At right: Laurie Anderson, “Frame,” 2000.
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

The year 2026 marks the 250th anniversary of the U.S. Declaration of Independence, and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is a particularly special place. It is, after all, where the document severing the country’s ties to Great Britain was signed. Cultural institutions are marking this event with special exhibitions and programming, each in a unique way. The Fabric Workshop and Museum (FWM) has done so through its exhibition titled Some American Dreams.

Some American Dreams features 27 pieces by 20 artists in a variety of media. Working in furniture, sculpture, textiles, clothing, video, and photography, the pieces in the show span four decades of making at FWM. That’s right—making. The institution operates differently from many other places, as the contemporary art museum is devoted to both creating and preserving works of art. It has an Artist-in-Residence Program that supports creatives at all stages of their career, allowing them to collaborate with FWM on new materials and media. It helps push their work forward, giving them the time and space to properly do so.

Now on view until June 14, 2026, Some American Dreams contains works by artists completed while in residence at FWM. Hilde Nelson, FWM curatorial fellow, looked through the collection to build out the show, ultimately proposing the question of, “What if ‘America’ is not one project, but many?” And, in doing so, how might these Americas be “affirmed, resisted, or remade?”

My Modern Met had the opportunity to speak with Nelson about curating the show and what visitors can expect to see—especially in the dialogue happening between the works, which sometimes are at odds with one another.

Scroll down to read our exclusive interview, which has been edited for length and clarity.

Garments from left to right: Rev. Howard Finster, “George Washington Meets Martha Custis,” 1984; James Luna, “High Tech War Shirt,” 1997–1998; Hock E Aye Vi Edgar Heap of Birds, “Who Owns History,” 1992.
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

What’s your background, and how did you become associated with The Fabric Workshop and Museum?

I am currently the curatorial fellow here at the Fabric Workshop. At the same time, I’m a PhD candidate in the History of Art at Bryn Mawr College. My academic work focuses mostly on contemporary time-based media, especially film and video, and my dissertation will be about feminist film and video. But before that, I worked as the curatorial assistant for contemporary art at the Dallas Museum of Art, where I curated the first solo museum exhibition of the painter Naudline Pierre.

Before that, I got my master’s at Williams College in the history of art, and I also did some curatorial work and curated a show at the Williams College Museum of Art. I’ve had experience working in institutions, both tiny and giant. But this is my first institution that has had a studio component and is fundamentally based on the studio practice and artist residencies. So that’s been a real treat and shaped how I approach the work.

The collection comprises long-term collaborations between the studio and the artists in residence. The curatorial process is not necessarily hugely different, but the kind of works that you have to work with has that really interesting sort of inception and development process.

From left: Hock E Aye Vi Edgar Heap of Birds, “Neuf Series #36” and “#38,” 1992; Becky Howland, “Toxicological Tablecloth,” 1984; and Rev. Howard Finster, “Road to Eternity,” 1984.
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

How did the concept for Some American Dreams come about?

None of the works in the show are new commissions. I was given the prompt to work with, like many institutions around Philadelphia, which are responding to the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. I was asked to look through our collection and think about how the Fabric Workshop might respond to meeting that historical moment. And so the works in the show, the oldest work is from 1983, and the newest work is from 2022, which, in some ways imperfectly, but almost sort of captured the breadth of the Fabric Workshop’s history.

The Fabric Workshop was founded in 1977, so works from the beginning up till now. And what I found really useful in thinking about this project is, rather than thinking about what constitutes American art—who is an American artist?—I came at it more from the perspective of how artists are thinking about questions of Americanness and the American project. And so in that way, I was very lucky because so much of this gets to be very artist-driven and the kinds of questions that they’re asking.

Because of the time period I had to look at, and the historical breadth, so many of the artists were thinking about major political moments in the United States, but also thinking about broader questions: how we talk about history and how we talk about memory. Several of the works from the 1990s, when you’re having the NEA wars and the 1993 Whitney Biennial, raise questions about how art addresses questions of gender and race.

In a lot of ways, I got a nice insight into thinking about how artists are considering these questions of nationhood, of belonging, of markers of identity, of the landscape in relationship to the environment. As I was going through our collection, I was less interested in thinking solely about how artists are incorporating aspects of responding to the founding fathers or things like that. There are works in the show that do that, and I think that’s an important component of the show. One of the first works you see is Donald Lipski’s giant American flag rendered in all white.

An important part of the exhibition is how artists are directly taking on and reworking these kinds of symbols. But in a lot of ways, I was also hoping to come at it a little more obliquely, and how artists are, in some ways, thinking beyond the boundaries and borders of the United States as a nation to think about how artists are interested in stories of the Americas that are far older than 250 years, or who are thinking about the Americas as a broader sort of geographical region.

I think the collection was able to provide that in these kinds of conversations with each other. Obviously, these artists are not necessarily having a moment of creation, but I think they speak to these preoccupations that come up over time. And that was what really led to the thematic idea of Some American Dreams.

Who’s an American? That’s not really the purview of the show. The show is to say that these things are always sort of in fractured tension with each other.

From left: Robert Pruitt, “Untitled Photographs,” 2011; Tim Rollins and K.O.S., “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (After Harriet Jacobs),” 1999.
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

From left: S.A. Bachman, “Are You Telling Yourself a Little White Lie?,” 1988; Donald Lipski, “Who’s Afraid of Red, White and Blue #37,” 1990.
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Where did the title come from?

I ran into the essay, Waking Up in the Middle of Some American Dreams by June Jordan. That essay really encapsulated a lot of the things I was kind of thinking about, looking at the collection, and wanting to prioritize ideas of collectivity and coalition against individualism. So I think in some ways, I found the perfect thing to bury with the ideas I was already having about, like, what is the chorus?

How can we bring in these many voices, who are sometimes in alignment and sometimes in contention? And how can that be a more productive or a more expansive way of thinking about Americanness and reckoning with what that project or projects are in this moment?

From left: Nicole Eisenman, “Gray Bar Hotel,” 2003; Renée Green, “Mise-en-Scène: Commemorative Toile,” 1992; Luis Jiménez, “Low Rider Backseat,” 1983; Betye Saar, “Takin’ a Chance on Luv,” 1984
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

From left: Nicole Eisenman, “Gray Bar Hotel,” 2003; Renée Green, “Mise-en-Scène: Commemorative Toile,” 1992; Luis Jiménez, “Low Rider Backseat,” 1983; Betye Saar, “Takin’ a Chance on Luv,” 1984
Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Are there some works in the show that you feel are opposed to one another?

Probably the most obvious one, or the one that I think comes up most frequently in some ways, is a group of shirts. One of the nice things about the Fabric Workshop is that, in the early days, to give you some context on the institution, the goal was to teach artists how to screen print on fabric. So do large repeat pattern yardages.

Since then, it’s expanded beyond that, and artists work in a number of different mediums. But textiles are kind of the bread and butter, obviously, with the fabric workshop. So what’s really great is that we have everything in the exhibition, from a duvet cover to a blanket to t-shirts. So there’s a grouping of three t-shirts that are suspended in the middle of the gallery.

I think it’s important to say, too, that this is not to say some artists have a good view or some have a bad view. I think if anything, it’s more about how these artists are thinking, sometimes about the same stories in very different ways. And to acknowledge the value that those stories have for the teller and for the receiver.

So, in that, I wanted to pair a shirt we have by Reverend Howard Finster, who was a self-taught artist, largely based in Georgia. His shirt is George Washington meets Martha Custis. It’s interesting and honestly kind of a confounding shirt in many ways, because it’s the representation of Martha Custis Washington, both as a young woman and an older woman, and in this sea of fantastic creatures, there’s this sort of unnamed man holding a Bible. It’s this strangely ecstatic image, but it’s also a kind of celebration. [Howard] made many works that feature George Washington. I believe his first work featured George Washington, who was kind of a personal hero for him. So, I think that work in many ways is like a celebration of this founding family, this sort of revolutionary love. On the other side of that, paired it with Edgar Heap of Birds’ Who Owns History?, which is a shirt that, on the front, lists a series of phrases that are drawn from a plaque marker that used to be at Fort Duquesne in Pittsburgh. It’s no longer there, but it celebrated the British General Forbes for instituting Anglo-Saxon supremacy on this continent. And so for him, he’s asking, who owns history, who’s telling these stories, for whom does, who would celebrate Anglo-Saxon supremacy, and who doesn’t.

In the middle of those works, there is a work called High-Tech Warshirt by James Luna. I should mention, too, Edgar Heap of Birds is Cheyenne and Arapaho. James Luna was of Ipai and Puyukitchum descent and of Mexican descent. So I think questions of lineage are also very pervasive throughout the show. His work incorporates a Sunbeam thermometer, and the form evokes garments that are affiliated with the Ghost Dance movement, which was a historical movement in the late 1880s, early 1890s, a millenarian and religious spiritual movement that spread across the Plains tribes and became a means of resisting the American government. It’s probably most famously associated with the massacre at Wounded Knee. So, I think that work is an important mediator between these stories because it’s thinking about, on the one hand, [how] historical violence is very much core to the story of America. And on the other hand, I think that James Luna’s work is important for arguing that Indigeneity is not limited to the past, and that Indigenous life very much continues into the present, the contemporary moment.

Those works are situated in a conversation to open up these questions as opposed to saying, you know, like, to open up these questions about how we perceive these histories and who can tell them.

Hock E Aye Vi Edgar Heap of Birds, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Who Owns History?,” 1992. Pigment on cotton t-shirt, 32 x 38 ½ inches. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Some American Dreams (installation view), 2026. The Fabric Workshop and Museum. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

What are the hopes you have as visitors move through the show? 

It’s not a huge show, and we don’t have giant sections. But the works are divided into six different sections, and each title is drawn from a phrase or writing from essayists, abolitionists, and songwriters. I really wanted to prioritize this polyvocal experience. I think it’s important that the show reflects that any exhibition is the product of many voices. And so for me, that’s the some American dreams, right?

The section Sharp White Background (Zora Neale Hurston) is thinking about whiteness as both a formal quality and a kind of identity, and thinking about gender and race in that way. The section with the shirts is The Past Was Not History (Michel-Rolph Trouillot), which is a line from Silencing the Past.

[There’s a section] thinking about landscape, a section about other kinds of signaling belonging or signaling identity that are beyond Americanness, and a section thinking about images of resistance and the complications of resistance. They were meant to think thematically about how these works were in conversation with each other. But I also think it’s important to say that in many ways, they’re very porous.

These conversations are seeping across what may seem like a boundary in a section. And in all of these, you can make these cross-conversations across the gallery. That’s an advantage of having everything in one fairly open gallery. You have numerous sight lines that you can spot something across the room and be thinking about it, even if it’s not directly next to the work that it’s in conversation with.

