Daria Plesen is Breaking the Mold

December 16, 2021

Mold is a marker of time. To most, a symbol of neglect and deterioration, the unwelcome sights (and smells) of white spots on a loaf of bread or the small squishy center of an old orange are eerie reminders that life continues without our watchful eye. To artist Daria Plesen, mold is an expression of the very moments, feelings, and unspoken truths which make life move too fast.

In a time marked by pandemic, there is something deeply resonant about Plesen’s work. Air particles are pathologized, human life siloed, and a new fascination emerges around the macabre. There is a simple beauty in the visceral qualities of life, the often unruly, unpleasant realities of the lives we lead behind the sterile hues of our screens. It feels as though we’re trying to catalog an ineffable experience of a time that has passed its “golden moment” and grows slowly into decay.

Text by Kenna McCafferty, Kayla Curtis-Evans and Maya Pontone
Interview by Kenna McCafferty and Kayla Curtis-Evans
Photos by Daria Plesen and Záur Tedeev

Plesen documents her life without words, using spore samples and nutrient blends to do the speaking for her. Under Plesen’s careful, but never controlling hand, spores grow into complex and colorful masterpieces, which she photographs using Canon Powershot, iPhone, or oculars from medical microscopes. Immortalizing the greatest expression of each organism’s life, before its rapid decomposition⁠—Plesen’s creations become a microcosm for moments in her own life and growth.

Still emerging in the field of bio-art, Plesen creates conceptual pieces in addition to her ongoing catalog of mold masterpieces. Looking to expand her repertoire, and toy with her relationship with time, Plesen hopes to cross over to fashion and product design with dream partners to explore the relationship of living organisms on the living body.

Learn more about Plesen’s growth in the interview below.

How did you get into such a unique form of art?

From my early childhood, I was dreaming about medicine and all kinds of sciences. I was really into surgical operations and body-related things. My grandmother was an ophthalmologist, so she did operations on eyes, and I read a lot of her books and encyclopedias when I was a child. I think that this passion brings me to this area. I visited the British High School of Art and Design and understood that that place was the place where I should be. So when I was in a foundation course, we were asked a question⁠— to think about how we could manage our art practice and what to do next. I was just sitting at my table relaxing and kind of meditating. I had this realization, I just accidentally got it from somewhere from above.

It's very esoteric, but when you're relaxing and letting your mind float and understanding the moment, then all of your questions turn into answers. Those days, I was thinking about microbiological mapping. So I was interested in seeing things that occur during the day, starting in the early morning. For example, I get up, I touch my phone, the toilet, things in the kitchen⁠—I was interested in this cyclicality of daily things and daily life. It's all about the living processes involved in these things. Is something decomposing as an end? Or is decomposing the beginning? This is one of the most important questions I am trying to answer, in a battle with an artificial world and fake things when you don't know what you're looking at. Like, maybe all my art is in Photoshop. This illusion is very powerful.

So what’s your relationship between the artificial and organic, as someone whose work is to manufacture living entities to look a certain way?

We talked about how I used to dream of all different fields of science. I learned a lot about different projects involving genetically modified people, and so on. I began dreaming that all these dishes⁠—they're like humans. I mean, I work with them as with people, to be honest, and I treat them like my friends. And I talk to them. It sounds very extraordinary, but it's true. Because I feel this kind of love for how they grow and how they appear. I'm very upset when I understand that they are starting to die, and I need to capture them as fast as I can because they change every minute. So I have kind of a golden time period. It depends on timing and on visuals. The dish should have a transparent part⁠— like clear agar⁠— contrast colors, different textures, and different periods of spore-making. When it's ready to give spores, it starts to become more black. So when I look at a dish, I am already envisioning this in my head and thinking 'This is the image I want to capture.' Two hours or three hours later, this composition will change. It will change the day after. I would draw a parallel with human growth.

How does your growth mirror the growth of your organisms?

It's very connected with my psychological state. For example, I'm into transcendental meditation therapy. So when I'm in an angry state, I see all these dishes and think 'What the fuck am I doing? This is ugly; this is the wrong composition and I don't like it.' But returning to my good state, and then opening this dish, I don't see it as being as bad. It is like communicating with people when you're in an angry state⁠—you just can't communicate effectively.

How do you communicate through your work?

I have a lot of secret messages inside my works. I work with my art as if each organism is a person and I see the world with colors, auras, vibrations, and emotions. This is how I can visualize the things that we cannot see. I try to engrave into my work a certain essence or feelings. And somehow, people feel this vibe. Maybe through their third eye. I mean, there are a lot of things that science can't explain.

Do you feel more aligned with the artistic or scientific practice of your work?

I want to keep it within this art field. Yes, it's a microbiological practice. But it's a remade version of this activity. This is satiric rethinking of old masters, like old oil paintings, and Renaissance art. Because I look at those images and all these textures and colors, and I see the drama, and romance, and heaviness. So for me, it's a real study. Also, the thing is that we know that all these old oil paintings, they could be stored forever, and they are restored. This is like another version of doing art. It can't be replicated. It can't be repeated. Because it's dying. It's like a memory. You can't physically return to days or moments, but you have photographs and these are the only things you can use when you want to return to those emotions and those feelings.

The feeling of love – what colors, what textures does that conjure for you?

It's yellow-ish and pink-ish. A bit of dark spores and dark green and light green, as well as a bit of blue gradient. And it's in a square crop.

When it's in a circle, it's limited and I understand it. And when it's in a square, we can make the audience confused. Maybe something more is going on. When you see borders, there is an end. And when you see no borders, you can imagine that there is no end.

What have you come to understand about yourself through your work?

I've learned that there are no things which can't be fixed. I'm very emotional. And I'm very flexible. And I'm very fragile. And I'm very active, and at the same time, passive. The most important thing I've learned is that I can love things. I can love everything with all my heart. And I can create art with my heart.

Are there any feelings or sentiments you hope people come to understand through your work?

We are all trying to wear different roles and masks. You're contacting with some people and you're taking little particles from that. You're walking around and collecting these things. This is why we need to be different, to collect all these things. There's this phrase I really like: 'We are different and that is our power.'

How do you collect your different spores and nutrients?

Sometimes it's manmade, sometimes it's already made. And spores are just from everywhere. I mean, from the air and from the body. I can take a dish and dance with it, and while I'm moving, all the spores, they will glue onto this dish, and it will be the visual representation of my dancing. And this can create a moment in time, and condition of humidity, and amount of the spores in the air. And if I open the window, this composition of spores will change because the air will flow and bring more spores. It's a big philosophy.

Do you feel like the pandemic has altered your work, in terms of recognizing the bacteria and particles in the air?

Actually, the microbiome has changed from when I was collecting samples from the air, for example, four years ago. Now, the only thing I can see is black mold, and I have no idea why. Four years ago, it was more variable. If I left my dish near an open window, there would be 10 different species. If I leave it now, it will be just two or three. So the variety of this difference is another concern affecting my work.

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November 15, 2024

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

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

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

By Enzo Holdt
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Tiebreaker - Alvin Armstrong

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

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

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

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

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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.