Inspired by Robin D.G. Kelley’s book of the same name, Freedom Dreams at the Barnes Foundation in Philadelphia was framed as an exhibit of experimental, archival short films made by Black filmmakers Arthur Jafa, Tourmaline, Garrett Bradley, Ja’Tovia Gary, and David Hartt that held up a mirror to the Black experience in honor of America’s 250th anniversary. Exhibited in the Roberts Gallery and sponsored by Comcast NBCUniversal (with financial support from other individual donors and funds), Freedom Dreams was on view from April 12—August 9, 2026. The exhibit was co-curated by Maori Karmael Holmes, Chief Executive and Artistic Officer of BlackStar Projects, and James Claiborne, Fleischner Family Vice President for Engagement at the Barnes. To varying degrees of success, the filmmakers used archives of the distant past, popular social media videos, and original footage to explore the time warp that compulsively repeats history and refuses to confront discrimination against Black Americans. The context of this exhibit lies with Albert Barnes himself and the collection he left behind. One question that circles the exhibition: Can an institution stage its own reckoning?

America’s 250th birthday year has been turbulent, and Freedom Dreams was one of many exhibitions within that commotion. The exhibit offered radical imagination and reckoning as an antidote to our current times. Historically, Albert Barnes’s “affinity for African American art and culture” could be seen in anonymous donations to the NAACP, the Association for the Study of Negro Life and History, the Armstrong Association, the National Urban League, and his longstanding partnership with Lincoln University.1 Within his collection is a small group of paintings by Horace Pippin, a Black American artist Barnes helped promote. Barnes befriended fellow Philadelphia native Alain Locke (a leader in the Harlem Renaissance) while Locke was a professor at Howard University.2 They bonded over a love of African sculptures, but that’s how their relationship also fell apart. Where Barnes saw how African sculptures inspired European modernism,3 Locke found the same sculptures fascinating because they could inspire Black American artists.4

Within the Barnes collection, you’ll notice that many of these African sculptures and masks are housed in glass cases. The Barnes Foundation collection suffers from an exoticism and othering of African art while creating a distinct minimization of Black art. So in addition to the Barnes Foundation being moved to Philadelphia from Merion, Pennsylvania—against Albert Barnes’s wishes5—it’s important to acknowledge how Black American art fits into Barnes’s view of art worthy of his collection and mission. He was shortsighted in seeing how African art could be expanded beyond its relationship to whiteness.6

In line with this distinction, Freedom Dreams is in a different part of the museum entirely than the historic collection. All five films in the exhibition were created between 2016 and 2023, before Trump’s second term. Kelley writes in the 20th-anniversary edition of the Freedom Dreams book, “If anything, freedom dreams are born of fascist nightmares, or better yet, born against fascist nightmares.” The Trump administration has been relentlessly targeting museums for censorship. The Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C., is in danger of being bulldozed since the 47th president can’t have his way with it. The President's House Site next to the Liberty Bell originally included the story of the nine people George Washington enslaved in his Philadelphia residence, including how he rotated them out of Pennsylvania every six months so the state’s 1780 gradual abolition law couldn’t free them. In today’s America, the hypocrisy of white supremacy cannot be easily made available to the public. On July 15, 2026, the panels have been amended, and U.S. Park Police patrol the area in case anyone refuses to fall in line with the fascism afoot.

Rachel Hunter Himes writes in her piece, Museum Pessimism, “Museums, as symbolic institutions charged with determining what counts as culture and exhibiting it to us, have long been the front lines for fights over representation, appropriation, and cultural property.” In Trump’s America, monuments and cultural institutions that amplify the plight of Black Americans dating back to slavery are threats to fascist agendas. The stories that cultural institutions choose to exhibit by living Black artists and filmmakers reflect what elements of the Black American spirit continue to persist and survive in 2026.

In reviewing the films themselves, technical aspects of Tourmaline’s Pollinator (2022) dilute the intended sentimental Black and trans sisterhood between Marsha P. Johnson and the filmmaker. Tourmaline executes a whimsical archival conversation between Marsha’s 1992 funeral and the filmmaker’s liberating trans experience that sets out to offer “a meditative exploration of Black transgender freedom, memory, and the natural world.” The shortcoming of trying to externalize a meditation is that the viewer cannot achieve transcendence through a secondhand experience. The archival footage in the film is overstretched and blurred. The black-and-white footage filmed by Tourmaline is higher resolution, but it’s not entirely clear how this is in conversation with Marsha’s funeral proceedings.

Tourmaline wears a white gown and a mask-crown of white flowers such as orchids that engulfs her face like a beehive. Marsha often wore a colorful flower crown on her head, and the flower crown adornments are intercut with mourners dropping colorful flowers into the Hudson River. Tourmaline’s choice to make the ethereal footage of herself black and white reverses the audience’s ubiquitous understanding of color. Present-day footage shot in black-and-white inverts the convention. After the river footage, the next sequence is a close-up of Tourmaline’s white gown cascading into a pond like Sir John Everett Millais’s Ophelia. As the camera lingers on the wet fabric, we see that Tourmaline is not reclined in the water as the fabric implies. She is erect. As a viewer, I was expecting her to be submerged in the water because usually when a Black transgender woman is in the news it’s because she’s been murdered. Marsha P. Johnson’s body was found floating in the Hudson River.

Pollinator flirts with the intersection of nature as a place of freedom, as a place to perform your gender with only the earth’s pulchritude as witness, and nature as a place of survival. Where Tourmaline explores freedom, Marsha sheltered LGBTQ+ folks from sleeping outside through STAR, Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries, an organization and homeless shelter for transgender youth that she co-founded with Sylvia Rivera. Tourmaline’s film attempts to define a reality where the past and the present are in equilibrium. Although we see Tourmaline floating in a zero-gravity space, where the laws of physics don’t exist, while watching this film in the present, the past is being repeated through the identification laws passed in Kansas and the repeal of trans rights legislation across the country.

Arthur Jafa’s Love is the Message, the Message is Death (2016) is scored by Kanye West’s “Ultralight Beam.” This film is a disruptive time capsule of archival internet and social media footage. As an audience member, as soon as you hear the first beat of “Ultralight Beam,” you have to decide how you feel about West. Are you sitting through this song or leaving because you can’t support a Black agent of white supremacy? Jafa’s use of archive is an assault on the senses. It’s like getting into a rideshare late at night, and while you fight to stay awake, the driver weaves in and out of traffic lanes like they’re playing Grand Theft Auto. Maybe they’re just trying to stay awake too.

Before the 2016 presidential election was the last time anything felt normal. When I went to watch this film for the second time, I saw a summer camp of Black and Brown teenagers glued to the screen. The teens had to have been born between 2010 and 2014. How can you watch this film if you don’t remember 2016, the year it debuted? Where a viewer might have gaps in the cultural memory explored in the film, Jafa’s use of West’s track fills in the rest. Some of the opening images of the film are as follows: President Obama singing “Amazing Grace,” Earl Sweatshirt from Odd Future, Black church ladies being overpowered by their love of the Lord, a Black woman saying, “We are not aliens,” a Black boy screaming at his high, nodding mother to “WAKE UP,” Michael Jordan playing for the Chicago Bulls, someone doing the dougie. Then the music cuts.

Instead of hearing the chorus, you hear a Black woman saying her kids are in the car as a police man leads her away from the car, handcuffed. This scene is unsettling for many reasons. If you’re a certain age and type of person, you may have expected to see some type of symbol of Obama-Era Optimism referenced again when the music stopped. If you’re like me and were in your twenties using Twitter in 2016, you’re trying to remember this woman’s name and if the police killed her. Sandra Bland? No, she was by herself in that car in Texas. Breonna Taylor? No, she was in her house. And you dig through the “Black People Killed by Police” folder in your brain until the music starts again, you’re looking at footage from Hurricane Katrina and trying to choose between nostalgia for Obama-Era Optimism or Bush-Era Incompetence.7 In the last moments of the film, the music does not stop when a Black father is teaching his kindergartener son what to do when a police officer stops him. Because this is part of the experience of being Black in America. While the music is playing and new dances are being invented, Black people are grieving with our heads on a swivel. Jafa’s self-described Black Visual Intonation technique in which “things” are put “in affective proximity to one another” is successful here as the film ends with James Brown dropping to his knees during a performance in his iconic pose.8

Arthur Jafa and Ja’Tovia Gary utilize the internet “to expand the archive of what is imaginable, offering us pathways toward freedom precisely when our dominant systems disclose them.” Gary’s Quiet As It’s Kept (2023) is the only room that utilizes set design. The film is presented in a white room with eight retro diner chairs creating a semicircle. A retro white refrigerator erupting with orange marigolds is nestled in the corner of the room, bringing to life two motifs from Gary’s inspiration for her film, Toni Morrison’s first novel, The Bluest Eye. The refrigerator represents the “refrigerator mother” descriptor assigned to Pauline’s cold disposition towards her child. Claudia and Frieda give Pecola, pregnant with her father’s child, their unsold marigold seeds, and after they are planted, they do not bloom—symbolizing the death of Pecola’s rape baby.

