, exploring its materials, artisans, craftsmanship and cultural vernacular.
A Realm of Light, Lindsey Adelman. Photography by Brian Ferry.
Made in Situ, Demisch Danant. Photography by Lucas Creighton.
Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery’s A Room is an Archive of Touch, on view through July 20, is an intimate exploration of memory and domesticity, inspired by Lisa Robertson's essay "Atget's Interiors." The exhibition, featuring meticulous textile pieces by Grace Atkinson, pinched clay ceramics by Jennefer Hoffmann, and kiln-formed cast glass (known as pâte de verre) sconces Natalie Weinberger, highlights how the cadence of habit in rooms and objects creates an archive of the past through gestures and intuition, reflecting both the beauty and pain of remembering.
In industry jargon, “time and materials” is a means of telling the story of a finished piece. To honor the design process, Sarah Zames and Colin Stief — of interiors studio General Assembly — asked ten designers to create a piece of furniture or decor with that notion in mind. On view at their Boerum Hill shop, Assembly Line, Time and Materials presented new works by the likes of Bowen Liu, Danny Kaplan, Fern, and Steven Bukowski.
A Room is an Archive of Touch, Jacqueline Sullivan Gallery. Photography by William Jess Laird.
Time and Materials, General Assembly. Photography by Brian Ferry.
Copenhagen
With A Thousand Moons, Danish-Egyptian architect Salem Charabi introduced a body of work developed over the past two years for a single commission, a private residence in California. Before sending them on a transatlantic journey, Charabi enlisted his dear friend and collaborator, art director Owen Dodd, to orchestrate a public viewing and celebration. The thirty-eight pieces of furniture stood proudly atop their respective shipping crates, marking their final moments in the workshop where they were crafted.
Danish textiles brand Tekla in collaboration with Finnish furniture manufacturer Artek debuted a textile collection, celebrating architect, designer and Artek co-founder Aino Aalto, commemorating her 130th birthday. Adorned with Alto’s iconic Kirsikankukka, or cherry blossom, pattern which she created as an homage to Japanese art and design, the collection honors "the beauty of the every day".
With A Thousand Moons, Salem Charabi
Tekla and Artek Textile Collection
Milan-based designer Natalia Criado showcased a selection from her surrealist, jewelry-like tableware collection in RESILIENCE, a group show exploring the enduring flexibility, reliability and strength of wood, metal and concrete, alongside Danish architect designer Danielle Siggerud, artist Susanne Storm at rug studio Knothouse’s showroom.
Serbian-born and Paris-based artist and designer Ana Kraš celebrated the launch of her objects brand, Teget. After years spent responding to project briefs, Kraš is now able to give her vision full freedom, letting go of any commercial constraints. In conjunction with the showcase of Teget’s first collection, Static Noise, Kraš also presented a capsule collection of mesh garments with her longtime collaborators from Danish fashion brand, Saks Potts.
RESILIENCE, Natalia Criado, Danielle Siggerud, and Susanne Storm
Static Noise, Teget by Ana Kraš
Exploring the intersection of art, design and food, FRAMA and Faye Toogood came together for the first time with COLLAGE, an amplified view of one of our most human experiences: sharing a meal. Toogood’s spatial intervention in FRAMA’s Copenhagen HQ brought color and extreme proportions into the historic 1878 building, inviting visitors to dine throughout the space amidst playful tactile sculptures.
With Shaping the Future, Carl Hansen & Søn — the third-generation family-run company and warrants of Scandinavian design — presented new lighting and furniture launches by Børge Mogensen, Kaare Klint, Rikke Frost, Vilhelm Lauritzen and Henning Koppel while celebrating the 110th anniversary of Hans J. Wegner. The showstopper was the reedition of Kaare Klint’s Spherical Bed, a masterpiece originally introduced in 1938 at the Cabinetmakers' Autumn exhibition, under the title A Lady’s Boudoir.
COLLAGE, FRAMA and Faye Toogood
Shaping the Future, Carl Hansen & Søn
Emerson Bailey, the design and antiques gallery based out of Bozeman, Montana and Kullabygden, Sweden debuted Centuries, an exhibition of Scandinavian design from the 18th Century to present day. Alongside the antiques, the exhibition also highlighted contemporary pieces, such as lighting from Sekt, the first reproduction of the Folke Bensow table by Näfveqvarn, the Christianborg tap series by Toni Copenhagen and rugs by Cappelen Dimyr.