Becky Howland, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Toxicological Tablecloth,” 1984. Pigment on linen, glazed ceramic, and metal. Tablecloth: 85 x 85 inches; cups: 4 x 2½ x 2 ½ inches; plates: 7 inches diameter; candleholders: 5 ½ x 7¼ x 4 inches; ashtray: 1¼ x 9 x 8 ¾ inches; vase: 10 ¼ x 5 x 5 inches. Photo credit: Constance Mensh

Becky Howland, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Toxicological Tablecloth,” 1984. Pigment on linen, glazed ceramic, and metal. Tablecloth: 85 x 85 inches; cups: 4 x 2½ x 2 ½ inches; plates: 7 inches diameter; candleholders: 5 ½ x 7¼ x 4 inches; ashtray: 1¼ x 9 x 8 ¾ inches; vase: 10 ¼ x 5 x 5 inches. Photo credit: Constance Mensh

As we wind down, is there anything that we haven't talked about that you feel is important for the audience to know?

What has been really exciting about seeing the works out is that these artists are playing with form and material in really exciting ways. And I think if you are familiar with the practices of some of these artists, it can be really exciting to see them do something completely different. Imagine having Kara Walker’s Magic Lanterns out that invert her use of the silhouettes. But she’s still thinking in light and shadow, just in a totally different way, right?

Or artists who haven’t really worked in painting and are now producing these beautiful silk scarves. I think if you’re familiar with that, it’s exciting to see what they’ve done. And if you aren't, like, this is such an interesting way to be introduced to these artists’ work, because I think it traces almost 50-ish years of artistic production.

I’m really hoping that there’s something for everybody in terms of whether you are deeply, intimately familiar with these artists’ practice or if it’s brand new to you. It’s been really exciting to pull out artists who haven’t been on view in a while and to have people here at the studio who are like, “Oh, I haven’t seen this in 20 years,” or, you know, “Oh, I worked on this project ages ago.” I think it’s been really thrilling.

Donald Lipski, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Who's Afraid of Red, White and Blue #37,” 1990. White wool gabardine, 71 x 115 inches. Photo credit: Constance Mensh

Glenn Ligon, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Skin Tight (Muhammad Ali Text),” 1995; “Skin Tight (Muhammad Ali’s Head),” 1995. Cotton canvas, leather, satin, vinyl, pigment, and metal chain, 47½ x 13 inches diameter. Each an edition of 7. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Tim Rollins and KOS, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (After Harriet Jacobs),” 1999. Satin ribbons and book pages on linen, 63 x 53 inches. Photo credit: Carlos Avendaño.

Robert Pruitt, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Untitled Photographs,” 2011. Archival pigment prints on rag paper, dimensions variable. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Rose B. Simpson, in collaboration with The Fabric Workshop and Museum, Philadelphia. “Tonantzin,” 2022. Linen, cotton, clay, and thread, 70 x 55 x 3½ inches. Photo credit: Constance Mensh.

Exhibition Information:
Some American Dreams
April 15, 2026–June 14, 2026
The Fabric Workshop and Museum
1214 Arch St, Philadelphia, PA 19107, U.S.A.

The Fabric Workshop and Museum: Website | Instagram | Facebook

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by The Fabric Workshop and Museum.

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Self-taught painter Tom D. Smith creates expressive oil paintings that translate emotion into color, movement, and form. As a result, his compositions emphasize energy and sensation, and they feel both immediate and reflective of shared human experience.

Beginning with an internal concept or feeling, Smith develops his paintings through a process of visualization and refinement. “I have to be able to visualize this intangible thing as something physical,” he tells My Modern Met, noting that this process can take months. This careful translation of emotion into visual language is evident in his use of saturated color and continuous brushwork, which together suggest movement, transformation, and exchange.

Working primarily in oil, Smith takes advantage of the medium’s slow drying time to build soft transitions and layered surfaces. The resulting compositions often appear fluid, with edges that blur and merge rather than define fixed boundaries. This material quality reinforces recurring themes within his work, particularly the idea of connection. Figures frequently overlap or blend into one another, suggesting emotional and psychological bonds, while broader compositions reflect relationships between individuals, the self, and the surrounding world.

As a self-taught artist, Smith approaches painting through experimentation and iterative learning. His process balances structure with intuition, allowing compositions to evolve as he works. This openness extends to how he considers audience engagement, as his paintings are intended to resonate within personal spaces while maintaining the integrity of his own expression. At the same time, digital platforms have expanded his reach significantly, enabling his work to connect with a global audience.

My Modern Met had the opportunity to speak to Smith about his process and evolving practice. Scroll down to read our exclusive interview.

Your work emphasizes capturing energy and emotion through color. How do you translate something intangible like a feeling into a specific palette or composition?

I have to be able to visualize this intangible thing as something physical, which isn’t always easy to do. I can have a concept in mind or human experience I want to capture and it can take months thinking of the best way of doing this. For me, using vibrant and bold colors conveys energy well. I combine this with fluid brushstrokes which represent the continuous flow and conservation of energy. The colors I use evoke different emotions in the viewer and help with the storytelling aspect of my work. I think imagination is key in terms of the composition.

As a self-taught artist, how has your learning process shaped the way you approach experimentation and risk in your work?

I think being self-taught has helped me massively. It’s allowed me to work freely without any constraints and ultimately learn through personal failures and successes, over and over again. I’ll try new things that will work and then some that don’t. Each time I take these experiences with me to improve my craft. The more risks I take, the more ways I’m finding to paint and create new things.

Many of your paintings feel very immediate and expressive. Do you plan your pieces in advance, or do they evolve more intuitively as you paint?

A mixture really. Often I’ll come up with an idea or experience that I really want to express or to resonate with people and I’ll create sketches of it but this changes a lot as I go along. There’s always elements that evolve intuitively as I paint. One of the things I like most about being able to paint is the freedom and expression of it, so I never like to follow an exact plan. When I paint like this, I see it as the energy flowing in me, flows through my brush, onto the canvas.

Can you talk about the role of oil paint in your practice? What does that medium allow you to do that others might not?

The blending, the slow drying, and the thinning of the paints all allow me to achieve that fluid movement in my work. It also allows me to experiment easily. I love the way oils move and the feeling I get when I can move the paint smoothly across the canvas.

Your work is described as bringing “joy” and “character” into people’s spaces. How do you balance personal expression with the awareness that your work will live in someone else’s home?

It’s not always easy as my experience isn’t always someone else’s. So I have to put myself in their shoes, think about what they can connect with and find a way of combing this with what I want to paint and what people want in their home. I can’t lose the essence of my expression but I want people that view my work to be seen.

How has selling prints and original works online (through platforms like your shop) influenced the way you think about audience and accessibility?

I’m so grateful that modern artists have access to the internet and are able to sell online. In the first three months of 2026 from Instagram I reached over 10 million views from people around the world. I couldn’t have done this without social media. It’s allowed me to expand my audience and the use of technology has made my work accessible to people all around the globe.

Are there recurring themes or emotions that you find yourself returning to, even subconsciously, across different pieces?

Connections is the main one. Connections to each other, to yourself, and to the planet. To me, the most important thing in people’s lives are their relationships. We need to nurture the relationship with ourselves and with the people close to us.

What does your studio process look like from start to finish, do you work on multiple pieces at once, or focus intensely on one?

This changes depending on what I’m currently working on. I won’t have more than two pieces on the go at once. As I use oils I need to wait for layers to dry and this can sometimes leave me with some extra time which allows me to focus my attention on another piece.

How do you know when a painting is finished, especially when working in a loose or expressive style?

It’s easier to know if I go into it with more of a plan and a destination in my mind. I can’t always see an immediate finish when I’m painting loosely and with more expression, but I usually know when I’m done when I get there. Very rarely do I look at my work and think I need to keep on adding more after thinking I’m done.

Looking ahead, how do you see your work evolving—are there new techniques, subjects, or scales you’re interested in exploring?

Definitely. I always want to try different things and explore new ideas. Through experimentation I find new ways of creating and stumble upon new ideas. I’m sure as I grow and experience new things in the world first hand, this will impact my work too. My style and work will grow with me.

Tom Smith: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Tom Smith.

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Drawing and painting are often thought of as lyrical forms of fine art, but so is cut paper. Henri Matisse famously referred to creating his late-in-life cut paper pieces as “drawing with scissors,” and the way an artist must move their hand to conjure and extract intricate shapes with care is nothing short of soulful. Artist Jen Hudson’s cut-paper creations highlight this beautiful art form. In pieces as detailed as they are whimsical, she produces multi-layered portraits of animals in outdoor environments surrounded by ornate frames.

Working with sometimes as many as 20 layers of paper, Hudson cuts tiny shapes from her chosen material. In doing so, she creates texture; the pattern in a bird’s feathers or the flowing fur of a fox as it bounds across the forest floor. Her style of paper cutting uses the material to create outlines, giving the composition an illustrative quality that tells a moment in a story. Bright and idyllic, the scenes invite us into their world—one that is tranquil and wondrous, where things are always in bloom.

Each piece features a decorative border around the composition, like putting the most elaborate flourish to mark the end of a sentence. The frames are all created freehand without prior planning. It’s impressive, but for Hudson, the tiny repetitions are now part of how she moves. “I have developed a few different patterns that I really love making,” she tells My Modern Met, “and that I can make from muscle memory.”

My Modern Met spoke with Hudson about what led her to create cut paper art and how she views “mistakes” that occur when she works. Scroll down for our exclusive interview, which has been edited for length and clarity.

Can you tell us about your journey to creating cut paper art?

I always wanted to be an artist. I had been doing art since childhood, and my goal was to eventually go into a career as an illustrator. So I went to the Baltimore School for the Arts for high school to really hone my fine art skills and my technical ability. And I was really heavily focusing on painting as my main medium at that time.

In my last year of high school, I got really sick. And it took a while to get diagnosed, but I ended up being diagnosed with multiple forms of something called dysautonomia. I have POTS syndrome and Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which started to inhibit the way that I create. It ended up becoming that painting was the only thing I was physically able to do because it didn’t use my hands really aggressively, and it didn’t use a lot of the other muscles in my body where I was having a lot of pain. Because painting was like the only thing I felt like I was physically able to do, I ended up getting really burnt out because it was all I was doing.

I kind of fell out of love with all mediums of painting. I started wanting to explore something that was more sculptural-based or more textile-based, a little bit more three-dimensional. But I couldn’t figure out how to do that in a way that my body would be capable of doing.

I had just purchased really beautiful drawing papers that I was intending to use as some form of background for my paintings. Because I was so burnt out on painting, I was scared to touch them because I didn’t want to ruin them. I had an X-Acto knife, and I had been on the edge of looking at different forms of art, and had come across paper cutting. I was like, that might be something I could try with these papers because I won’t be layering anything on top. I can really let the paper shine and do something small and really simple and see if that’s something that I’m physically able to do.