Morrison’s book is about colorism and a disenfranchised, dark-skinned Black girl who wishes for blue eyes and whiteness. In response, Gary constructs a modern-day exploration of how colorism has impacted the self-esteem of dark-skinned women in today’s society. The film features multiple interviews of Lil’ Kim. In the first, she is still a dark-skinned woman wearing a blonde wig, colored contacts, and blushes over “getting love finally.” In the next interview, she says, “I love what God gave me,” while wearing a colorful wig and contacts like a character in The Fifth Element. Lil’ Kim’s thirty-year relationship with her skin and Blackness in the public eye is a tragic story and cautionary tale about the dangers of colorism and featurism. After these interviews, a tearful Thandie Newton decided in 2021 to go by her government name, Thandiwe, after a thirty-year career, apologizes to dark-skinned Black women for being seen as “the chosen one” for roles because of her fairer skin tone.

Gary interrogates the dark-skinned woman experience of existing on the cusp of hypervisibility and invisibility until someone tries to humble you. This experience is further exacerbated as we see the social media footage of a dark-skinned female KFC cashier being harassed by a male customer who says she gave Antoine her number. This man has clearly entered the store to harass her for social media views. His attempt is thwarted by her coworkers who step up to defend her integrity, but he is successful in making her feel small and creating a viral video regardless. This moment is juxtaposed earlier in the film with a Gen-Z dark-skinned Black, southern woman asking a young Black man, “Football or Black History Month?” To her surprise, he says “Black History Month” and flirts with her.

Quiet As It’s Kept ends with an interpretative dance by Bianca Melidor, a dark-skinned Black woman immersed in deep blue light. This movement piece cleanses the palette after seeing a reclamation of the color blue and wincing through young gays, whites, and Asians blackfishing with blaccents. It would be interesting to see this dance intercut with the archival footage for moments of respite. But maybe it’s better if rest is earned. Gary relies on social media archives and music entertainment interviews throughout Lil’ Kim’s career to provide everyday dark-skinned Black women a voice and narrative with the academic and sagacious eloquence of Toni Morrison and Toni Morrison scholar, Dr. Kokahvah Zauditu-Selassie—two light-skinned women well-spoken about the impacts of colorism. In the film, Zauditu-Selassie says that “dissociative personality” is when you over-identify with your oppressor. This toxic survival technique is harmful to the Black community and is seen in Lime Kiln Club Field Day (1913), featured in Garrett Bradley’s America (2019).

The 1913 film is the oldest known surviving film starring an all-Black cast with Bert Williams in blackface. The film is about a man who tries to win over the local beauty, and because of Williams’s blackface, his fellow Black actors could forgo blackface since his cosmetics would have made white audiences comfortable. America (2019) is composed of 12 short films set between 1915 and 1926 that blend together but could have benefitted from one cohesive idea ending before another began. Bradley’s film is presented in a Black room on crossed white flags, and the images create perpendicular bends on the floor and wall. Her repeated use of Lime Kiln Club Field Day juxtaposed to newly shot footage creates a surreal effect and explores the performance of Blackness in relation to aspiration.

At one point in America, we see men running long distances, subsequently see minstrel men sitting and pointing. This combination of images is reminiscent of the typical Black stereotypical movie where a Black boy is desperate to make it out of the hood, wants more for himself, and is also willing to go the distance. Meanwhile, his peers and neighbors think he’s a fool for having aspirations beyond his ZIP code. Paired with the architecture of the space, the film communicates the hallucinatory nature of aspirations due to the expectations of community.

Unlike the other four films, Philadelphia-based David Hartt’s On Exactitude in Science (Watts) (2021) features only live-action footage. Hartt’s installation is blindingly bright like a Ford F-450 with high beams driving towards you at midnight. Instead of archival footage, Hartt mostly uses what would be considered b-roll in the film industry. Interiors of rooms and exteriors of streets documenting Watts, a historically Black neighborhood in Los Angeles. Accompanied by these shots void of people, except occasional insert shots of the narrator, is Watts native and Killer of Sheep director Charles Burnett’s voiceover narration. In contrast to Jafa’s use of archival footage featuring an abundance of bodies, Hartt’s present-day footage features dilapidated houses and abandoned store signs, highlighting what has been lost and what has stayed the same.

According to Hartt, he utilized a gimbal for camera movement and photogrammetry “which is a digital model created by making hundreds of images of a site to compile a 3d model” in collaboration with the studio, Actual Objects. The way the camera moves through the spaces of the film makes you feel like you’re getting indoctrinated into leisurely imperialism while playing a video game like Call of Duty. As if you’re there to occupy the space, survey the scene, loot what’s valuable, and maintain a sense of voyeurism, leisure, and superiority. The film is methodical, eerie, and lacks the coddling nature of the other four films. The title of On Exactitude in Science (Watts) comes from Jorge Luis Borges’s one-paragraph short story of the same name. Hartt’s film extracts the themes of decay, empire, and the colonial vanity of cartography from the story.

In Maya S. Cade’s essay, The Cinematic Rhythm Sings America, she quotes cultural theorist Stuart Hall: “An archive may be largely about ‘the past,’ but it is always ‘re-read’ in the light of the present and the future.” Arthur Jafa and Ja’Tovia Gary use the internet as an archive to regurgitate social movements and viral videos to speak to the cultural relevance and endurance of Black Americans. Tourmaline collages herself and Marsha P. Johnson’s funeral as an attempt to create a meditation about trans women lineage. Garrett Bradley uses collage, live action, and archive to paint the aspirational nature of surrealism. David Hartt forgoes archive and utilizes images and decay to create a site-specific work about Watts and the Black Angeleno experience of Charles Burnett. To varying degrees of success, the five films’ archival techniques show us that without addressing the persistent disturbance in civility—colorism, racism, transphobia, and urban renewal—we will be stuck in a time warp where we’re all uncomfortable with the stagnation created by the lack of motivation to resolve discrimination towards Black people. Freedom Dreams reads as an effort for the Barnes Foundation to reconcile Albert Barnes’s shortcomings in seeing the breadth of Blackness outside of its relationship to whiteness in a collection he built as a classroom, not a public museum.9

Christl Stringer is a surrealist, filmmaker, writer, and ice cream connoisseur. She traps stray cats in her spare time, which makes her nocturnal occasionally, even though she is a morning person. She writes quippy essays about culture, fine art, and ice cream flavors on her Substack, In the Lick of It.

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Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between myth-making and the historical archive. The publication has produced print magazines and digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, public programming, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

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Space On Space: Congrats on your first show in Philadelphia. Adaptive Reuse is installed inside the Cherry Street Pier, which is itself an adaptive-reuse building. Once a municipal shipping pier on the Delaware, it is now used for artist studios and public space. What does a working industrial space give the work that a white-walled gallery can’t?

Loretta Park: Thank you! I am really happy that I got an opportunity to share my work with Philadelphia! I am so charmed by the city, and I really appreciate that there is so much exciting energy and momentum for art in the city. An industrial public space allows my work to be understood in connection with the rawness of the metal containers, beams, and the unfinished ground, while highlighting the contrasts: the softness of the fabrics vs. the harshness of the metal, the exuberance of neon colors vs. the natural colors of the space, and fluid and flexible lines vs. the straight edges of the metal containers and beams. At the same time, it is not just these contrasts that exist.