In collaboration with French-born and Mexico-based designer Fabien Cappello, known for his vibrant pattern combinations, Swedish design brand Hem launched the Toto lamps — joyful and covetable pieces bursting with color and light.
Centuries, Emerson Bailey
Toto Lamps, Hem and Fabien Cappello
St. Leo, the eco-friendly paint and plaster company, hosted a gourmand installation by NYC-based designer and art director Rafael Prieto in collaboration with local chocolate makers Svend Michelsen. Interpreting a passage from British astrophysicist Arthur Eddington’s book from 1928 The Nature of the Physical World, Prieto’s The Real and Concrete illustrated how substances – in this case chocolate – are viewed in our everyday experiences as the primary constituents of reality, characterized by tangible properties like form, color, resilience.
Local star Bonnie Hvillum’s Natural Material Studio debuted White Utopia, a milky-white installation embodying the studio’s core philosophy of adapting to a world in constant movement. For their most ambitious project to date, Natural Material Studio responded to the theme "Dare to Dream," taking over a full house on the island of Refshaleøen, and adapting their Procel bioplastic to form massive functioning furniture pieces across three separate rooms—a dining room, a lounge, and a bedroom with a walk-in wardrobe.
The Real and Concrete, Rafael Prieto and St. Leo
White Utopia, Bonnie Hvillum and Natural Material Studio
The warehouse, home to Sheerly Touch-Ya and Shisanwu LLC, are both headed by artist and Lunch Hour member Serena Chang—the former being her family’s first American enterprise upon migrating from Taiwan, the latter being her sculpture fabrication studio. On May 18th, within the context of these entities — charged by layered histories of artistic labor, material culture, fashion commerce, migration, and manufacturing technology — Means of Production opened the Sheerly Touch-Ya warehouse to the public for the first time in its history. The night of performances from a slew of artists, activists, and creatives was just the beginning of an ambitious eight-week exhibition run, which included an art workers’ town hall on June 8th, and an upcoming film program Out of Circulation organized by third Lunch Hour member Lily Jue Sheng on June 29th.
Behind an industrial metal door with vinyl lettering “SHIS NWU” (the “A” has fallen off), I slip into the Sheerly Touch-Ya warehouse on opening day, the entryway opening into a tiered industrial space full of palettes, plywood, pipes, and metal scaffolding. A thrilling slippage between what is an art object and what is warehouse environs sets in: is an open bag of sweeping compound a work of art? Maybe. The open book on a worktable, or the spectacles on a styrofoam block, with twigs for arms? Probably. Artworks tucked between boxes of hosiery, left unannounced on the concrete floor, or strung up on the rungs of industrial pallet shelves offer an invigorating disorientation.
Works in the show are not clearly demarcated from warehouse supplies — echoing the thesis of the project, which brings focus to the hazy lines between precarious and acknowledged, waged and unwaged labor. To this point, Linh explains, “Our subversive decision to present artworks in a warehouse, rather than a white cube or museum, challenges conventional notions of art and authority. It raises questions about what constitutes art and who has the power to define or value it. This setting infused our project with humor, playfulness, and a sense of freedom — elements that artists and art workers rarely experience today.”
Around 5pm, a group of performance artists begin to wander the entry room with intention, winding small handheld radios while an audience gathers. Performer and choreographer Anh Vo’s Common Fetish calls on a wide list of citations including “Vietnamese possession rituals, Communist propaganda, Nicki Minaj, Jacques Derrida, Christina Sharpe, Thich Nhat Hanh,” among others. At times evocative of a Buddhist chant, a Catholic prayer, a rodeo speech, or a pledge of allegiance, the performers Anh Vo, Kristel Baldoz, Kris Lee, and Nile Harris engage in a call and response. “I am a hole for you to penetrate,” they speak in unison while transitioning from floating independently to a ritual circle. As the procession of performers and audience members trickle deeper into the warehouse, down a dark aisle of boxed stockings, Ethan Philbrick plays the cello in deep bellows and sharp picks. Some clothes are removed and the script becomes darker. Movements become less rhythmic, more rattling, more haunted. The push and pull of performers and bodies, in both possession and dispossession, signals to the interpenetrating nature of the sexual, the spiritual, the psychic, the political, and the somatic all at once.