I set myself the task of just making a really simple design and just going for it, and just like, if it’s bad, it’s OK. And see if you can do that. And I ended up falling in love with it. That was around 2016, and since then, I’ve just been pushing it and trying to see how far I can take it.

Your pieces are so intricate, using 14 to 20 layers of paper per piece. Can you share a little more about your process?

The papers that I use are 160 GSM. They’re a little bit thicker than standard computer paper, maybe like two pieces of computer paper stacked together about the thickness. I use the Canson Mi-Tenete papers. They’re an archival pastel paper, but they’re the perfect weight for paper cutting.

And the decorative designs (like borders) are done completely freehand, right?

Yeah. Over the years of doing [paper cutting], I have developed a few different patterns that I really love making and that I can make from muscle memory. But when I’m building a show or when I’ve done solo shows, I view it as building a collection, like a fashion collection, of having repetitive motifs or designs that go together.

That’s where that idea came from. I really like these patterns, and I think that they showcase the paper well, and they’re good designs to get a variety of tones. But when these pieces are hanging all together in a room, they look like they belong together.

I try to choose patterns that relate to the subject matter or cuts that are similar to the cuts that I’m using when I’m creating the subject matter—whatever that might be, whatever type of animal that is—because I want the forms to echo each other. But I’m also looking at it as, what type of scene am I making? What time of year is it? What makes sense? I try not to put heavy floral motifs in winter scenes unless it’s a plant that would be growing at that time.

Most of my subject matter is native to where I live [Maryland]. I’m familiar with the subject matter, and I go to all different sorts of garden centers and see what’s in season, so what makes sense to be in this scene. Because a lot of my scenes are not necessarily drawing what’s right in front of me. I’m putting a bunch of different things together and creating a scene. But even with it being a little bit more whimsical, I still want it to make sense.

Paper cutting is a bit high stakes, because once it’s cut, you can’t necessarily put it back the way it was. 

When I was painting, I was a watercolor painter. One of the first things you learn in watercolor is that people are afraid of watercolor because it’s staining the paper. So, you learn that if you make a mistake, there’s always a level you can adjust. And I feel like I took that mentality to the paper cutting of, well, if I make a mistake, there’s always a level you can adjust. It’s not like, oh, no, I messed up, and now I have to start over again. It’s like, OK, that happened. How do we design around it?

One of the first big pieces that I made back in 2018 was this huge 18-inch by 24-inch single-layer dragon. I had cut a border around the head of the dragon that, in my head, was going to work perfectly. I cut the whole thing and spent three days cutting this border around the head. And I looked at it, and because it was a single layer, it made the dragon illegible, and you couldn’t see it anymore. I was then like, OK, what do I do?

I came up with a solution of completely cutting the border out and then using a different color paper to recut that border and adhere that piece to the back of that piece. And that’s how I learned how to do color inlays. It was like a happy accident. It pushed my work further, and it was also a lesson to take a step back and think about it. So, don’t have a meltdown because you think you ruined your piece. Just think, “Okay, how do I design around this, and it ended up making the piece so much stronger?”

I also think that’s important. When I was teaching, I would tell my students you can’t view your mistakes as lost time because you’re still learning something.

Is there a piece that epitomizes all that you want to achieve so far with your work?

I’ve been making these jousting horses that are really, really intricate. My most intricate piece to date is currently on view at the Maryland Federation of Arts Circle Gallery in Annapolis. It’s the first jousting horse, with intricate color fills that are making up decorative armor, and I feel like that piece, and these horses that I’ve been making since then, combine my love of wildlife or animal life, and also the more whimsical background that I like to explore in my pieces.

Do you have any advice for people who are contending with a disability, or preventing them from doing the work they want?

Any amount of time you can put in is valuable, even if you’re only capable of doing 10 minutes that day, it’s still valuable. Don’t focus on having to make perfect work or the most incredible piece ever. The thing that got me into my whole paper-cutting journey was just starting simple and having the goal of just finishing it. And if it’s bad, you don't have to show anybody.

Jen Hudson: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Jen Hudson.

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“concentration in bits,” 2011, from the series “In the Absence of Others.” Archival Inkjet on Somerset watercolor paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

For decades, Nic Nicosia was known first and foremost as a photographer. Throughout the 1980s, the artist rose to prominence for his surreal, highly theatrical images, pairing humor and whimsy with elaborate sets, casts, and crews. By 1983, Nicosia’s aesthetic vision gained even greater recognition, thanks in no small part to the Whitney. That year, his work was featured in the museum’s biennial, alongside that of other pioneers of the so-called Pictures Generation, including Cindy Sherman, Eileen Cowin, and Ellen Brooks.

In the latter years of the 20th century, Nicosia continued to earn notice through prestigious exhibitions like Image Fabrique at the Centre Pompidou in 1983 and Documenta IX in 1992, among others. But by the early 2000s, things started to change. Nicosia more or less withdrew from the public-facing art world; he shifted away from photography, instead favoring a solitary studio practice. He began constructing models of rooms, collaging them with images shot elsewhere, and populating the sets with sculpted installations. Eventually, he realized that sculpture was the logical next step within the full arc of his practice.

“After more than a couple of decades of making fabricated pictures, it was no longer interesting or challenging to me,” Nicosia tells My Modern Met. “I started making sculptures and sculptural objects to stage in these sets I was making. For a while I continued like that, making sculptures to photograph.”

Now, following several years of exploration within this new medium, Nicosia is preparing for his largest museum exhibition since 2000. Everyday Surreal, which is slated to open on May 16 at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas, will trace the artist’s career through more than 70 works in varied media, with a special emphasis on his sculptures. Boasting everything from three-dimensional pieces and drawings to photographs and films, the survey is ambitious in its scope, illustrating the creative evolution of a celebrated artist across time.

“Everyday Surreal is the first major retrospective of my sculpture and drawing,” Nicosia says. “The exhibition has helped to define my art as conceptual and demonstrates how I have progressed from a strict photographic practice.”

Ahead of the exhibition’s opening next month, My Modern Met had the chance to chat with Nic Nicosia about his beginnings as an artist, his gradual transition from photography to sculpture, and what’s next for him.

“aggregates,” 2013, from the series “Stories.” Archival inkjet on Hahnemühle 308 rag paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

What first drew you to photography, and what was your experience working within the medium as part of the Pictures Generation?

In the 1970s, I studied television and film at the University of North Texas, but once I graduated, I couldn’t find a workable path to the movie business the way I hoped for. I had network and corporate TV offers, but nothing I hoped for a career. My father suggested I consider a retail store. There was only one camera shop in Denton, where I was living at the time, and they charged students full retail while other shops in nearby Dallas were discounting. So, I thought, maybe I should open a camera shop—and so I did. That’s how I learned to use a still camera.

Four years later, I was bored out of my mind with retail, so I sold the shop and started taking pictures full time. I even returned to a graduate program for a couple of semesters.

I approached still photography as one would making a movie: building sets, hiring actors, manipulating imagery. Somewhere down the line, I became categorized with other artists making fabricated images, but I can’t recall the term Pictures Generation during that time. When Cindy Sherman, Eileen Cowin, Ellen Brooks ,and I were included in the 1983 Whitney Biennial we were known as staged photography artists. Everything we made was made for the camera.

“Dreamboats 2,” 2017–18. Paperclay and mixed media. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

“whatwhyseriously,” 2013, from the series “Stories.” Archival inkjet on Hahnemühle rag paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

Your work often plays with surrealist imagery and themes. What compels you about these visuals, and how has your surrealist style evolved over time?

Picasso said it best: “The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.”

I add; things I see, hear, feel, and experience all go into a work. I’m a dreamer. Daydreaming was my pastime in elementary school. I never thought in terms of being a surrealist or borrowing that kind of imagery. It’s just the way I think and the way I see.

I made one series, Sex Acts, where I focused on Surrealism, because I was interested in the work of René Magritte. Honestly, I was more interested in his theatricality and sense of humor than his connection to surrealism.

“homemade stories #14 (figure 2),” 2023. Archival inkjet. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

“Untitled Landscape #2,” 2003. Archival inkjet on Somerset Watercolor Paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

Why did you move away from photography and instead embrace sculpture at the turn of the century? 

After more than a couple of decades of making fabricated pictures, it was no longer interesting or challenging to me. For about five years, I went back to making motion pictures and short films, until I was offered a solo exhibition at SITE Santa Fe. I remember waking up one morning with seven complete images crossing my mind like a slideshow and realized those photographically for the SITE show. I didn’t know where they came from. I still don’t. I’m not even sure I was totally awake.

For these seven images, I started building small-scale sets, much smaller than the ones I worked with before. And I started making sculptures and sculptural objects to stage in these sets I was making. For a while I continued like that, making sculptures to photograph. It wasn’t until later that I exhibited my sculptural work as complete works.

“mad little mad (in a picture),” 2018. Archival inkjet on Hahnmühle paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

“every day-all day,” 2018. Graphite on watercolor paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

What was the process of learning to sculpt, and how did you develop your own sculptural language?

Learning may not apply here. At the recommendation of an art supply store manager, I bought a few bricks of Creative Paperclay to make characters for a series of photographs. The series was titled In The Absence of Others, and there was no learning process except how long the clay took to dry and how to make it stronger.

As far as developing a sculptural language, I’ve never taken the time to overintellectualize it. Overthinking an artist’s work is someone else’s job (I think).

“circle of possibilities,“ 2011, from the series “In the Absence of Others.” Archival Inkjet on Somerset Velvet. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

“7 whys and big thankyou (in a picture),” 2018. Archival inkjet on Hahnmühle paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

Is your sculptural practice informed by your photographic practice? How do the two mediums complement each other, if at all?

My sculptural figures originated to represent my emotional state and life situation at the time. Of course, they feed into each other, but exist separately.

“bighands,” 2010, enlarged and cast in 2020. Stainless steel. (Photo: Kevin Todora)

What was the process of mounting Everyday Surreal, and what do you hope the exhibition reveals about your career as it has become more multidisciplinary?

My process was 25 years of making photographs, drawings, and sculpture. Mounting the exhibition was handled mostly by Jed Morse, the chief curator at the Nasher Sculpture Center and assistant curator, Sydney Smith.

Everyday Surreal is the first major retrospective of my sculpture and drawing. I had a traveling retrospective in 1999 of my photographs shot between 1979-1999, but up until now there hasn’t been a survey of my practice outside of photography. The Nasher’s upcoming exhibition of the last two-and-a-half decades of my work has helped to define my art as conceptual and demonstrates how I have progressed from a strict photographic practice. I realize the concepts that come to me. At some point, probably 25 years ago, maybe earlier, realizing these concepts required something other than photography.