My work is made up of saturated, almost overwhelming colors, and when they cut through the industrial space, I think it makes the space a bit more humorous, less serious, and raw. The fact that the doors to the pier are not closed but wide open allows people to enter the pier risk-free, which I think invites people to more freely engage with my work. I am always thinking about the accessibility of my work both in terms of material choices and viewing. Recognizing some items that make up my work lowers the barriers to viewing and interpreting the art. When my work is shown in public space, that barrier to entry drops even further because people don’t feel like they need permission to enter. While a white-walled gallery can offer a sense of “neutrality,” a space where my work is less impacted by external elements and context, a public space widens the opportunity for the artwork to exist and be understood in constant interaction with the people and the architecture of the space.

SOS: The show was curated by Leah Triplett. How did you two meet? How did the show originate?

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This conversation is part of a series called What the Discourse?!, which unpacks how art becomes a conversation and how to steer it. This series will include case studies about artists throughout history as well as interviews with culture workers shaping art discourse. Next up, Leah Triplett.

Interview questions were crafted by Lauren Etchells.

Leah Triplett is a curator and writer based in Philadelphia. Currently the Curator of Contemporary Art at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (PAFA), she broadly focuses on transnationalism and interdisciplinary artistic production, particularly where sculpture, performance, craft, and materiality converge. For PAFA, she coorganized (with Dr. Lea C. Stephenson) the 2026 reinstallation of the permanent collection of 283 objects, including the reinterpretation and presentation of artworks from 1960 to the present. Leah has also spearheaded the return of the Morris Gallery, PAFA’s exhibition space for artists who have not previously had an institutional showcase. Exhibitions for PAFA include Kati Gegenheimer: We’ve Only Just Begun (2026), the East Coast presentation of William Villalongo: Myths & Migrations (2025), New Horizons: Recent Contemporary Acquisitions (2025), and Artists as Cultivators (2024). Previously, she was the curator for Boston’s Now + There, organizing thirty temporary, site-specific public artworks throughout the city and facilitating the Public Art Accelerator for emerging artists interested in bringing their work beyond the studio. She has also organized exhibitions for Boston University Gallery, Praise Shadows Art Gallery, Abigail Ogilvy Gallery, Trestle Gallery, the Herter Gallery, and others. Her writing has appeared in publications such as ArtAsiaPacific, ArtNet News, The Brooklyn Rail, C-Mag, Flash Art, Hyperallergic, Public Art Dialogue, and Sculpture. She taught critical writing in the painting and sculpture MFA programs at Boston University from 2021 to 2023. She is currently the Mary Ann Unger Estate Fellow, researching the artist’s work in the 1970s and 1980s. In 2025, she was a visiting curator at Fire Station Artists’ Studios in Dublin. In 2026, the Rabkin Foundation supported her research on Irish contemporary art with a Travel Grant.

Space On Space: You’ve worked in New York, Boston, and have been in Philadelphia for about three years now. What has surprised you most about Philadelphia’s arts scene? What do you think Philadelphia offers artists that you’ve found to be unique?

Leah Triplett: Philadelphia’s artists have been some of the friendliest and most welcoming of any city I’ve lived in. There’s a truly generous spirit among artists here!

In terms of the ecosystem, I’m really impressed by the depth and breadth of artist-run spaces. Each has its own voice and vision, distinct from those of the artists who operate it. There are also so many places to experiment and try things that may not work, for artists and curators alike. In many arts ecosystems outside New York or LA, because there are fewer spaces overall, there’s an intrinsic pressure for things to be good or successful, however you define that. Here, there are actual galleries, or simply walls or footprints, where people can test ideas or display strategies that may not work, and that’s just fine. Spaces to fail let you iterate and hone your thinking while also sharing it with a community for feedback and support. That kind of space becomes the foundation for an ecosystem that can survive and thrive.

You didn’t ask this, but I’ll offer what I wish this ecosystem had more of: a more robust commercial scene and clearer pathways to diverse income streams for artists and curators alike. It surprises me that, despite so many vibrant artist-run spaces and places to experiment, there isn’t a clear conduit to the next step—the kind that can sustain a creative practice long-term—as there is, say, in Chicago. I’m also stunned by the lack of art writing, though it’s exciting that publications like Space On Space and SENSUS are emerging and serving as connective tissue. I hope PAFA’s contemporary program through Morris Gallery can help address some of these issues, but no single initiative will holistically “solve” them; more structural change is needed.

SOS: Before coming to PAFA, you worked in mostly smaller galleries and artist-run spaces. How does working at a larger institution like PAFA influence your curatorial approach?

LT: I’ve worked a little bit everywhere! I’m especially grateful for the years I spent in public art in Boston because they honed not only my logistical acumen and sensitivity to audience, but also introduced me to the idea that any wall, any sidewalk—any space, really—could be a place for display. That might sound trite or sanguine, but the idea of possibility everywhere opened up my approach to context and placement, allowing me to follow the lead of the space and the object. I’m pretty intuitive when I place things, but that intuition comes only after a rigorous research process.

PAFA is the largest institution where I’ve worked in a curatorial role, and we also have the most space. We have several galleries for temporary exhibitions across two buildings, along with additional spaces for permanent-collection dialogues. So there’s more gallery space to think about, more ways for audiences to experience it, and, of course, the question of how all these spaces connect. Coming from smaller shops, I’m used to doing a bit of everything—which I have to say I love—but it’s really nice, and liberating, to have colleagues in marketing, for example, who can think about social media strategy so I don’t have to. It’s nice not to be a one-person band! I’m very collaborative by nature. In fact, I seldom do solo curatorial projects; I truly love co-curating. So it’s been gratifying to have more people to work with. At the same time, it has challenged me to clarify my ideas and vision earlier so I can bring colleagues across departments along with me. I love having two curators, a curatorial assistant, registrars, and preps to think aloud with, especially given the size and scope of the PAFA collection.

SOS: The PAFA galleries are not the typical neutral white cube. What are some of the unique opportunities and challenges that this space has presented for you?

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This conversation is part of a series called What the Discourse?!, which unpacks how art becomes a conversation and how to steer it. This series will include case studies about artists throughout history as well as interviews with culture workers shaping art discourse. Next up, Reisig and Taylor Contemporary in Los Angeles.

Reisig and Taylor Contemporary is a gallery and test site based in Los Angeles. As a medium for (art)work, the gallery operates through an evolving program at its primary location, as well as through off-site projects and collaborative presentations that take place locally and internationally. Actualized in Spring 2023, the gallery functions independently as an open source for artists, audiences, curators, collectors, and critics.

reisigandtaylorcontemporary.com

Space On Space: You’ve been critically thinking about the role of a gallery in society. I often find myself asking “what can art writing do and not do?” in times of societal and climate collapse. Briefly, can you explain what Reisig and Taylor Contemporary is and what your practice does?

Emily Reisig and Zach Baker of Reisig and Taylor Contemporary: Briefly—we are wondering if it is possible for a gallery to work honestly given the mythological systems in which The Gallery emerges. Our practice is working-through the means of the production of our gallery: working-through its foundational materials, structures, relations, economies, and histories. Working with our gallery as a work among works. Because where something acts like something else is when ideology takes-place. Paul de Man defines ideology as ‘drama mistaken for tragedy.’ We agree with this. A gallery is tragic, and tragedy is about where and how something takes place in view of others: it is about a repeating process that is never the same. We are not dramatic; we produce a kind of difference—in the same place, over and over.

SOS: As I orient myself to your space and practice, I notice on your website much reflection on not only what Reisig and Taylor Contemporary is, but also what a gallery is and what an art market is, etc. The way you’ve oriented your curatorial practice itself feels a bit like a Duchampian institutional analysis. Is this an accurate read on what you are doing, or is there something else going on?

RTC: We would never want to be Duchampian since our lives are already enough of a urinal in the wrong context; however, this ‘not-wanting’ may very well lead us to exactly this place (of getting pissed-on, outside the bathroom). Though if we are allowed to piss on ourselves, then we would say that we are working along something like an institutional—or, really, general systemic analysis—in the vein of Elsa Baroness von Freytag-Loringhoven, whose work Duchamp admired and perhaps appropriated. (Appropriately, one of the works included in the exhibition—the lantern assemblage by Catherine Menard—carries this name as an homage or omen to her place in this history.)

