I See Myself in You

May 18, 2023

Maia Cruz Palileo has always possessed artistic drive, but it wasn’t until diving into their heritage that they became interested in using art and expression to reveal certain necessary truths. The truth regarding their upbringing, spirituality, and all of the rich Filipino history that has shaped culture as we know it today.

Parsing through old family photographs and archival Filipino records was the inception point of Cruz’s craft, and has now led to a constantly evolving and growing body of work through which audiences from all walks of life can relate, connect, and most importantly: learn. Cruz’s paintings and sculptures provide information of a culture that has been repeatedly rewritten and often erased. They also spur an innate sense of connectedness — through Cruz’s works, we are all represented.

Interview by Kayla Curtis-Evans
Photos Courtesy of Monique Meloche Gallery

office stopped by Cruz’s studio to talk about inspiration, their identity, and how all of this manifests into an explosion of color on their canvasses. Cruz’s current exhibition Days Later, Down River is now showing at Monique Meloche Gallery.

As your work is heavily rooted in your Filipino identity, what are some aspects of your heritage or upbringing that you aim to share with your audiences — perhaps intricacies that the general public does not know about your culture?

I try not to think about what people will think of the work, but some of the things that I find exciting when I'm making the work — and I hope that comes through in the work — are some of the more spiritual things that I'm learning about these days. I think now that I know the history, which took me a little while to learn, I'm starting to learn deeper concepts. I have a mentor who's like my auntie. She lives in Queens and teaches me about Filipino spirituality. She's the best. There's this idea I always reference that means 'I see myself in you' or 'I see myself in the other,' so we really have this shared connection. Sometimes going through the archives feels really intense. So I think having that kind of protection is special. There were all these stories when I was growing up about magical amulets and how they would protect you. I just love those kind of stories.

I have an altar in my studio as well. This is a talisman that my auntie gave me called a "kamay" plant, and kamay means hand. I think there's something deeper than what we have been taught — at least for me, about my culture. A lot of those stories have been somewhat buried or attempted to be erased. So for me, that's what I feel like these paintings uncover in the process of looking at these images and in the process of talking to other people who have experiences from these locations. In the artistic process and the painting process, I don't quite know where it's going to go, but when it goes from a photograph to a painting or to a sculpture, something changes. Something becomes revealed and I don't know if I can verbalize what that is, but I think it's special.

I think there's something really interesting that you touched on. You discuss how these ideologies and spiritualist thinking are things that you weren't super immersed in until you started doing this research and going through the archives. And then I have to imagine that there are a lot of other people who aren't super familiar with that history and these backstories. It's really interesting to see your work and to see that it is so deeply inspired by these archival photos, but then you are also marrying it with colors that are so vibrant. It's meshing this world with that spiritual world that you talk about. And you're adding information to these old photos that we don't get from just looking at them. What originally sparked your interest in the visual arts in general?

I got into art through photography. I took a black-and-white photography class in high school and my dad gave me a camera. He was into photography when he was younger so I picked it up as well. I had a pretty awesome photo teacher — Mr. Mantis. Learning from him was the first time that it blew my mind to look at a photograph. At first, you're like, 'Oh yeah, it's three dudes.' But then the longer we looked and talked about it, all of this background suddenly appeared. It was actually a photo about the notion of exclusivity. So just looking at an image and then deriving meaning that's so much deeper than what you're met with at first sight — that really got me into what I do now.

I know that family is a big influence of yours, but in what other ways do you feel like they inform the work that you do every day?

The reason I became interested in family photographs was because I lost my mom when I was a teenager. So it really came from a place of grief and longing. And sadness and curiosity. I was so young when she died that I literally was just curious about who she was, where she grew up, and what her life was like. She wasn't there to tell me anymore so that sparked my initial interest in the family archive. But the person who was still around was my grandma — my dad's mom. I was interested in memory and the possibility of recreating a memory. So that was kind of how I became immersed in the family archive and talking to my grandma. I asked her so many questions — why did they come? What was it like when you first got here? So I really just had a curiosity about what their experiences were like moving from the Philippines to the middle of America in Ohio.

I do it for my family. I recently heard this person speak who was a first-generation child of immigrants and he was saying that in his family, there were a lot of creative people but they didn't pursue it or they weren't able to do so professionally. And I feel like my interests are also related to that, you know? I've been able to study art and that means a lot to me. I had a painting in the Smithsonian at the National Portrait Gallery, and it was of my grandma. And I was like, 'Dude, Lola's in the Smithsonian!' At first, it didn't really hit me, but then when I went to go see it, I was like, 'Oh, this is about them.' It's not about me as an artist, but it was about this little old lady who lived in the middle of Ohio, volunteered at her church, and made a life for her family. And then she got to be in the American Portrait Gallery. It started to make me think, 'Wait, are we an American story? What does that even mean?' But it was definitely a moment where I felt the bigger picture.

It's a beautiful moment and you get to share it with them. Whenever I talk to artists, there's this recurring talking point of how creatively fulfilling it is to be able to do this as your job. But I think it goes one step further when you get to share it with someone.

I just thought that I was going to be making paintings of my great aunties on their farm in the Philippines forever, and no one was gonna care. That question kept coming up when I first started working with this subject matter. I kept thinking, 'Who's gonna care about this?' It's so personal that I didn't think anyone would care. Which is a sad thought, but, really, it was the refrain all the time. And then I was like, 'You know what? This is what I'm interested in. This is what I'm going to make paintings about. And if I never show anything and people never see it, then I'm happy in my studio painting my great aunties.’ But now, that's different. I don't have that refrain anymore because so many people, Filipino or not, are like, 'Oh, this reminds me of my family.' I had a good friend who told me, 'You're doing the ancestors well.' And I didn't really grow up in the Philippines, but this is where I ended up.