“mehands #2,” 2021. Graphite and white conti on Bristol. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

“the drive from Santa Fe to Dallas 77 times,” 2015. Unique ink on Bristol paper. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

What has the shift from photography to sculpture taught you not just about yourself and your thematic interests, but about artistic production as a whole?

Most artists have the ability to use whatever material is necessary to realize their vision. We’re all very good at hand-eye coordination: it’s just part of the job. So, once I got over the idea that I was known only as a photographer, that I could only please the art world by making more pictures, I was free to do whatever I wanted.

More than anything I’m thankful for the gallerists, collectors, and curators who supported my career during the transition to sculpture and drawing. I keep saying to art dealers, you have to trust your artists. If they’re fucking up, let them fuck it up. It’s just transitional work. They’ll get there eventually.

“dreamboat #28,” 2020. Sign foam, copper, paperclay, and acrylic paint. (Photo: Erin Cluley Gallery, Dallas)

Exhibition Information:
Nic Nicosia
Everyday Surreal
May 16–August 16, 2026
Nasher Sculpture Center
2001 Flora Street, Dallas, TX 75201

Nic Nicosia: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Sutton Communications.

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Broadway and 6th St.

By the time the Writers Guild of America called for a nationwide strike in 2007, Daniel Sackheim had amassed quite a portfolio. He had directed episodes of iconic television series like Law & Order, The X-Files, and NYPD Blue; earned an Emmy in 1994; and solidified his reputation at the forefront of TV’s modern “Golden Age.” Suddenly and unexpectedly unable to direct, though, he decided to explore a new medium: photography.

“Feeling an itch that I thought a visually creative outlet like photography could scratch, I bought my first digital camera,” Sackheim tells My Modern Met. “It would be years, however, before I actually developed a style and a point of view to go along with the new gear.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, that style is informed by Sackheim’s roots within the TV industry. His images often take the form of horizontal rectangles, emulating the atmosphere of a film noir. That sensation is only enhanced by Sackheim’s preference for moody, black-and-white environments, all of which he meticulously curates through location scouting and lighting studies. In Sackheim’s mind, it’s this level of preparation and intentionality that most betrays his background as a director. Sometimes, as if on a set, he admits that he “intervene[s] more directly and construct[s] the scene” he has in mind, lending each image a precision and clarity that may otherwise have been absent.

“I don’t think of shooting the way a traditional street photographer might: roaming freely, waiting for the right moment to present itself,” he explains. “That does happen, of course, but rarely.  Instead, I treat it much as I would a film shoot.”

Next month, after years of developing his photographic practice, Sackheim will release his debut monograph, The City Unseen, with Hat & Beard Press. Much of the book contends with Los Angeles, not just as a city but as a muse, one that encapsulates themes like anonymity, absence, and memory. Sackheim’s distinct language mirrors these interests, pairing high-contrast visuals with urban settings shot at unexpected angles or perspectives.

“What I can say is that I see Los Angeles as a completely unique place,” he says. “The architecture, the landmarks—they are a constant reminder of a city that in many ways refuses to let go of its complicated past. So, I try to find ways to tap into that nostalgia, to treat it as a character in its own right.”

Ahead of the volume’s publication on May 12, 2026, we spoke with Daniel Sackheim about the relationship between TV and photography, the origins of his photographic practice, and what he hopes readers will take away from The City Unseen. Read on for our exclusive interview with the TV director and photographer.

1200 Getty Center Dr.

South Broadway

Lower Grand Avenue

800 North Alameda St.

When did you first begin experimenting with photography, and what originally drew you to the medium?

It was sudden and unexpected, owing to the Writers Guild of America calling for a national strike in 2007, which resulted in much of Hollywood production being shuttered. Unable to direct, and feeling an itch that I thought a visually creative outlet like photography could scratch, I bought my first digital camera. It would be years, however, before I actually developed a style and a point of view to go along with the new gear.

Broadway

405 Freeway at the Supelveda Pass

Corner of South Broadway and 3rd St.

How have your experiences as a film and television director informed your photographic language, if at all?

It has informed it quite a bit. Having been a director for far longer than I’ve been a photographer, the compositional environment in which I was—and still feel—most comfortable emulates a movie frame: a horizontal rectangle.

I’m also more inclined to create imagery that has some footing in a narrative space. I want to tell stories. This is not always achievable, of course, but despite directing and photography being very different mediums, I love the challenge of telling a story within a single frame, one that makes the viewer fill in the blanks on their own. That premise, I believe, is consistent across mediums.

936 West Florance Ave.

5261 Hollywood Blvd.

498 Ling Way

What compels you about Los Angeles as a photographic subject?

Few people realize that the original home of the grand and gilded movie palaces of the 1920s and 30s—the ones we associate with star-studded premieres and klieg lights sweeping across the sky—didn’t actually originate in Hollywood, but on Broadway, in downtown Los Angeles, where they thrived until the 1950s. That’s when they were abandoned by cinema-goers headed to Hollywood Boulevard and Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.

A few years back I was exploring that old, mostly abandoned theatre district for a documentary project I was considering. The project never moved forward, but my interest in old downtown Los Angeles was piqued. There was an ineffable nostalgia—verging on romance—about downtown Los Angeles and its deep connection to Film Noir, which I’ve been a fan of for many years.

Omoide Yokocho

Corner of Main and 8th Streets

Undisclosed location in the San Fernando Valley

How does your approach to LA differ from that of other photographers, and what do you hope your images reveal about the city?

I touched on some of this earlier, in terms of the appeal of Film Noir. As for how my approach differs from other photographers, that’s genuinely difficult for me to say, since I can’t really speak to what others do. What I can say is that I see Los Angeles as a completely unique place, populated by those who have caught the brass ring—a ticket to fame and fortune—living in close proximity to those still surviving on little more than a dream, feeling isolated and desperate. I can’t think of many places where so many people carry that particular kind of desperation so visibly. The architecture, the landmarks—they are a constant reminder of a city that in many ways refuses to let go of its complicated past. So, I try to find ways to tap into that nostalgia, to treat it as a character in its own right.

6547 Hollywood Blvd.

520 Maple Avenue

How does your background in film and TV inform your photographic style?

I don’t think of shooting on the streets of Los Angeles the way a traditional street photographer might: roaming freely, waiting for the right moment to present itself. That does happen, of course, but rarely. Instead, I treat it much as I would a film shoot. I scout locations that speak to me and suggest the kind of narrative I’m hoping to capture. I do light studies, returning again and again within a window of time when conditions are right, waiting for something special to happen within the frame. Or sometimes I’ll intervene more directly and construct the scene I have in mind. It all depends on the scene itself, and my appetite for complexity and expense.

One of the benefits of having worked in television, which is a medium where you are always short of time, resources, and mostly a lack of time, is that it’s trained me to be fast on my feet. It allows me to pivot quickly and arrive at an alternate game plan, if one is possible. That provides a good measure of confidence that I simply wouldn't have without that background.

Columbus Avenue

Corner of Hope and West 4th St.

Oakfield Drive, Hollywood Hills

Why did it feel important to explore themes of anonymity, absence, and memory throughout The City Unseen, and how does your photographic style enhance or visualize those ideas?

You know the old adage, write what you know? I’ve spent much of my life navigating feelings of alienation, the pressures of anxiety, and an unreasonable fear of what might be lurking just beyond the light. These are themes rooted in the human condition, which I believe makes them broadly relatable.

Ultimately, I want my photography to scratch the surface in a way that makes you feel something. The short answer is that I understand many of these themes at a root level, and I’m drawn to the challenge of seeing whether I can find ways to give them visual form.

12601 Ventura Blvd.

Sansome St.

11299 Chandler Blvd.

What do you hope people will take away from The City Unseen?

That it makes them stop and wonder.

The Bay Bridge

Interstate 86

Daniel Sackheim: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by PR for Artists.

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Many of us spend countless hours at home or in offices, cut off from the natural world. However, science proves that spending time in nature–or even just looking at pictures of it—has a positive impact on the mind, helps reduce stress, and lowers blood pressure. In a bid to improve our connection to the outdoors, British creative duo Lee Baker and Catherine Borowski (of Graphic Rewilding) transform urban environments with vibrant botanical murals.

Baker and Borowski met on a flight to New York and were drawn together by a shared desire to bring more nature and creativity to the lives of others. Borowski’s experience in large-scale curation encouraged Baker to take his studio-based, nature-inspired work into public spaces. And today, their vibrant, botanical installations and immersive environments can be found in cities all over the world.

Standout projects include a towering, animated floral design in collaboration with Lululemon that spans the full height of Chengdu’s twin towers. Graphic Rewilding has also transformed Rome’s Chiostro del Bramante, Shanghai’s Start Museum, and New York’s Botanical Garden with their distinct colorful murals. Each project is designed to bring joy and encourage a deeper sense of connection and empathy with the natural world.

One most recent project, titled Fleeting Opulence, transforms the Winter Garden and surrounding spaces at Brookfield Place in New York City. Suspended across the full height of the building’s glass facade, the gorgeous window display features a variety of larger-than-life flowers. The giant work celebrates the wildflowers and pollinators of spring and brings a joyful burst of color to the space that shifts with the sunlight.

We recently caught up with Baker and Borowski to learn how their blossoming collaboration first took root and how it has evolved since. Read on for My Modern Met’s exclusive interview.

You met on a flight to New York. Do you remember your initial conversation and what prompted you to collaborate?

Lee Baker [LB]: We’d both reached a crossroads in our lives, and the moment was ripe for change. Even though we didn’t talk about that specifically, I think we both knew in our hearts that we’d just met someone who felt the same way, and that was very exciting. However, I had an exhibition in New York, and was on my way to live with my sister in Santa Ana and make a go of it in California, and Catherine had her public art, curation and events career and life in London, so we didn’t think our paths would cross again. But it had been such an intense connection, mainly through our passion for all things art, that after a few months in California and a few million texts back and forth, I ended up booking a flight back to the UK, and the rest is history!

What did each of you immediately recognize in the other’s work that felt like a good match?

[LB]: Absolutely nothing haha! We both had totally different approaches to our art. Catherine’s work was highly conceptual, minimal, deeply rooted in an inner-city upbringing, and my work was rooted in aesthetics and Japanese culture. I’m not sure either of us “liked” the other’s work as such. In the early days, every time we visited a gallery or museum, we would argue a lot about the merits of the exhibitions. BUT, we used to play a game where we would have to independently choose our favorite artwork in a show, and we would invariably and inextricably pick the same artworks. There was this “Venn diagram” of understanding about what we appreciated.

How did you land on your distinctive visual language so early on?