We are open to falling in love with Duchamp, but we don’t want to be him. Maybe, like the Baroness, we want to fuck him, but that’s fair enough—no? In any case, what we mean to say is that Duchamp is a figure of speech: he’s “Duchampian.” And as soon as something like this becomes sayable, we’ve lost track of someone like this. At this point, Duchamp isn’t a person; he isn’t an artist, he isn’t anyone in particular beyond a citation that’s shared and repeated, but confused and baseless—or at least [b]anal. Excessive and excremental. So, for us, the question is: does Duchamp function within the context of the discourse his (Duchampian) work produces? And, in terms of the gallery, it’s a substitutional statement: does a gallery function within the context of the discourse produced by The Gallery? We don’t want to stop asking questions about what we are doing, or else we’ve done nothing at all. We are not interested in Macho Head Games. Or maybe we are, and we’ll have to come to terms with that.

SOS: I’m happy I was able to catch the tail end of D’étant donnés—evenₙ Good lucks get givenₙ₊₁ in Los Angeles while I was visiting. Though the show just concluded, can you share about how this exhibition directly invoking Duchamp came about?

RTC: Good lucks, mostly. We’d love to say that we are so in touch with everything going on that we knew this was perfect timing. So, we’ll say that, since we’d love to.

But if we start the scratching with the itching, then it was mostly a kind of tunnel vision. Often, we become completely obsessed with artists and works in a singular way before realizing that we’ve been seeing this everywhere.

We are rigorously idiotic. So, forgetting to the point of making any memory (of Duchamp) appear in a new form is a narcotic part of this invocation. We can’t remember Duchamp very well, but we also can’t forget him. And we were wondering why?! And it seems like a lot of people are wondering why in a similar way. He’s unavoidable. And we didn’t want to avoid him for much longer. So, we didn’t.

SOS: Why a show referencing Duchamp now, and why Étant donnés specifically?

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There’s something increasingly strange descending upon us, or being forced upon us—I’m not sure. I wrote this sentence a few days before smoke from the Canadian fires entered our lungs. But I think the strange is more than smoke. While Silicon Valley tech entrepreneurs seem to think that more tech is always a good thing, the reality is that people (particularly teens) are deeply dissatisfied with the direction technology is going. The rise of AI slop has increased distrust in technology and the companies responsible for it. Between that and the explosion of dissent against hyper-scale data center development (happening internationally), I am reluctantly hopeful that we the people can use our voices to advocate for change.

In Philadelphia, artists are exploring American mythology, utopia, craft techniques, and new technological processes. You’d think after covering this Semiquincentennial for the past few months, I’d know how to spell the word, but no, I still Google it every time. I’ve been digging deeper into exhibitions that accurately address the nation’s complicated history and Philadelphia’s significance within this moment. “We” The People, an exhibition at Brandywine Workshop and Archives organized by Alicia DeLarge and independent curator Zindzi Harley, addresses the question of who "we" are historically in the making of America. If this nation has any hope of healing, it needs to center the voices most disenfranchised and make decisions with the long view (children) in mind.

My therapist recently reminded me that the world is both terrible and beautiful. For the Fourth of July, I did nothing but stare at my daughter. Art has also been a thing that reminds me of beauty. And seeing it in person is essential.

Speaking of seeing art, I’m not sure if you noticed, but there’s a new PAM in town (Philly Art Map). Run by a Philly artist, PAM visualizes just how many exhibitions I’m missing each month. Space On Space is PAM’s editorial partner. You can sign up for a weekly email digest, see what galleries are open, and plan your art itinerary. There’s an option to contribute a hot take about art in the city.

Below are six standout exhibitions happening in Philadelphia this July and August 2026.

1. Procession Gallery’s Under the Dog Star is on view now through August 9, 2026, and it’s full of magical two-dimensional finds. The conceptual framing of this exhibition, curated by gallery owner Graham Cuddy, seems to put into pictures what I’ve been feeling about the strange reality of the present moment. This group show includes works by Jacob Davidson, Pomona Za, Emma Goldstein, Maria Michurina, and Chris McCall. We are living in the dog days of summer, and America’s 250th. The works on display—paintings and quilts—are analog. Some are medieval, like Davidson’s The Big Game, which includes a castle and what I take to be a knight or joker with a spear. Goldstein’s quilt, House of the Spiritualist, looks particularly glorious in the gallery’s morning sun. The quilt includes (friendly?) ghosts, quilts hanging from children’s beds, the moon in various phases, and individuals dressed in colonial garb. There’s a dark energy that lingers on Chris McCall’s paintings; even the titles are sinister: I Hope You Find Your Bike, Satan’s Helpers, Alone in the Park. One can also find a painting by Cuddy of a family of three watching a comet soar across the sky about to crash onto Earth. Their backs are turned from the viewer, so we will never know if their eyes are full of horror or delight. It’s all seemingly strange and oh-so-summer. Images like this always make me appreciate the very moment I'm alive, because you just never know when the sky might fall. Read our interview with Cuddy about Procession Gallery here.

2. FJORD’s Stoppage Time is a group show of soccer-themed works curated by Amira Pualwan, open now through August 8, 2026. The exhibition includes work by Mariel Capanna, David Lefkowitz, Henry Rosenberg, Deb Sokolow, and collaborative duo Robbie Trocchia and Chessa D. Timed to overlap with the FIFA World Cup and Philadelphia’s participation as a host city, this exhibition takes soccer very seriously. There are humorous, sophisticated, and educational aspects to the show. Formally, the exhibition is refined, minimal, pulled back. Nothing is dangling on the floor. Basic line, shape, color, form, and time are explored in Stoppage, a fresco painting by Capanna. There’s a sense of glitch in the television-sized abstract paintings by Lefkowitz. I was fascinated by Sokolow’s unfolded zine that traced the intricacies of FIFA’s non-profit organizational structure, which front-loads the financial burden to local host cities.
   
   FIFA’s marketing messaging proclaims “we are 26.” The use of “we” here feels like an attempt at oneness in the name of football, yet if you’ve been paying any attention to this year’s World Cup, oneness was not exactly reached. And since there is no utopia, it made perfect sense to include an absurdist performance called Spot Kick by Trocchia and Chessa D. The ending hilariously derails quickly into what I understood to be a very hydrating soccer ecstasy (everyone is mostly clothed, and you get to listen privately with headphones on so other gallery attendees are not shocked by the audio). Rosenberg’s The Educated Team is a colored pencil drawing evoking the serious playfulness of imagined behind-the-scenes professional soccer life, including kicking, stretching, reading, and more.

   
   Coinciding with Stoppage Time is a soccer zine made by Pualwan featuring numerous writers (including myself). The launch party will take place at the gallery on August 8, 2026, from 6–9 p.m.

3. Icebox Project Space’s Now, One with Everyone! is an experience. The title sounds like a religious slogan, but this show is neither horror nor utopia; it’s very Philadelphia. Icebox turned no artist away in the curation of the show. As an unjuried open-call exhibition consisting of 507 artworks, the best way to comprehend the display is to see it as one object—hence the title. It’s on view now through August 13, 2026. This is the third rendition of the unjuried open call, and it’s received the most submissions by far.

   
   One can find sculptural shrine-like installations in various corners of the massive warehouse space, and many surprise moments. I loved the narrow door one has to squeeze their body through. It’s like a corn maze, without the corn, or a Zen garden labyrinth, without the garden. The arrangement of hundreds of art objects begins to blur into a color-clogged collage. Artists from every corner of the city are on display. A general feeling of discomfort and disorientation comes over the viewer as the mind tries to make impossible connections with what seems like endless unrelated pieces of art. Icebox truly does it for the love of the game. Read more about them in our interview a few months ago.

4. Museum for Art in Wood’s Radical Americana presentation included Muliebrity by Viola Bordon and Suite Américaine by BA Harrington, both of which concluded on July 26, 2026. I’m still thinking about the queerness of CalamityBetsyGal-boyBuckaroo, a work made in collaboration between Bordon and Harrington. This handmade maple desk has four skinny legs. Dangling in the center is a bulbous, collaged pouch depicting a cowboy on horseback. The pouch is udder-like. It’s like a headless creature that doesn’t know which way to go. The work’s title combines Calamity Jane and Betsy Ross, two women of the early frontier days whose lives are full of folklore and myth, similar to America. What I appreciate about Museum for Art in Wood’s presentation is that the craft argument is embedded in the museum’s name and exhibition title. Read the interview with the artists here.