That personal element is what made me so enamored with your work. It's interesting that that was the one thing that you were unsure of because that is the exact reason why I was intrigued. We talked about the way that your family informs your work. In what other ways do you feel your own identity manifests in your work? Or is that something that you step back and choose to withhold in your artistry? Looking at your work now, in person, it seems like you don't aim to insert yourself into the works. Are you just the messenger?

I very much feel like I'm the messenger here. It's a funny question about identity because I feel like as an artist, I ask whatever higher power there is or the bigger picture what wants to be seen or who wants to be painted. I'll literally be like, 'Okay, what do you want me to do today?' I feel like if I'm in it at all, it's my hand and the way that I construct things or choose colors. I'm there in the way that I make figures. So I guess in terms of identity, it's like, yeah, you could identify that this is one of my paintings or sculptures. But beyond that, I don't know. I think that's enough of me in there.

Which is super valid. A lot of artists just want to be the vessel that's bringing these things forth. On the note of color and figure, there's a kind of surrealist, magical element to a lot of your works. Why do you make the color — or even technical — choices that you do?

Color is the best. Sometimes with the big paintings, I'll literally start with a color palette. I think about color as a way to create space. So a lot of the choices that I'm making are to orient the viewer. You can use color to make the space seem like it's receding, or vice versa. And then color combinations enhance the way that that space is working. But as you can see, I work on black paper. It's actually a tan-colored paper, but I use a black gesso instead of a white gesso to start with. So it kind of allows the colors to sit on the paper in a different way. And I think part of that choice is maybe that the material that I'm working with comes from a dark and violent past. A lot of the photos I reference call to notions of colonialism. But then I also think about alluding to different realms. So the colors in a different realm might look different than the way we see color here. I always think about that scene in “Black Panther” where we meet the ancestors and they see colors in a totally different way.

I love that. Through your work, you have learned so much about your culture. But through this use of color and space, you kind of revitalize these scenes in a more contemporary and alluring way. Why do you think it's important to both preserve your cultural heritage, but also present it in this novel way for people who may not be as familiar with the historical references?

I was mentored by the late painter, Denyse Thomasos, who was a very amazing artist. She was an incredible painter but she was a conceptual artist as well. So the paintings weren't just expressive marks, she also did so much research. And it's evident in the work, you know? So I was taught to be an artist that is research-based. She told me, 'You need to become the expert on your work.' I guess what I'm trying to say is the work has to be based in something, and for me, that takes me spending weeks looking through empirical information. It can be very damaging, but also very joyful. Many of the spaces that house these artifacts or these objects are incredible. If I hadn't spent time in those places, I wouldn't have learned what I've learned. And I think being in those spaces, it does something to your body. I definitely feel like a different person after spending time there.

But at the same time, it has allowed me to connect with these objects and it's allowed me to touch them and to transfer energy. Sometimes there are objects that are in those archives that have retained their power through opacity. And that's something that I think about a lot too — we can't know it all. It's a very Western thing, to think that we have to know everything. So for me, it's important to do the research and have those grounding experiences, but at the end of the day, I don't have all the answers and I am exploring these concepts in the same way my audiences may be too. But in terms of presenting my work this way, it's about bridging my upbringing, the oral histories, and my knowledge of our culture. I can't say that I'm an expert on any of that stuff, but presenting it in this way is an opportunity for conversation or for shared knowledge to come up.

The current exhibition is titled Days Later, Down River. What does that title signify to you and why did you choose to label it in that way?

For me, titles are always the last thing that happens. I see the form of the show and then that usually helps me to think of titles. But I do make lists of things when I'm reading and I see something. A lot of the titles come from a special letter that my grandma wrote for me or poems that I've read and short stories. Days Later, Down River is kind of dark and actually came from an article I read about a mountain that somebody died on and they found the body days later, down river. I tend to choose titles that have a pretty open-ended or diverse meaning. It just seemed to kind of work with the show. I find that ambiguity really beautiful.

The hero piece of the exhibit is a traditional “banig” loaned to you by the University of Michigan, which is home to the largest collection of colonial artifacts from the Philippines in the world. Why was it important to you to include this object in your show and how do you hope audiences understand it in relation to your paintings?

I'll admit that that front room was a wild card. I knew that I wanted to do some kind of installation in there. I think my intention in bringing the banig into the show was literally to take a piece from the archive out and bring it into a new context. I think about my sculptures as guardians of the banig. I think a lot of people didn't even realize what they were looking at. So I thought hopefully that would spark some curiosity. And I also just think that the object itself has a lot of its own innate energy and presence. So I just wanted to give that a spotlight because when we were looking at a lot of the objects in the space where they're housed, it felt very clinical. That banig, in particular, had been folded for who knows how long and it took three of us to unfold it. The care that was going into all of these archival objects was very moving to me. I was thinking about it as an object to facilitate connection or gathering. It was a way to pay respect to the people who these items were taken from.

I feel that your work will continue to inform itself and the more you learn about your ancestral history, that will add another element to all of it as well. But how do you hope that your work evolves over time as your research does?

I like that question. It reminds me of another mentor of mine who taught me about how to dream. They would say, 'Just close your eyes and think about what you want in five years.' Honestly, I hope my work looks different in five years. I love when I'm surprised by my work and that only happens in the process of showing up every day and doing something new each day. And I hope that my work is surprising to other people. I really hope that it changes because that's so exciting to me. Being lost was the guiding force for this work.

Paintings in Descending Order: The Sleeping Mountain (Cover), Days Later, Down River, It Was Said They Could See Each Others Memories

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.