[LB]: Actually, the visual language took a long time to develop. It was actually through Catherine encouraging me to take my 15-year studio painting practice into the public realm. As a kid, I’ve been obsessed with cartoons and Japanese anime, but in 2002, I saw Takashi Murakami’s first solo show at The Serpentine. It opened my mind because he’d managed to majestically cross the bridge between kitsch pop and the esoteric. Nowadays, I’m not so enamored with his oeuvre, but at the time, through seeing Murakami’s lecture on the origin of the “Superflat” art concept, I came into contact with an Edo-era painter called Ito Jakuchu, who had spent 10 years painting a nature scroll series called The Colourful Realm of Living Beings. The title alone had me captivated. I traveled to Japan for his retrospective exhibition, and in front of his works, I felt an indescribable power. Catherine and I have subsequently traveled to Japan and other parts of Asia many times, and both feel a connection. This led to a fascination with how nature was perceived through the eyes of various historical Japanese artists. Woodblock artists such as Utagawa Hiroshige, who in turn had hugely influenced Western artists like Van Gogh and Monet. But also work by modern-day anime and manga artists such as Makoto Shinkai, who channel the same beauty and respect for nature. I feel like Graphic Rewilding artwork is a marriage of these approaches.

Catherine Borowski [CB]: My background is in large-scale events and curation, so I was able to help us get a start. I had been commissioning numerous well-known and emerging public artists for projects, and I asked Lee to slip in a few of his artworks alongside, and it got a hugely positive response. The first artwork was called Graphic Rewilding, and we loved the phrase so much that we kept it.

Looking back, how has your collaboration evolved from those early days to your global commissions today?

[CB]: When I was studying art at Nottingham Trent University and working part-time in the photography department of a UK national newspaper, I would take the public railway back to London every week. Every time I saw the rows of office buildings in Canary Wharf outside the window, I would think of the “non-places” described by French anthropologist Marc Augé—those homogeneous, cold spaces that lack historical and cultural belonging. Since then, the impact of office buildings on people’s behavior patterns and the design logic of open office spaces have really stuck with me.

[LB]: Alongside this thinking, Catherine and I found the White Cube gallery world stifling and elitist, not just for artists, but for the public too. There’s a quote by Shirley Chisholm, the first Black woman in Congress: “If they don’t give you a seat at the table, bring a folding chair,” and that really resonated. We wanted to bypass the art world and bring art directly to the public.

[CB]: About 10 years ago, I had an idea to start a gallery in a dumpster, known as a “skip” in the UK. To use these overlooked vessels as a means of inspiring and displaying artwork. In order to avoid having to bend to others’ will, we funded the projects ourselves and quickly began exhibiting in parking spaces all over London. SKIP Gallery went on to become an international art project dedicated to creating much-needed space, opportunities, and funding for emerging artists, forging opportunities for artistic interventions by repurposing dumpsters. SKIP Gallery ended up curating and funding 24 shows, turning tarmac around the world into exhibition space. From London, Milan, and Rotterdam to remote towns on the Scottish Borders and Greek Islands. And in fact, our last SKIP Gallery show was in New York.

[LB]: When we began Graphic Rewilding, we had already had a taste of creating public art internationally and knew that we wanted to take Graphic Rewilding beyond the borders of the UK. Even though Graphic Rewilding is a very different proposition to SKIP Gallery, it comes from the same vision, that all public spaces are potential canvases for purposeful art. We knew from the outset that what started as murals was only the beginning of our Graphic Rewilding journey. Almost immediately, we started breaking our art away from the walls in order to create more immersive experiences. Situations people would walk, not past, but through. This led to my learning 3D software and an investigation of all types of substrates and manufacturing techniques that would not only help us create these huge works, but also be expedient for global travel and construction.

What’s been the most unexpected or exciting opportunity?

Even though we can’t talk about them yet, we have some phenomenal projects coming up in the U.S., which we are very excited about. There’s been such a connection here, and wonderful positive opportunities have come along.

That said, I think our most unexpected and biggest past project came through Lululemon in China, who work with an artist every year for World Mental Health Day, with a series of immersive health and wellbeing events across the whole country.

From early on, we’ve promoted and given talks about the scientifically proven positive effects on our wellbeing of not only nature itself, but also of imagery of nature. Lululemon really connected with our artwork and story, and we spent eight months developing some mind-blowingly maximalist artworks in colossal public spaces in Shanghai and the rest of China. The whole experience was extraordinary.

Lee, you’ve spoken about growing up in an inner-city environment. Was nature something you instinctively sought out, or something that gradually became part of how you live and create?

[LB]: Actually, Catherine’s inner-city experiences are more extreme than mine. She grew up in a social housing estate in North London. Looking out from the living room window, her view was a concrete parking lot. It was the 1980s. To be honest, no one in her community even had a car at that time, so all she saw was the gray asphalt. She often sat looking out the window, daydreaming that it could be a park, or a garden, with grass and daisies. I also grew up in an urban environment, and while I had a little more access to green space, I did not instinctively seek it out. I was among those kids who had, for many years, a total ambivalence to real nature and was more at home customizing cars and rummaging for car parts in scrap yards than going for a walk in a forest. Something I read about once really rang a bell with me, and it was a phenomenon known as “the extinction of experience,” where people simply forget what nature actually is and so lose empathy for the natural world. I thought that was me! But my particular awakening to happiness through nature came, over the years, through a passion for nature in art: paintings, prints, graphic design, tattoos, textile design, TV, social media, but also video games. I still find it incredibly relaxing wandering, often on horseback, through epic landscapes of games like Horizon Zero Dawn or Ghost of Yotei. Imagine, during a high-speed supercar race in the game Gran Tourismo, pulling over on a lay-by just to take a look at the stormy sunset on the horizon. This all sounds ridiculous, but tests have actually proven that people who are exposed to nature in VR and video games experience lower levels of stress and higher levels of positivity compared to those who are exposed to virtual urban environments. I’m certainly not proposing this as a replacement for nature, but I find it incredibly interesting that our brains can be hacked to suspend disbelief and accept that, though we are not interacting with real trees, rocks, or animals, we are psychologically benefiting from a totally imagined nature scenario. Something the artist David Hockney likes to describe as “New Nature.”

[CB]: We were at a huge David Hockney retrospective show in Paris recently, and I felt as much joy from seeing nature through his eyes as I do from the real deal. In order to joyfully encourage people to look up and take notice, we take those often missed tiny moments of floral joy, and zoom in to create larger than life designs, and we call this idea “Microscopic Maximalism.”

Your work appears in places like Brookfield Place and the Chiostro del Bramante. How does the surrounding architecture influence each design?

Our work is always totally site-specific, and creating such baroque art for strong architectural spaces is very difficult. It’s such a fine line, because our work contains so many conflicting organic shapes and colors which can clash horribly with the architecture.

To avoid this, we take lidar scans, photos, video and accurate measurements, then recreate the spaces in 3D software, where we set virtual cameras at eye level in numerous locations, then apply and adjust our designs accordingly. This “tuning” takes a long time because the design compositions are absolutely crucial to the artworks feeling correct in the architectural space.

We laugh about the fact that our lives would be a lot easier if our work was geometric!

Have you ever had a location where the work felt especially needed?

A great example of this was an early project, near the end of the pandemic, in Crawley in the UK, where most of the residents worked at Gatwick International Airport. After the outbreak, the airport was closed, residents lost their jobs, and the whole town fell into depression. The town contacted us and asked if we wanted to create a mural in a neglected street in the town centre. But instead, we took over walls, floor, benches, trees, billboards, and bins. People absolutely loved it. It was originally only supposed to be exhibited for three months, but was kept up for three years and was never vandalized (which, strangely, feels like a badge of honor).

How did you go about translating Van Gogh’s Irises into your own visual language for New York Botanical Gardens?

This project was at once hugely inspirational and incredibly daunting because Van Gogh is such an inspiration. How could we possibly do his work any justice?

Rather than simply translating his work into our Graphic Rewilding flat style, we wanted to imbue the flowers with the same sculptural quality that Van Gogh applied to his forms. This meant following the form of each petal with our own digital “brushstrokes.” But while doing so, we also realized that the nuances in subtle color variation this is able to achieve were a real step change in our work. It took much longer to draw, but it was such an opportunity to improve and grow as artists.

Do you spend time studying plants in real life before illustrating them, or is it more intuitive?

[LB]: This is a really good question. As you can see from the earlier questions, in the past, I was only fascinated by artistic depictions of nature. So my first port of call was copying historical Japanese artworks. However, because our work developed into being totally site-specific and rooted in place, we both began researching and photographing the flora and fauna of the places where we were commissioned. As this went on, we amassed a huge collection of drawings studied from real life, and my personal biophilic sensibilities grew and grew, as a glorious feedback loop occurred. But I always emphasize that I’m not a botanical illustrator. Even though our drawings are recognizable as specific plants, my aim is still very much an artistic interpretation, so I take many creative liberties with color and shape if it helps the final composition. The artwork rules over accuracy.

What’s the most technically challenging surface you’ve worked on?

The technical challenges are far-reaching, but we always get there in the end. They can range from extreme weather situations in New York, massive people traffic in the centre of Shanghai, or insane heights in London.

However, we did a seemingly simple project in Wales, UK, a few years ago, which was an underpass that was deep-set, with highly textured brick. Our work requires very precisely painted black lines, and that was an extreme technical challenge. It didn’t help that it rained 90% of the time!

Also, because we love covering entire floors to create full immersion in outdoor spaces, that can be quite a challenge.

Is there a flower that best represents each of you?

[CB]: I’m a huge fan of daisies and buttercups, and any wild flower that can appear in the cracks of concrete, to bring color and joy into urban spaces. There is a beautiful resilience in these flowers.

[LB] I think that resilience represents Catherine beautifully, although I’m not sure if the daisies represent me. I love drawing irises. There is such a gossamer delicacy about them, and their beauty is incredibly fleeting, making them very hard to capture.

What’s one small way people can bring a bit of “rewilding” into their everyday lives?

[LB] I think “noticing” is becoming a lost art. Our lives seem to have become so fast and distracted that sometimes we forget to really notice. I’m reading a fascinating book by Olivia Meehan called Slow Looking: The Art of Nature, which talks about that moment when beauty takes your breath away and bypasses the intellect. Maybe it’s naive, but I think we need a bit more of that in our lives.

Graphic Rewilding: Website | Facebook | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Graphic Rewilding.

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“Galah Cockatoo, No. 7461, English Arts and Crafts Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

The 18th-century naturalist and ornithologist George Edwards once claimed that “art and nature, like two sisters, should always walk hand in hand, so they may reciprocally aid and assist each other.” In Claire Rosen’s work, that philosophy has undoubtedly found new life. For years, the photographer has produced whimsical portraits of animals, ranging from bears and camels chowing down on elaborate banquets, to cats playfully exploring replicas of pool bars and artist studios.