5. Lion & Lamb is a new commercial gallery in Philadelphia, and it lives on the fourth floor of the Crane Arts building, accessible by private preview only. Founded by dealer Rachael Lambert—who has spent much of her career working in the art world in California—the gallery has great natural lighting and a couch for artists, collectors, whoever, to sit and stay for a while. There’s also a swing; this non-traditional gallery space operates on a different time scale than traditional commercial galleries that produce consistent six-week shows. The first exhibition in the space is a group show of twelve artists, titled The Shape of Things, on view now through September 1, 2026. The only sculptural works in the show are from Philadelphia-based artist Carrie R. Carrie’s freestanding works are not monsters. These tentacular objects are life-like with a fluorescent, nuclear glow. When I first saw Carrie’s work online, I thought about Louise Bourgeois. But after having a studio visit with her, I realized the organic forms are neither menacing nor foreboding; they’re like purple-pink protectors. Bold, bright, balanced, and beautiful.

6. The Fabric Workshop and Museum’s You Stretched Diagonally Across It is a large group show focused on contemporary tapestry artworks. The exhibition was curated by Mexico-based curator Su Wu, traveled from Dallas Contemporary to Philadelphia, and is on view now through January 3, 2027. FWM added works by Philly artists Qualeasha Wood and David Hartt. There’s also an Ed Ruscha tapestry (made in 2007) included from FWM’s collection. I was delighted to see Diedrick Brackens’ nuclear lovers in the show, two pink-black figures lounging in parallel, arms touching, on a striped, geometric background. Water Stains by Shanghai-born, New York-based Miranda Fengyuan Zhang is a work made in response to stains on the ceiling of the artist’s residence and uses handwoven cotton to weave a stain, rather than staining thread itself. Many of the works on display are complicated, allegorical tapestries depicting nature scenes, animals, and figures. Melissa Cody, a Navajo Nation artist based in Los Angeles, displays Into the Depths, She Rappels, a pink, hand-dyed wool tapestry full of bright, geometric, optical patterns.
   
   Wood presents a Jacquard tapestry installation made during her residency at FWM, titled anywhere! (but here.). The tapestry sits above a Photoshop transparency grid wallpaper that wraps across one wall and around the corner, spanning over 28 feet. Woven into it are computer screen windows open across a Mac desktop. What at first appears as a confessional work is deliberately cryptic. There is a veiled privacy within the seeming unveiling of her digital life. Yellow caution icons are speckled around. Cropped images of Wood’s animated likeness appear from different angles, and actual video screens are mounted on top of the fabric. Cords dangle like a spider web. Wood shared in a Hero Magazine write-up that weaving and computing have always been linked. Lisa Nakamura’s research, Indigenous Circuits: Navajo Women and the Racialization of Early Electronic Manufacture, traces the Indigenous roots of early microchip technology in Silicon Valley.
   
   There’s a divinity in Wood’s depiction of herself; “God’s Favorite” is printed on her t-shirt. White cursors click on her in different places. They click the Mirror folder on her desktop. They click the calf of the nude Renaissance baby. At the bottom of the screen are 103 unread texts, 13 FaceTime calls missed, and “Notes app apology to myself” is open, but we don’t get to see what’s inside. Wood’s work is a quiet act of defiance against AI slop; she spins a different kind of web. Perhaps personal privacy is the biggest act of freedom.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between myth-making and the historical archive. The publication has produced print magazines and digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, public programming, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

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This conversation is part of a series called What the Discourse?!, which unpacks how art becomes a conversation and how to steer it. This series will include case studies about artists throughout history as well as interviews with culture workers shaping art discourse. Next up, Janelle Zara.

Janelle Zara is a longtime contributor to publications that start with art—Artnet, ARTnews, The Art Newspaper and more—as well as other outlets including The Guardian, Frieze, Elle Decor, Cultured, The Financial Times, and many more. In 2019, she published her first book, Simon & Schuster’s Masters at Work, then in 2025 launched a podcast for the Felix Art Fair. She lives in Los Angeles, where she specializes in art and art world criticism.

Space On Space: What does a typical reporting process look like for you, from your first visit to a finished article?

Janelle Zara: I do a lot of different kinds of reporting, so my process has a range. If I’m doing a studio visit for an artist profile, I read as much as I can ahead of time and come prepared with questions I genuinely wonder the answer to. If it’s an art fair report, I just show up and see what happens. If I’m reviewing an exhibition I don’t think I like, I go back once or twice just to be sure. After information-gathering comes writing, which is always kind of chaotic and a little painful no matter what.

I think of writing like constructing a garment: I throw the ideas on the page like pinning the fabric to the dress form, and from there, I go over the whole thing, top to bottom again and again, smoothing, hemming, and finishing in increasingly finer detail as I go. Occasionally I’ll make one gigantic structural change that essentially forces a total restart, because it’s the least efficient approach I could come up with, and I love to waste my own time. If I run into a wall, which I often do, I have a few go-to methods to get the ideas flowing again: going for a walk, taking a shower, anything that is essentially not writing. Having just recently taken up smoking, I realized that writers don’t just smoke for the tiny jolt of nicotine, but because your brain is begging you to go outside and take a few deep breaths. Big shout out to the editors who take the time to dig into my text and challenge the argument, the wording and the form, pointing out its weaknesses and asking me to try again.

SOS: When you’re walking through an exhibition, what are you paying attention to beyond the artwork itself?

JZ: I pay attention to how the curator sequenced the galleries of an exhibition, which is like a higher-level version of sequencing the paragraphs of an essay. I’m trying to parse their organizational approach to their own thoughts. I also pay attention to what other people are paying attention to and whether we’re having the same reactions to the work. Differences are potentially an indicator that there’s something I’m not seeing.

SOS: Are there examples where the architecture of a space fundamentally transformed your understanding of an artwork?

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“I have always been a liberated woman” —Florence Smith1

Rising Up: Rocky and the Making of Monuments at the Philadelphia Museum of Art opens with text citing Homer’s Iliad and a dedication to craftsmanship and physique inspired by the character, Epeios. Homer’s other work, The Odyssey, would’ve been appropriate if we were going to curate an exhibit based on professional boxing wives’ invisible labor.

Penelope waits twenty years for Odysseus to return to Ithaca from the Trojan War. On his way back, Odysseus has many side quests while his wife, Penelope, fervently bats away suitors. And of course, there’s the romantic detail that their bed cannot be moved because it is the trunk of an olive tree, which is supposed to signify the loyal, stable home Penelope consistently provides. As spectators of the epic adventure and love story, we should never doubt that Odysseus will return to her.

Unlike Penelope, the professional boxing wives of fifty years ago were invited to sit ringside during their husbands' epic, athletic conquests. Rising Up prominently features the working-class Philadelphia culture and Black boxers of American history that inspired Sylvester Stallone’s story development throughout the Rocky franchise—Muhammad Ali, Joe Louis, Tom Molineaux, Jack Johnson, and Philadelphia’s own Joe Frazier. A room of the exhibit is dedicated to Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier’s 1971 fight. Beyond the edges of the photographs, paintings, magazine covers, and advertisement posters—in the stands—you will not find the boxers’ wives.

The last match Florence Smith, Joe Frazier’s wife (now ex-wife), attended was in 1966.2 Florence said Joe’s fights “... make me too nervous, I went to a couple of his first ones, but they made me too upset.”3

Florence and Joe Frazier met as children in South Carolina. Beaufort and St. Helena Island, South Carolina—where Joe and Florence hail from—is home to the Gullah/Geechee people. The Gullah/Geechee Nation was brought specifically from West Africa for their agricultural knowledge, were isolated on coastal plains retaining their African customs, and intermarried with local indigenous tribes.