Artist and writer Amy Ching-Yan Lam then begins a live reading of seven large printed posters lining a hallway near the warehouse entrance, with words based on conversations she has had over the past seven months with herself and others. Equipped with a laser pointer and microphone, Lam reads off “Top 20 reasons why I’m not withdrawing my work or participating in a boycott against Israel or other corporations, organizations, or states that are complicit in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians” in a biting, flat delivery, one of the stated “reasons” being “WHY ARE YOU ATTACKING ME?” Shooting through bullet points, Lam ends on the posters, “Top reasons why I let these beliefs poison my solidarity with Palestinians,” the only reason listed: “I don’t know.” “Top reasons why I don’t know” — “There’s no good reason.” It feels like an apt answer to many contemporary questions we are mulling over.
Deeper within the warehouse, Erik Nilson activates his work Oothecean Stanchion by climbing on top of the pallet shelving unit housing his textured, all-white tableaux of wood, plaster, stuffed stockings, and HDPE shavings. Descending into the work, Nilson begins pulling a chain rig, hoisting a large section of a tree upwards, breaking apart from the chalky installation. Nilson tinkers with piezoelectric microphones, amplifying the clinking and clanking of chains into a feedback of electronic drone, punctuated by the wailing of a small amp on the other side of the unit. He mans a drill augmented with a white branch, twirling and kicking up shavings, finally mixing concrete and water into the mold of a white tree stump. As a sculptor and fabricator, Nilson’s performance echoes his professional work, laying bare the residues of material transformation.
In the back of the warehouse, artist vinacringe enters nude, standing behind stockings stretched across the metal scaffolding of a pallet shelf. A high pitch soundscape falls to a low pulsing hum, transitioning to a breathy narration as vinacringe ties stockings taut across their body. “You have gifted me a wound in the shape of the world,” the audio whispers. In a frantic catharsis, they cut through the stockings on them and the scaffold with a large knife, and on their knees, they send out a yell to release themselves from the performance.
Finally the crowd makes its way to Tianyi Sun’s work Dream Skin (Sheerly) consisting of reclaimed windows from the warehouse, referencing Chinese folding screens (or pingfeng), collaged with Sheerly packaging and hosiery. In a site-specific reading, Sun reflects on stages of production, the working body, and the hidden nature of creative labor, peppered with Mandarin.
Tianyi Sun, Dream Skin (Sheerly), 2024, photography by Tallulah Schwartz
With the conclusion of the performances, we free-wander the dark alleys of pantyhose boxes, soaking in the sense of discovery. The works, too many to name, each address the show’s themes in subtle or oblique ways. Tra My Nguyen’s diaphanous textile-silicone figures, collaged with Sheerly tights, converging realms. silicone dreams, reference histories of Asian garment manufacturing, and especially forms of labor exploitation therein. Especially considering Balenciaga’s recent plagiarism of their master’s thesis, Nguyen’s suspended sculptures summon issues of authorship and the appropriation of creative labor, especially that of BIPOC artists and designers, as well as the opacity of foreign manufacturing to American consumers writ large.
Serena articulates this intersection well: “Means of Production for me, was to engage the conversation around labor. How labor is often deflected onto others (intentionally or not) within our capitalist society. In the setting of the hosiery warehouse and sculpture fabrication, the opposing worlds of mass production and unique sculpture fabrication is the ideal setting to address this conversation. In this age of globalization where labor is hidden and objects can be ordered and delivered the next day, our collective understanding of labor has become so obscured.”
Most crucially, Means of Production offers a refreshing model for exhibition organizing and curatorial method. Really, you could call it a non-framework — built around site-specificity and free-form engagement with it, full creative agency, collective organizing, and a generosity of resources. Every artist who applied to the open call, Lunch Hour tells me, was accepted. The show’s loose concept — applicable to all — allowed for multifarious interpretations. The curators’ and Shisanwu’s volunteer effort fundraising from the public as well as their pocket money largely made the project possible. In Lily's own words, "...so much [funding] is tied up with weapons manufacturers, the non-profit industrial complex, predatory real estate, the state, and mega corporations. It made sense to experiment by self-organizing collectively and in a big way, since that’s how labor power is organized, right?"
The biennial-scale Means of Production ironically feels minimally produced, which is perhaps entirely in line with its mission. In the time of W.A.G.E. for cultural work and growing consciousness of the tentacular ways in which racial capitalism constitutes our contemporary world, the project’s unstructured nature seems perhaps the most congruous response to such questions: in a contemporary capitalist work-relation, how does immaterial labor become economized? How does art and the self become commodified? Are these actually the same question, repackaged?