“Animals are now at the center of my creative process,” Rosen tells My Modern Met. “Each encounter is sustained by fascination, admiration, and patience.” But these encounters are also sustained by the unity for which Edwards advocated.

Rosen deftly navigates the natural and photographic worlds, combining both in an effort to explore art history as well as her surroundings. Perhaps nothing embodies that idea better than her Birds of a Feather series, in which a wide assortment of avian species are photographed against intricate backdrops. One image, for instance, sees a lanner falcon perched upon a branch, its dappled plumage mirroring the acanthus leaf paper behind it. Within this setting, the bird seamlessly blends into the surrounding wallpaper, one that also recalls nature through its organic motifs. For Rosen, the collision between her avian subjects and her wallpapers aren’t just about achieving visual harmony. It’s also about dramatizing the transformation of a wild animal into a domestic subject.

“Over time, I began to see wallpaper as a symbol for the man-made interiors these birds inhabit when we acquire them as pets,” Rosen says. “While the birds may appear in harmony with their carefully curated backgrounds, it is a far cry from the environments they call home.”

There is, therefore, a “dislocation” occurring in these photographs. Birds become subsumed and ultimately controlled by human desire, much like other remnants of the natural world. The wallpapers, too, reference a time in European history when colonization similarly led to the violent separation between people, animals, objects, and their places of origin.

“As ‘discoveries’ were displaced to Europe and the Americas, they fueled aviary collection and display as part of an impulse to collect and catalog the natural world,” Rosen explains. “These images highlight beauty while inviting a deeper reflection on our relationship with the natural world, encouraging viewers to consider not only what we admire, but also the consequences of our desire to possess it.”

Even though we can’t possess the birds themselves, we can, on the other hand, possess their photographs, thanks to Rosen’s newest book. Published last December by Warwick Editions, Birds of a Feather compiles some 120 images from the titular series, depicting everything from hawks, flamingos, and penguins, to chickens, owls, and macaws.

“If the work offers even a brief moment of connection—encouraging viewers to notice and care—then it has achieved what I had hoped,” Rosen says. “As we admire what nature has inspired in art, I hope we might also consider what art can do for nature in return.”

My Modern Met had the chance to speak with Claire Rosen about her photographic practice, her theoretical underpinnings, and her Birds of a Feather series. Read on for our exclusive interview with the photographer.

“Moluccan Cockatoo, No. 7696, Damask Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Lanner Falcon, No. 7234, Acanthus Leaf Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

What originally drew you to photography as your primary artistic medium?

I have a vivid memory of my first time in the darkroom, watching with astonishment as an image emerged from a blank sheet of paper. I remember thinking, this is pure magic. I was completely captivated.

I had always been drawn to the arts, yet I was never particularly patient or naturally skilled at drawing or painting. I often felt frustrated by my inability to translate what I imagined onto the page. The camera, however, offered a tool that felt both intuitive and immediate.

Photography provided a path to build a world shaped by my own imagination, one filled with unique experiences and encounters with the subjects that fascinated me. Making pictures allows me to explore the world, to understand how I feel about it, and to find my place within it. Through the lens, I discovered not only a medium, but a means of inquiry.

“Lutino Cockatiel, No. 7874, Damask Motif Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Saker Falcon, No. 4338, Floral Brocade Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Great Horned Owl, No. 2514, Printed Floral Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Duck, No. 0166, Damask Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

When did you first begin photographing animals, and what inspired that decision?

From an early age, I was captivated by creatures big and small, real and imagined. My earliest photographic work consisted of fairytale-inspired self-portraiture and conceptual fashion shoots, and whenever the opportunity arose to include an animal, I eagerly embraced it.

While preparing for a commercial assignment, I visited a bird store to meet a toucan. I remember wandering through the space in awe, hypnotized by the extraordinary colors and sculptural forms of the birds. Around that same time, I came across a wallpaper design filled with avian motifs and wondered if I could create my own version by photographing birds in front of patterned backgrounds. I conducted a small test with my own parakeets and was pleased by the result.

I persuaded the bird shop to allow me to photograph their birds. The lobby was transformed into a makeshift portrait studio. As the birds were brought in, I paired each one with a background, aiming to complement their colors and personalities.

The process was enthralling. Each bird revealed a unique personality: some were curious and inquisitive, others playful and dramatic, while a few seemed indifferent to the entire endeavor. The unpredictable nature of the shoot kept me engaged, as did the trial and error of matching backgrounds to my feathered models. By the end of that first session, I was exhausted yet deeply fulfilled. It felt nothing short of magical, and I remember thinking with certainty, this is how I want to spend my time. That moment marked the beginning of what would become Birds of a Feather.

Animals are now at the center of my creative process, and each encounter is sustained by fascination, admiration, and patience.

“Budgerigars, No. 9947, Floral Damask Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“African Penguin, No. 7125, Striped Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Hyacinth Macaw, No. 7677, Ornamental Neoclassical Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

Your style is influenced by Beatrix Potter and the Dutch still-life tradition. What compels you about these two influences, and how have you reimagined them in your own work?

As a child, I was enchanted by the world of Beatrix Potter, with her charming animal characters set within the beauty of the pastoral countryside. Her artwork was deeply formative for me, establishing an aesthetic language of childlike wonder infused with thoughtful observation. What continues to resonate is the empathy she was able to engender through her creatures, each with distinct personalities that feel relatable.

In my adult years, particularly since moving to the countryside and learning more about Potter’s life, my admiration has only deepened. She was not only an extraordinary storyteller but also a dedicated conservationist, using the profits from her work to protect the natural landscapes she cherished. Living and working on a farm, I feel a strong connection to that mission.

In series such as The Burrow of Warwick and Curious Cats, many of the animals I photograph are part of my own world—pets or creatures encountered in the surrounding landscape—presented within carefully constructed miniature sets. Like Potter, I aspire to create work that speaks across generations, inviting both children and adults into a space of imagination, empathy, and connection with the natural world.

The Dutch still-life tradition offers a complementary influence. I am drawn to the light, beauty, and reverence for everyday objects. There is a quiet joy that springs from the cheerfulness of a blooming flower or ripened fruit, and my photographic series rooted in this tradition seek to elevate that simple pleasure while engaging with a rich history of symbolism and existential reflection. Sixteenth- and 17th-century Vanitas painters communicated the impermanence of life through visual feasts infused with moral meaning: rotting foods, fading flowers, and other sensory delights serving as reminders of the brevity of earthly existence. Objects from the natural world carried layered symbolism: the butterfly signifying transformation, the ant representing diligence, and the skull or wilting bloom evoking the inevitability of mortality.

In our contemporary age, this message feels more relevant than ever. The fleeting beauty of flowers is more than a metaphor for the brevity of human life. It’s also a warning of the fragility of the natural world in the face of human impact. My compositions follow the Baroque masters, focusing on light, color, texture, and atmosphere to create contemplative spaces that invite viewers to pause. Rather than competing with the rapid pace of our digital lives, these images aim to hold attention and encourage reflection on what is essential, the dignity and beauty of the natural world and the inevitable truth of our impermanence.

While these influences are most evident in series such as Fantastical Feasts, The Burrow of Warwick, Curious Cats, and Persephone’s Feast; the Birds of a Feather series draws more directly from Victorian bird illustrations and the decorative wallpaper patterns of the same era. These references emphasize both the impulse to catalogue the natural world and the human desire to domesticate and aestheticize it, reinforcing the conceptual framework of the series.

“Spotted Eagle Owlets, No. 7711, Chinoiserie Damask Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Red Tailed Hawk, No. 5324, Cut Velvet Damask Motif Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

Much of your work features animals placed within intricate, heavily patterned settings. How do you source these visuals and backdrops, and when did you first develop this aesthetic language?

I developed this aesthetic language during the planning stages of Birds of a Feather. As mentioned above, while sourcing materials for another project, I came across a wallpaper design filled with illustrated birds, which inspired the idea of photographing my own parakeets against a patterned background. I visited a wallpaper warehouse, spending hours rummaging through mountains of discontinued swatches. Seduced by color and pattern, I accumulated a heap of historically inspired Victorian motifs and left with more than 200 samples in hand—feeling as if I had just found the golden goose.

The wallpapers are selected to complement each bird’s colors and personality, creating a sense of visual harmony. Over time, I began to see the wallpaper as a symbol for the man-made interiors these birds inhabit when we acquire them as pets. The series seeks to capture that desire to possess the beautiful, wild, and exotic—a possession that permanently changes the object of desire through its dislocation. While the birds may appear in harmony with their carefully curated backgrounds, it is a far cry from the environments they call home.

The richly ornamented background becomes a character in its own right, amplifying the themes of beauty, domestication, and the human desire to weave nature into daily life. The wallpapers reference a time in European history when colonization was unleashed across the globe and with it, the brutal domination of faraway places, creatures, and cultures. As “discoveries” were displaced to Europe and the Americas, they fueled aviary collection and display as part of an impulse to collect and catalog the natural world.

Through this juxtaposition, the images work on both aesthetic and conceptual levels. They highlight beauty while inviting a deeper reflection on our relationship with the natural world, encouraging viewers to consider not only what we admire, but also the consequences of our desire to possess it.

“Lady Amherst Pheasant, No. 9590, Damask Brocade Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“English Pouter Pigeon, No. 9564, Victorian Floral Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

What differentiates photographing birds from other animals?

The comfort and safety of the animals are paramount in all my photo shoots. I keep all animals’ time in front of the camera to a minimum and am always guided by their willingness to participate.

Photographing birds presents distinct challenges, particularly when they are able to fly. Many of the birds I work with live in some form of captivity and cannot return to the wild, so they are generally accustomed to being around humans. That said, smaller birds—and common among prey animals—tend to be more wary, requiring a calm and patient approach to ensure they feel secure. The larger parrots and raptors are extraordinarily intelligent, and it is so interesting to observe them as they assess their surroundings, trying to understand what is unfolding. Much like interactions between people, establishing rapport and trust is essential.

“Blue Americanus Chicken, No. 6178, Toile Paper” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“American Goshawk, No. 7866, Cut Velvet Damask Motif Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

What was the process of creating the Birds of a Feather monograph?

The Birds of a Feather monograph was a collaborative endeavor that unfolded over more than two years and drew upon over a decade of photographic work. Together with editor Beth Taubner of Mercurylab, we revisited thousands of images, carefully narrowing the selection to 120 pictures. The thoughtful sequencing and pairing of birds generated unexpected interactions and interesting color conversations, establishing a dynamic rhythm as the narrative of the book unfolded.

Designer Caleb Cain Marcus of Luminosity Lab worked closely with us to balance historical references with a sense of contemporary relevance through typography and page layout. Great care was devoted to the physicality of the book object; choices such as the insets, edge painting, binding thread, paper selection and a velvet “flocked” damask limited-edition slipcase were intended to create a tactile object to be experienced in the hand rather than merely viewed on a screen.