Rising Up includes Cherokee and Mississippi Choctaw artist Jeffrey Gibson’s three repurposed boxing bags titled You Can Feel It All Over, POWER POWER POWER, and People Like Us. Gibson’s work celebrates the indigenous ties to land and how the Black boxers in the exhibit come from families of southern sharecroppers, who were assigned to tend the land for nourishment and capital gains for their oppressors. Additionally, in an interview with Whitewall, Gibson made his ties to Black culture explicit: “Growing up brown in America, people lumped my Native identity with Black identity, but those histories are very different. That said, I learned so much from Black culture—music, people like Nina Simone, James Baldwin. They were lifelines.”

Throughout Joe’s career, Florence desired a quiet life with Joe and their children, but their relationship was hardly quiet, not even as teenagers. The day she was supposed to start college, September 12, 1960, she gave birth to their first child, Marvis.4 By 1962, with a second child in tow, she joined Joe in Philadelphia. What makes this situation scandalous under the surface is that Joe also had two other children with Rosetta Green.5 By the time Joe Frazier filed for divorce in 1985, he had a total of 11 children, six outside of their marriage.6

If an exhibit were designed around Florence’s role as a wife and mother, it would have also included Jean-Michel Basquiat’s 1982 painting, Untitled (Cave Painting). Basquiat uses a Warhol-inspired printmaking collage technique in which repeated muscular, red figures with black legs and a crown have their dicks hanging out. As if ultimate male strength can only be measured by the visibility of how much an athlete uses his nether regions, spreads his seed, and “thinks up the names.”7

During Joe Frazier’s career, Florence was a married, single mother. “She is alone too often. He is away too often, too long.”8 In the archives, we can find Florence filling her time bowling, volunteering at school, attending Bible class, and “try[ing] to keep herself busy.”9 Her devotion to remaining a dutiful mother and chaste wife in her husband's absence made her a reluctant advocate for women’s liberation. In 1972, when asked what she thought about women’s liberation, Florence told The Philadelphia Tribune, “I don’t want to discuss that.” By 1974, before Ali and Frazier’s second fight, Florence sang a different tune. Gloria Hochman writes about Florence’s strength in raising five children and maintaining a household. Florence says, “I am a liberated woman…I have to be liberated because Joe’s away so much. If I don’t take care of things, who will?”10

1974 is the same year the Equal Credit Opportunity Act was passed, allowing women to obtain credit cards and bank accounts independently. This is also the year that Florence hosted the North Central Women’s Political Caucus Political Poolside Party at her residence in Lafayette Hills, Whitemarsh Township, Pennsylvania.11 The caucus was founded by Ruth Harper (1927-2006), a charm school founder and Democratic civic leader elected to the Pennsylvania House of Representatives in 1976, and would go on to serve seven terms.12 Through this event, Florence provided a space for Democratic Black women in Pennsylvania to convene.

There are two Black women visual artists featured in Rising Up: Howardena Pindell and Kara Walker. Pindell’s Video Drawings, Boxing: 1976, reiterates the exhaustion of boxing: every line in the image is numbered, as if she were diagramming, in fascination, how many movements occurred in a match in a short period of time. She was born in Philadelphia in 1943. “The metaphorical process of destruction and reconstruction at work in her paintings” reflects professional athletic bodies constantly exercising brute force and ripping and repairing muscles so they can grow for optimal performance.

Kara Walker’s work in the exhibition Signal Station, Summit of Signal Heights, is part of her lithograph series Harper’s Pictorial History of the Civil War (Annotated). The techniques she utilizes are derived from Black southern storytelling and Civil War narratives. The title of Walker’s work originates from a 1862 wood carving by Alfred Rudolph Waud, in which she places her silhouettes in conversation with the terrain. Walker’s inclusion in the exhibit highlights the southern roots of the boxers, such as Muhammad Ali from Kentucky, Tom Molineaux from Virginia, Joe Frazier from South Carolina, Jack Johnson from Texas, and Joe Louis from Alabama.

The inclusion of these Black women artists illustrates the racial and physical trauma Black boxers bring to athletic and domestic spaces. These works also amplify the exhaustion of the wives outside of the ring as they get the short end of the stick when it comes to their husbands’ patience and bandwidth. In 1971, Florence said about Joe, “He’s so easy-going…He’s kind-hearted to everybody. I seem to be the only one he gives a hard time.”13 This sentiment echoes through Gwendolyn Brooks’ poem, Black Steel: Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, also featured in the exhibit. The opening lines of the poem read:

“The one hand is your Language.

The other hand is your Art.”

Brooks wrote this poem in response to the 1971 Frazier and Ali fight. She pleads to Frazier and Ali to remember that, despite the fight, Black people only have each other, and they need to leave the hostility in the ring to embrace “black love.” In relation to Florence and Joe’s marriage, one hand is art (boxing) and the other hand is what he says to her. At the most, Florence is only getting fifty percent of Joe.

In 1979, Florence was awarded the Legion of Honor by the Chapel of Four Chaplains for her “civic and community work and for contributions to her family.”14 According to Michelle Nolfi, Chapel Director, “The Legion of Honor Program was established by President Harry Truman and the founding Trustees of The Chapel of Four Chaplains to publicly recognize persons whose lives model the kind of selfless service to community, nation and humanity without regard to race, religion or creed, as dramatically exemplified by the Four Chaplains.” This award is given out to recipients based on their service to their local community.

To make a monument to a woman like Florence Smith, we must curatorially and artistically consider what it’s like to be defined by invisible labor. Outside of fulfilling their duties of being cheerleaders and mothers of their family’s legacy, sports wives must create their own identity, whether they want to stay in the public eye or not. In Rocky IV and Rocky V, Adrian’s supportive wife role is minimized to even fewer lines compared to the previous films.

In the sixth film, Rocky Balboa, Adrian is dead. Like Penelope and Florence, Adrian provided emotional support and gave Rocky one son, an heir. Her work is done. Adrian’s duty was fulfilled, and she was relieved of her duties as Rocky aimlessly tries to figure out life after boxing and honor his glory days.

With a Rocky statue in the exhibit and another moved to the top of the museum steps, there’s been an empty pedestal where millions of tourists usually line up every year to take a photo. On June 29th, 2026, this pedestal became home to a Joe Frazier statue by artist Stephen Layne. During Philadelphia Mayor Cherelle Parker’s speech at the unveiling ceremony, when she and the other public art professionals contacted Sylvester Stallone about moving Rocky to place Joe Frazier at the base of the museum, Stallone said that’s what is supposed to happen. After all, many of Frazier’s life details, such as working in a slaughterhouse and running up the museum steps while training, were borrowed by Stallone to make Rocky a fleshed-out character.

The unveiling ceremony was a family and community affair. Lifelong Philadelphians came to support the legacy of the fighter they knew and grew up with. Florence and Joe’s daughter, former world champion professional boxer and Philadelphia judge Jacquelyn Frazier-Lyde, gave a speech in front of the statue, veiled in green and black, the colors of the Philadelphia Eagles. Jacquelyn said the statue being wrapped in green was special because it was both of her parents’ favorite colors for two different reasons. It was Joe’s favorite color because it’s the color of money. It is Florence’s favorite color because it is the color of life.

When Odysseus returns home and stands in front of Penelope, he has to convince his wife that he is her husband since the goddess of wisdom, Minerva, has restored Odysseus to “the beauty of his youth.”15 At this reunion, Telemachus, son of Penelope and Odysseus, says this of his mother:

“Oh, who can find

A woman like Penelope unkind ?

Why thus in silence ? why with winning charms

Thus slow to fly with rapture to his arms ?

Stubborn the breast that with no transport glows,

When twice ten years are pass’d of mighty woes;

To softness lost, to spousal love unknown,

The gods have formed that rigid heart of stone!”16

Penelope’s youthfulness was not restored. She could not relive her youth and regain lost time, but she does accept her husband back into her home. She moves into this new chapter of her life with the knowledge and lessons learned from her waiting period. Is Penelope’s lack of a renewed youth actually liberation? Even though Odysseus has returned as promised, she cannot forget how long it took him to finally choose her instead of a new conquest. She wears her age and memory through her weathered beauty. Is it liberating that Adrian is written out of Rocky’s story? So she would not have to provide emotional comfort during his existential turmoil?