Bec Manson of the Post Office revisited every digital file to ensure visual cohesion across images captured over many years and with different cameras, carefully harmonizing earlier works with those produced using my more recent large-format Fujifilm GFX.

I spent months crafting the accompanying essays and artist statements alongside my uncle and sister, refining the language to ensure it carried the voice and message I envisioned and researching quotes to weave throughout.

The project was enriched by contributions from Femke Speelman of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Joel Sartore of the National Geographic Photo Ark, whose perspectives situate the work within a broader dialogue about art, ornamentation, and the power of imagery to shape awareness of the natural world.

Printed in Florence, Italy, by ABC Tipografia, the book’s production involved a meticulous color process overseen by Lorenzo Tugnoli.

After a long period of anticipation, with many stops and starts along the way, when the book finally “hatched,” it was a very rewarding and emotional moment.

“Greater Flamingo, No. 0350, Damask Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

“Western Barn Owl, No. 7275, Damask Textile” (Photo: Courtesy of the photographer and Warwick Editions)

What do you hope people will take away from your work?

The 18th-century naturalist, George Edwards, wrote, “Art and nature, like two sisters, should always walk hand in hand, so they may reciprocally aid and assist each other.”

My greatest hope is that art inspires action in nature’s favor, that it sparks a thought or ignites a shift in perception. Nature has inspired so much art; if art can in turn advocate for nature, even in small ways, those individual moments of connection can accumulate into a broader cultural change in how we view animals and the environment.

Understanding the impact of our modern world on these creatures is the motivation that drives this work. All of these species are impacted by human society, whether inadequate care in captivity, habitat loss, light pollution, illegal trapping, chemical and plastic pollution, animal testing, or the brutality of factory farming.

I have seen the deep connection and care that we can have for non-human creatures and how our empathy can extend to the most unusual of animals. But modern society has made it incredibly difficult to avoid doing harm to creatures that we would never wish to hurt.

I hope my photographs can be part of the conversation about how we can preserve, protect, and restore our natural environment and its inhabitants. I believe that we can always do better, from our smallest daily decisions to our greatest aspirations of how to live mindfully in this entangled world.

If the work offers even a brief moment of connection—encouraging viewers to notice and care—then it has achieved what I had hoped. As we admire what nature has inspired in art, I hope we might also consider what art can do for nature in return.

Book cover for “Claire Rosen: Birds of a Feather,” published by Warwick Editions

Claire Rosen: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Claire Rosen and Warwick Editions.

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Perhaps the most common question you’ll overhear at the Spoleto Festival in Charleston, South Carolina, is, “What are you seeing tonight?” It's an event where one evening, you can watch the world premiere of an opera and another night see a legendary performer play some of their greatest hits. Over the course of 17 days, the city brims with incredible talent as told through dance, theater, opera, and musical performances. Each season features local and regional performers as well as global phenoms, all of which are enjoyed by the local community and out-of-towners who come to revel in the magic of Charleston.

Spoleto is in its 49th year and, in 2026, it’s hosting roughly 120 events in historical venues throughout the city. From May 22 to June 7, attendees can see the iconic Indigo Girls perform one night and enjoy Grammy-winning percussionist Pedrito Martinez on another. Documentary filmmaker Ken Burns will blend conversation, music, and imagery to explore the American Revolution, and actor Patrick Page plans on diving into the villains of Shakespeare’s plays. It’s an unbeatable array of performances that showcases human creativity and expression in its many forms. Tickets are now on sale for the 2026 season of the Spoleto Festival.

My Modern Met had the opportunity to speak to Mena Mark Hanna, the general director and CEO of Spoleto. Scroll down to read our exclusive interview, which covers the fascinating history of the festival and why the city of Charleston is the perfect place to host it.

Spoleto Festival USA 2016: Opening Ceremonies

How did the Spoleto Festival begin?

In 1977, there was an Italian-American composer named Giancarlo Manatti. He had founded a festival in Spoleto, Italy, called La Festivale dei Duemondi, “the festival of the two worlds.” He wanted to create a counterpart festival in the United States; that was always the dream to have one festival in Italy and the counterpart in the United States.

He went up and down the Eastern seaboard, went all throughout the contiguous United States, and landed in Charleston. I think something about Charleston itself lends it a remarkable quality as a place of creativity and artistry. I don’t know if he had the full view there. I think Charleston has become much more interesting as a place that captures the best and worst that this country has to offer in its history.

But he was attracted to its walkability, the fact that it is a port city, the fact that it has all these remarkable venues, and the fact that it wears its history so much on its sleeve. Fast forward to 2026, 49 years later, and you’re at a point where Charleston is not only all of these things, it’s been through a renaissance, really at its incipient point, but Spoleto was the renaissance. It started to grow and turn into a local creative and cultural economic capital because of Spoleto in ’77.

Photo: © William Struhs

Why is Charleston the best place for Spoleto?

We have a really spectacular and incisive view of the history here. [Charleston has] an outward beauty that belies a terrifying past as the main port of entry for the Middle Passage for the transatlantic slave trade. And it’s the city that started the Civil War.

On top of all that, it’s a place that I think wears this kind of unity of different cultures in one place spectacularly well, maybe not as obviously as New Orleans does. But, [Charleston] is a meeting point of North America, Europe, and Africa, the three continents that have made up the modern United States. You see that with the Gullah Geechee roots here. Black people who live in the Low Country and have lived here and have been brought here through the slave trade, particularly through enslavement of West Africans, because they had an expertise in rice farming, and that became a huge cash crop in South Carolina.

But also the fact that this is a place that had a spectacular Huguenot population. It had a spectacular, and still does have, one of the oldest Jewish populations in the southern United States. So it’s got all of this history. The history is this remarkable swirling tempest that is everything that is the United States. It creates this remarkable kind of fecund groundwork for creativity and artistry.

I don’t think Menotti kind of had that entire view; he just sort of landed in the place because of its outward beauty, its venues, et cetera, the port city. I think he kind of maybe intrinsically understood its deeply historical import. But between all of that, you have this remarkable 17-day festival. It’s the country’s premier performing arts festival. You don’t have a festival in the United States where you can see Brandi Carlile or Renee Fleming and then see a world premiere play under one roof.

Porgy and Bess, Spoleto Festival USA 2016 (Photo: Julia Lynn Photography)

Can you share more about Spoleto’s programming in general?

Spoleto is roughly 110 to 120 events in a 17-day period. So, five and a half concerts a day, more or less. We have like 50,000 ticket holders over those 17 days. (It’s not as big as Jazz Fest, which has 200,000 ticket holders.) But it’s very expansive in the kind of art that we bring in.

There are definitely local darlings that we have at the festival, like Quentin Baxter, who’s a multi-Grammy award-winning jazz drummer. He is a fixture at the festival. And then we have performers who often come back because they feel a kind of kinship with Spoleto, Charleston, and Southern culture. So you'd see that with some New Orleans performers, like Trombone Shorty, who really loves to come here. You can see that with the Punch Brothers, Kirstila—folks who like to come back a lot.

But you really do think of Spoleto as a place of new daring work that hasn’t been seen before. In addition to the fact that we are a multidisciplinary festival that is doing all of these different things, one of the main things that we do is that we premiere and produce new work that’s never been seen before. I think probably most exemplified by our 2022 world premiere of an opera by Rhiannon Giddens, the banjo superstar, and Michael Ables, the composer of those remarkable soundtracks for Jordan Peele films. He composed the soundtrack to Get Out and Nope, et cetera. They co-composed an opera called Omar, which was based on an enslaved West African who was sold into bondage in Charleston, in Gadsden’s Wharf, just down the street from where it was premiered in 1807. That piece went on to win the Pulitzer Prize the following year, in 2023, for the Pulitzer Prize for Music.

Next year, which is our 50th anniversary, we’ve got a huge list of new works that we are commissioning and premiering, which are very exciting. I would categorize some of them as worldwide artistic events.

Spoleto Festival USA 2016: 40th Season Celebration Concert

Can you give us a preview of what attendees can expect in 2026?

This year, we’re doing a world premiere play by Dennis O’Hare, the Tony winner. He won the Tony for the remarkable baseball play, Take Me Out. He’s a really great actor as well. He’s been in everything from True Blood through to American Horror Story through to Milk and The Proposal. He’s one of those people who’s in all of these different films.

[O’Hare’s] new play, George and George, is a hilarious romp on something that actually happened. In 1778, George Washington was in Valley Forge freezing his butt off. His troops were in the doldrums; everything was kind of going wrong. And he decides in this moment—this is the true story—to put on a play. He put on Cato by Joseph Addison. And I just love the idea that [despite] battle plans and supply chains and the precipice of the revolution, he’s just like, live auditions, let’s start a call. That’s kind of the vibe of this comedy.

Dennis O’Hare and his co-writer and director, Lisa Peterson, came up with George and George because it was also the favorite play of George III. And George Washington also put that play on at a point in time where drama and theater were actually forbidden by the colonial government. He understood it’s something we’re all trying to understand 250 years on, which is the inception of the birth of this country, of the idea of freedom of expression. And that’s something that I find very inspiring as well.

We have a U.S. premiere production by Scottish Ballet based on The Life of Mary, Queen of Scots, which I saw in Edinburgh last year, and which is an enthralling production. We also have a U.S. premiere production of a new production by Circa and Opera Queensland in Australia of a 1698 opera by Henry Purcell called Dido and Aeneas. It’s based on Virgil’s Aeneid, and it’s being done with trapeze artists and tightrope walkers. Spoleto is a festival that revels in the spectacle.

Band of Horses, Spoleto, Spoleto Festival USA

Interview edited for length and clarity.

Event Information:
Spoleto Festival
May 22, 2026–June 7, 2026
Various Venues in Charleston, South Carolina, U.S.A.

Spoleto Festival: Website | Instagram | Facebook

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Spoleto Festival.

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Mixed-media artist Marie Lavallee is a great reminder that creativity doesn’t have to follow just one path. She first fell in love with painting in high school, went on to build a career as a goldsmith, and then found her way back to painting after turning 50. Although she shifted mediums, traces of her earlier craft remain ever-present—Lavallee incorporates elements of gold and copper leaf into her striking portraits of birds and woodland animals.

From barn owls and quails to pigeons and crows, Lavallee has painted an impressive range of avian animals. Each piece is created on a wooden panel layered with geometric shapes of metal leaf, which she then paints over to add extra depth. Her feathered subjects are carefully rendered with layers of fine brushstrokes, creating a rich texture that looks just like real plumage.

Though birds are her focus, Lavallee has recently turned to woodland mammals, creating portraits of foxes, hares, squirrels, and mice in her distinct style. She often pairs two animals together—a mammal and a bird, two mammals, or a bird and an insect—capturing the close-knit biodiversity of the woodland.