Once detangled from balancing the duties of solidifying their husbands’ legacies, women are free to look around at the life they’ve created. Penelope witnesses Telemachus go search for his father, and he returns a stronger man. Adrian’s spirit lives on in Rocky Jr. as he tries to figure out his life beside his father’s shadow. Joe Frazier’s unveiling ceremony was a celebration of the Frazier family and their accomplishments. Florence’s legacy can be seen through the lives of her children, who’ve gone on to do admirable things for the city of Philadelphia. It could be easy to call Florence’s life one of selfless service to family and her community. Yet she’s far more than that. She’s far more than we can know, looking at her life from the outside. Florence outlived the boxing glory days and her marriage. Perhaps we should take her word for it when she said, “I have always been a liberated woman.”

Christl Stringer is a surrealist, filmmaker, writer, and ice cream connoisseur. She traps stray cats in her spare time, which makes her nocturnal occasionally, even though she is a morning person. She writes quippy essays about culture, fine art, and ice cream flavors on her Substack, In the Lick of It.

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Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between myth-making and the historical archive. The publication has produced print magazines and digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, public programming, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

This conversation is part of a series called What the Discourse?!, which unpacks how art becomes a conversation and how to steer it. This series will include case studies about artists throughout history as well as interviews with culture workers shaping art discourse. Next up, Chase Folsom and Lauren Aitken of Headstone in Kingston, NY.

Established in 2022 by co-directors Lauren Aitken and Chase Folsom, Headstone is a 1,200 square foot gallery specializing in contemporary artwork showcased through two-person and solo exhibitions. Our commitment lies in championing our artists’ ideas, processes, and finished works, ensuring their sales and livelihoods are supported. We offer a contemporary space along with essential assistance to nurture and realize their artistic vision, recognizing the importance of artwork fitting into life. With meticulous curation and a profound love for the art world, we unite emerging and established artists, some yet to receive broader critical and commercial recognition.

We advocate for equity and accessibility in the arts, striving to welcome all who wish to engage. Through artist exhibitions, Headstone aims to foster community, forge connections, and cultivate a diverse melting pot of artists, creatives, collectors, and community members.

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Space On Space: Headstone was started by two working artists rather than dealers or collectors. How does running a gallery from inside an art practice shape the way you choose artists and collaborate with them once a show takes shape?

Chase Folsom and Lauren Aitken of Headstone: It shaped everything from the beginning. We simply asked ourselves, what kind of space would we want to see my work in, and what would have been the game-changers from our past experiences.

We decided that we only wanted to exhibit solo and two-person shows. When going to group shows—understanding how they serve the artist and the gallery—you don’t really get to see a larger breadth of each artist’s work. There is a curiosity in that experience, indeed, but as artists, we wanted to enable the audience and the artist to experience a fully realized vision or concept.

We designed the space so that it could be simultaneously intimate in the experience and not overwhelming in terms of production for the artist—a solo exhibition at Headstone usually caps at around 12-15 works. Occasionally, we will show a few more works in the back, where we have a kitchenette for openings and an information desk. Additionally, the space lends itself to the artist with the ability to seamlessly show multiple bodies of work; the gallery is intentionally not built as a box. Our design has areas—smaller nooks—which can showcase work that fits within the concept of the show, but with a different mood or syncopation.

Another necessary component for most artists to be able to show outside of the place they live is a place to stay. On the third floor of our building, there is a fully furnished apartment that sleeps up to six people, which every artist gets to stay in while showing with us. This allows families to travel together and not have to consider the financial burden of lodging.

In terms of an exhibition taking shape, we plan about 12-15 months out, providing the most time for artists to prepare and allow work to develop. We are committed to craft, sensibilities, and nimbleness in a studio practice. Seeing a process or material investigation in harmony with an idea, that is the work we love. We do an initial interview with artists to see if we are a good fit and then do a few check-ins along the way, and a studio visit about four months out. The visits are really just to understand what the work is about and the direction the exhibition is taking. We see ourselves as supporting more than anything. The “good” works of art for the show will surface on their own—we all must trust that.

There aren’t many rules on how we find artists (not through IG, preferably), just that we love the work (and have seen it in person) and the artist has their ego in check. All of the artists we’ve curated for Headstone have been organic. We met the artist through mutual friends, out in the world (at an opening, at a supermarket, etc.), or perhaps someone we knew from years ago, and we got curious about where they are now. And after we find them/they find us, we vet them. Trust is huge in what we do (makers and gallerists alike), and it isn’t something we take lightly.

SOS: You’re 90 miles north of the New York art world, in a Kingston scene that’s grown quickly over the last few years. How do you think about Headstone’s relationship to the city’s gravitational pull, and to the changes in Kingston itself as more artists, galleries, and money have moved up the Hudson?

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Space On Space: I understand that Radical Americana is a multi-venue project, created and organized by The Clay Studio, and centers around a series of exhibitions inspired by the Semiquincentennial. How and why did the Museum for Art in Wood get involved in this project? When did organizing begin?

Jennifer-Navva Milliken: Jennifer Zwilling of the Clay Studio initially reached out (maybe it was fall 2024?) and convened several curators, directors, and staff members of leading museums, libraries, and historical institutions in Philadelphia. Because of the long history of collaboration between our organizations, we could develop a complex and far-reaching project that maximized our shared resources without requiring (nonexistent) external funding.

Through the process of matchmaking artists, research collections, and arts venues, Viola Bordon was assigned to show her work at the Museum for Art in Wood. The fluidity between her work and that of exhibiting artist BA Harrington was clear, and allowed them to create work together to be shown in Suite Américaine.

SOS: The museum presents two exhibitions for Radical Americana, including Muliebrity by Viola Bordon and Suite Américaine by BA Harrington. Both shows are rethinking American history through the lens of craft and women’s labor. How did these shows originate? What made you want to center these two artists at this historic moment?

JNM: These exhibitions exemplify what Radical Americana makes possible by inviting artists to rigorously research our shared past and reinterpret it through the language of craft to question who and what America has historically valued. We are committed to elevating material knowledge and the power of making as vehicles for civic dialogue. Viola Bordon and BA Harrington both draw on Philadelphia’s deep craft traditions while challenging inherited narratives around gender, labor, and national identity. Together, their work advances the Museum for Art in Wood’s mission to engage and inspire through contemporary art in wood that is both historically grounded and urgently relevant.

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I’ve been following the discourse around why or why not the rise of artificial intelligence is inevitable. Rather than pick a side in the AI debate, I’ll insist on siding with our most precious natural resource: water. Water cannot advocate on her own behalf; she’ll never have a seat at the table in business or government hearings, unless we channel her with our voices. This essay will center on the work of Philadelphia-based performance artist Martha McDonald, touch on water-adjacent performances by Kelly Akashi (Altadena) and Kiyo Gutiérrez (LA River), and the ritual practice of mourning. McDonald’s performance uses an aesthetic of powerlessness by becoming the Schuylkill River. Her public lament acts as a form of water advocacy for both human and non-human flourishing.

To begin, Martha McDonald is a time traveler: her voice, a portal.

I attended McDonald’s performance River Ode: The Schuylkill Freed on May 30, 2026. It was one of those beautiful Philadelphia spring days. Before entering the Fairmount Water Works building, one passes people on their wedding day, professional runners, children, and the river herself, subtly flowing in the background of all our lives.

“A lot of people in Philadelphia don’t know how the Water Works worked, and what it was, what its significance is in terms of the history of water supply in the United States, and the history of technology in the United States,” stated historical consultant for the Philadelphia Water Department, Adam Levine, in an interview in 2015.

These hydraulic technologies, as well as folk histories of river life and the story of the Schuylkill herself, were central to McDonald’s performance. River Ode was performed twice by McDonald through Philadelphia Sculptors as part of the Currents exhibition on view now through August 8, 2026.

While many Philadelphians don’t know the history of how water technologies channeled water into homes, I’d argue that most people don’t understand how current water technologies work either. I certainly didn’t until this essay. Many of these technologies are hidden from public view. Philadelphia Water published a documentary about the history of Fairmount Water Works, highlighting how, at the time, the technology provided an accessible, clean drinking water solution and also prevented hundreds of accidental fires each year.

Upon entering the historic Water Works building, one walks down a flight of steps, meandering through tunnel-like corridors of the once-operable hydraulic engineering marvel, now a site of architectural history and education. Guests arrive and sit on bleachers overlooking the abandoned John B. Kelly swimming pool.