Lavallee’s stunning, nature-inspired work was recently exhibited at The Other Art Fair in Los Angeles, where she was one of the stand-out artists. We recently caught up with her to delve deeper into her practice. Read on for My Modern Met’s exclusive interview.

When and how did you first get into painting?

I loved painting when I was a kid, and it was such a fun way to express myself. My mom signed me up for a community class, and we even had an exhibition! I was so bummed when one of my paintings had a red dot. I felt like I had totally bombed! Tears of despair turned into tears of joy once I understood what the red dot meant.

How did your time at the Sylvia Araya Painting Academy shape the way you see and approach art today?

When I was a high school student in Quebec City, I found solace in painting lessons at Sylvia Araya’s Painting Academy at night. It was a safe haven during a time of upheaval.

She taught me to look beyond the surface, to see the intricate layers of colors and light in the world around me. Silvia was a cultured, exotic, and internationally acclaimed painter and a generous teacher. She was using colors I had never imagined. Living in a world wrapped in white for most of the year, frozen in snow, her colors were a brilliant contrast to my environment. She had assistants who had studied at L’Ecole Des Beaux Arts in France, and they were always a source of encouragement. It was my happy space.

I hear the echoes of her lessons when I start mixing colors. My home studio is my current happy space.

What draws you to birds and woodland animals as your primary subjects?

Birds are my passion, and I’m drawn to their vibrant colors and unique textures. They are goofy with tons of personality.

I primarily use a fine rigger paintbrush, and I adore layering colors with delicate strokes to create rich textures.

As a child, I was captivated by the swallows and chipmunks that lived near our cottage. The Barn Swallows would swoop down on us when we got too close to their nests, and I was mesmerized by how their feathers shimmered in the sunlight. It was incredible to make eye contact with these amazing creatures. To me, it felt like magic. Right now, I’m trying to capture that special feeling—when an animal and someone watching it both recognize each other.

Do you observe these animals in real life, work from photographs, or build them from imagination?

Living in a very urban environment, I work mainly from photo references. I do quite a bit of research online and then use bits and pieces of a lot of reference to paint a subject, like using the beak of a crow, with the feet of another crow and the body position of yet another crow, I piece all that together to paint the crow that I have in mind.

I’ve been adding some fun, whimsical touches to the feather work on my birds lately, it adds a dimension to the work that I find just so enchanting.

Is there a particular species or creature you feel especially connected to?

I especially enjoy painting California quails and roadrunners. When we first moved to our home in Southern California, a flock of California Quails visited our backyard, and I was instantly captivated! They’re so adorable with their little head feathers bobbing as they wander around.

Roadrunners like to dash by as I walk trails around my home, and I find them incredibly enchanting.

But my absolute favorite bird is a barn owl. I feel a connection to their quiet and observant nature, their excellent camouflage, and how hard they are to spot during the day.

Your work pairs highly detailed animals with bold, graphic shapes. What inspired that contrast?

Finding my own artistic voice was quite the journey! I’ve always been enchanted by a modern Zen look, especially the powerful contrast between a bold, peaceful background and a beautifully detailed subject painted in a classic style. As a graduate goldsmith with a background in jewelry, I’ve always been fascinated by metals, especially gold and copper.

The moment everything clicked for me was when I started using wood panel as an aesthetic element in my mixed-media paintings.

The tear-drop background shape is a portal, halo, or sun-moon element, becoming a quiet part of the artwork. I paint on birch panels with rounded corners, which gives the whole piece a special look that really makes the vision pop.

Putting a detailed subject against a contemporary background gives a fresh take on something that’s been around for ages. I want to give the Audubon style of painting birds a new twist.

After years in the jewelry industry, what made you return to painting, and did it feel like picking up where you left off or starting anew?

When I turned 50, I had a life altering experience, and I felt like it was time to rethink everything. Now or never….Right?

One of my dreams was to get back into fine arts and start painting again. Around that time, my youngest son took this amazing photo of a steel pigeon, and I just HAD to paint it. I actually painted it five times! I was completely back in love with the creative process.

I felt so free to go back to my first love, and I had a lot to learn to find my own style. I loved every part of that journey, even the challenges.

What draws you specifically to materials like gold and copper leaf?

That’s where my inner goldsmith shines! I absolutely adore how the transparent colors blend beautifully with the metal leaf. Sometimes, I like to add a unique touch by applying fine bits of colored metal leaf over the painting.

I suppose I’m a bit of a magpie—I’m drawn to anything that sparkles!

How do you see your work evolving in the coming years?

I’ve been challenging myself by adding woodland creatures into my work. This chapter will eventually reach its end and my thoughts will drift to new ideas, but I’m not in a rush to close this one just yet. I always feel so happy in the studio. Trust the process.

Marie Lavallee: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Marie Lavallee.

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“First Day of School”

In Pam Connolly’s mind, childhood isn’t simply a state of being. It’s also a landscape full of creative possibilities, teeming with memories that demand interpretation. For more than 30 years, Connolly has done exactly that, returning to her childhood over and over again to mine her experiences for artistic meaning. What she finds herself revisiting most often, though, is the furniture store her parents owned.

“I grew up in the 1960s and 70s in a suburb just outside New York City,” Connolly tells My Modern Met. “My parents owned a furniture store that was at the center of our family’s universe—everything revolved around it. As a child, I spent endless hours roaming the maze of rooms there, creating intricate stories about the families who lived there.”

Much of Connolly’s work is, as she explains, a response to these “childhood impressions and memories,” remixing them through themes of home, domesticity, and the American dream. Her ongoing Wishmaker project, for instance, explores litho-printed tin dollhouses, a popular toy manufactured throughout the 1960s. In their neat and standardized interiors, these dollhouses seem not only to introduce but also accustom young girls to domestic labor, to the role of a traditional housewife committed to her suburban home. That fact alone was enough to fascinate Connolly, but there was also a sense of familiarity that intrigued her.

“The rooms inside these tin dollhouses are strikingly similar to my parents’ furniture store and our house growing up,” she says. “Peering through the windows like an oversized Alice in Wonderland, I roam through these tiny spaces with my camera, transported back to my childhood.”

Columbus Drive, another ongoing project, contends with similar ideas. Connolly first began the series while scanning family photographs from her mother’s album, which reminded her of her beloved potholder loom from childhood. “The square photos and the square loom, both from that era, seemed to belong together,” she adds. It didn’t take long for the artist to combine both media, meticulously cutting her photographic scans and reassembling them with colored thread. The resulting reconstructions challenge expectation with their fragmented, almost pixelated compositions, a testament to the precariousness of memory.

“As I create patterns and maneuver the canvas under and over, again and again, the image is slowly revealed,” Connolly remarks. “In this way, a personal history is both remembered and reconstructed—visibly imperfect and ephemeral.”

My Modern Met had the chance to speak with Pam Connolly about her creative practice and how notions of childhood and home have defined her work for decades. Read on for our exclusive interview with the artist.

“Pam and Lovee”

What first drew you to photography as an artistic medium?

I began photographing at 17, during my senior year of high school. It was the first big thing I bought with my own money, which was empowering. Through the lens of this beautifully functional object, everything looked different—hyper-real and abstract at the same time. In college, I had the life-changing experience of learning to print in the darkroom; watching images slowly float to the surface in the developer was magical. From that moment until today, I remain fascinated with the metamorphosis from the latent to the printed image.

I photograph because I enjoy seeing. To me, photography is a physical response to the world around me. I feel the need to capture things as I see them, in part to share them with others, in the hope that they will see me.

“Lois, Take the Picture!”

From the “Wishmaker” project

What compels you about themes of home, and how do you express this throughout your practice?

I grew up in the 1960s and 70s in a suburb just outside New York City. We lived on a block of newly built colonials, one next to the other. You knew which house was yours by the color of the shutters (ours were pink). My parents owned a furniture store that was at the center of our family’s universe—everything revolved around it. As a child, I spent endless hours roaming the maze of rooms there, creating intricate stories about the families who lived there. The store was a world filled with wallpaper, wing chairs, and window treatments that blocked the sunlight. Our family home was a replica of this fantasy, a duplicate of the showroom. My photographic work is in response to these childhood impressions and memories.

“Mom and British Officer”

“Pam and Flower Girl”

From the “Wishmaker” project

What was the impetus behind the Columbus Drive series?

Columbus Drive is an offshoot of Wishmaker, a previous project, exploring the world of litho-printed tin dollhouses from the 1960s. These colorful toys were manufactured for baby boomer girls growing up in suburbs across the United States, and sold at local five-and-dime stores. As objects, they offer a snapshot of the American Dream, and the roles young girls were being groomed to fill. The rooms inside these tin dollhouses are strikingly similar to my parents’ furniture store and our house growing up. Peering through the windows like an oversized Alice in Wonderland, I roam through these tiny spaces with my camera, transported back to my childhood.

“Dad and Rembrandt”

From the “Wishmaker” project

Why did you gravitate toward vintage potholder looms for the project? 

Recently, while scanning square snapshots from my mother’s photo albums to create a family archive, I remembered my much-loved potholder loom from childhood. The square photos and the square loom, both from that era, seemed to belong together, and the idea emerged to combine them.

“Lois’s Bat Mitzvah”

From the “Wishmaker” project

How does fiber art contribute to the project’s overall narrative and interest in domesticity?

The use of fiber in the original potholders led me to do the same with Columbus Drive. Historically, fiber was equated with “women’s work” and “hobby.” My intention is to bring these small weaving looms into the realm of art.

The act of cutting up and reassembling images using canvas and colored thread is a mediation on family, history, and memory. As I create patterns and maneuver the canvas under and over, again and again, the image is slowly revealed. In this way, a personal history is both remembered and reconstructed—visibly imperfect and ephemeral.

“Mom and Yellow Lamp”

What does Columbus Drive reveal about memory, childhood, and the expectations surrounding growing up?

While working on Wishmaker, I began to think of other toys from this era designed to prepare girls for their future as housewives. At this time, the division between girl play and boy play was sharply delineated. Boys played Cowboys and Indians and truck drivers, while girls’ play revolved around motherhood, housekeeping, and cooking. Playing with tin dollhouses and the potholder looms reinforced skills girls would someday need.

“Lauren in My Room”

What do you hope people take away from Columbus Drive and your work as a whole?

With both my Wishmaker and Columbus Drive, I hope that the viewer will take a step back from the present and reflect on memories and impressions from their own childhoods. How do the towns, houses, and families we grow up in shape us into the people we are today? I also hope viewers will be able to temporarily suspend their adult worries, and simply play.

From the “Wishmaker” project

Pam Connolly: Website | Instagram

My Modern Met granted permission to feature photos by Pam Connolly.

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