River Ode opens with McDonald’s human voice in the distance. She begins with the song, Invocation:

“I am the wind rushing over the river.
I am the tide that caresses the shore.
I am a leaf swept along in the current,
Tumbling and swirling in the falls as they roar.”

Her voice vibrates like an echo, like a ghost returning from a voyage overseas and centuries, to tell us a story.

Hauntingly, McDonald’s work immediately reminded me of a performance that took place days prior (May 23-24, 2026), called Field Set in Altadena, California, at the site of artist Kelly Akashi’s former home and studio, which were lost in the January 2025 Eaton Fires. Field Set was a collaboration between Akashi and Phil Peters. Peters had been recording Akashi’s property since May 2025, capturing the sounds of demolition and nearby rebuilding in the wake of the fires. In addition to Peters’ three-hour durational soundscapes, each day concluded with performances at 5:45 p.m. by artists with ties to Altadena: Celia Hollander, Paul McCarthy, Alex Stevens, and John Wiese.

I spoke with Los Angeles-based artist Jennifer Remenchik, who attended Field Set:

“Walking through the ruins of what once was Akashi’s home and studio, Peters’ recordings filled the air, the bass moving through your chest and bones. The sound didn’t describe the aftermath of the fires; it conducted it through you. There’s no metaphor; it’s just the body knowing what happened here.”

In River Ode, McDonald’s raw—yet all the more glorious—voice was like the bass moving through your chest and bones. There is no microphone used for amplification. Her work is a lament in a place that once held water. Turbines used to spin up 22 million gallons of water daily, flowing into wooden pipes across the city, nourishing it with life.

Her body emerges from the corridor, and she walks very slowly. It’s like a funeral march. She continues to sing.

The train horn sounds in the distance.

I’m taken back to the night of the Eaton Fires in Los Angeles, where there just wasn’t enough water to be found. Thousands, including myself, evacuated, knowing things would never be the same again. I remember angry winds and ash falling from the sky. Helicopters. Firefighters exposing themselves to god-knows-what-kind-of-chemicals. Then I thought about the men who must have worked this waterworks turbine all those years ago. It caught fire two separate times, the boiler exploding. So many working-class laborers forever remain faceless, nameless.

Water can feel like a given in Pennsylvania. Our watershed plays a crucial role in the ecosystem, not just for Pennsylvanians, but for neighboring states. The Schuylkill and the Delaware River are water conduits for the entire region. If anything, flooding is more of a problem than a lack of water.

In January 2026, the United Nations declared that the world had entered an era of 'global water bankruptcy,' with some four billion people facing severe water scarcity at least one month a year. Data centers are quietly becoming one of the fastest-growing drains on that supply. A single large facility can drink as much water as a town of fifty thousand.

Nearly half of Philadelphia's drinking water comes from the Schuylkill, drawing in at the Belmont and Queen Lane treatment plants. It is already a stressed river, running as much as 60 percent treated wastewater in dry stretches. Data centers often use water to cool their servers; this water turns to vapor and doesn’t return to the river. Data centers proposed upstream of Philadelphia sit in the Schuylkill watershed, meaning they’d draw from the same river system the city drinks from.

After living in Los Angeles for over seven years, I always wondered how water could flow to my shower and to the millions of other residents across the region. In reality, much of the water is piped from hundreds of miles away, from the Colorado and from the Eastern Sierra.

Having once been home to the grizzly bear and cougar, the LA River now resembles more of a concrete channel than a natural, wildlife source. Many groups are actively working to restore it to its former glory, like FOLAR and Clockshop LA. And in sections of the river, concrete has been removed to allow wildlife to reemerge. I’ve biked by many times and seen a blue heron wading in its banks. On May 22, 2026—just days before Philadelphia’s River Ode performance—an oil spill occurred in the LA River. At least 25,000 gallons of crude oil from a ruptured pipeline poured into the water. Nearly 80 birds were oiled, and at least 11 died or were euthanized. A little over a month later, on June 28, 2026, Clockshop hosted a performance piece called spawn by Kiyo Gutiérrez in collaboration with Eva Aguila. It was set along the inclined riverbanks. Framed as a ritual-performance, spawn honors the Pacific lamprey, an ancient fish once abundant, now locally extinct due to the pressures of urban development.

Gutiérrez shared this about the project:

“The river needs our love and support, especially now. In recent months, both the river and the communities that care for it have endured painful events, including an oil spill and the contamination caused by the Lineage warehouse fire, both of which affected the LA River. Returning to the river at this moment felt like a small act of care and solidarity.”

Where McDonald’s River Ode laments and also celebrates the resiliency of the Schuylkill River, Gutiérrez’s spawn honors an extinct LA River species while also inviting the community to reimagine new possibilities. And Field Set by Akashi and Peters acts as the rawest of the three: a soundscape inviting the public onto an artist’s private property, to bring in more witnesses to aid in ongoing communal grief. Together, these performances highlight the fragility, temporality, and vulnerability of our waterways and ecosystems.

Inside Philadelphia’s Water Works, the walls are worn. There are many windows through which one could gaze at the river rushing. McDonald’s dress, designed with textile scholar Kelly Cobb, was dyed to suggest the swirling waters of the Schuylkill.

“I wanted my costume to reference the classical garments worn by William Rush’s river goddess but also to transform me into the river herself as I wound my way through the room where water had once flowed through massive turbines,” stated McDonald.

And winding her way, she does. Water can’t be folded, only channeled.

There’s a certain humility in McDonald’s dress; it looks almost like an undergarment. It’s not form-fitting. It’s modest and refuses to comply with Rush’s fantasy. Rush’s original sculpture of The Schuylkill Freed used a female body as an allegory to represent the waterwheel machine. What’s depicted in Rush’s sculpture is a classical odalisque reclined, a busty woman in a form-fitting dress lounging alongside the waterwheel. Behind her, water gushes from a vessel. This image of a docile, compliant woman has long been a fixation in male fantasy. Historically, men have used this allegory of a river nymph to subjugate or validate their desires to control the river for their own pleasure or profit. And McDonald is not having any of that.

I think about Suzanne Lacy and Leslie Labowitz’s more direct and confrontational performance, In Mourning and In Rage, in Los Angeles in 1977. This piece was in response to the “Hillside Strangler” media spectacle that sensationalized female victims’ lives and created a climate of fear. Where McDonald’s performance activates water as a female victim, Lacy’s work invoked ten very tall women robed in black, like 19th-century mourners. The performance successfully generated significant press, causing City Council members to voice support, and the Rape Hotline Alliance pledged self-defense classes.

In Douglas Crimp’s Mourning and Militancy, he argues that mourning and activism are not opposed, and that unmourned losses produce melancholia and political paralysis; a movement requires both. Within the simple, elegant craftsmanship of her dress, was McDonald also arguing this? Who will mourn the losses of the working class and our rivers?

She sings a staccato-like chant, Building as Machine, in which she uses mallets to strike handmade glass gongs hanging from the ceiling. McDonald’s lyrics depict the Water Works when it was once in motion, pushing water up the hill into a basin that held the city’s water, where the Philadelphia Museum of Art now reigns. With the glass gongs still rocking, she swirls around the corner, sits on a wooden stool, and begins to play a wooden instrument called an Appalachian Dulcimer. She sings a folk river song she wrote called The Schuylkill Rangers, about real-life pirates from Grays Ferry. Part of the song goes like this:

“Oh, chasing gold and riches,
They lined their pockets well,
Raiding wharf and warehouse
Like bats straight out of hell.”

Not unlike the Grays Ferry pirates, there’s something shady (and terrifying) happening with the rise of AI data center development across the nation. However, the Grays Ferry pirates McDonald acknowledges were poor Irish river thieves, not billion-dollar private developers, or owners of industrial monopolies like the railroad. There lies the class problem at the heart of this essay. Within the song, she sings:

“Now can you really blame them,
What else could they have done?
Brutal toil and low wages
Of the mines they tried to outrun.”

Having moved back to Pennsylvania, in part, because of the 2025 LA Fires, I’ve found myself smack dab in a different kind of foreboding water crisis, where developers have submitted proposals for at least 23 hyper-scale data centers across the state, with little say coming from Pennsylvania residents.

If it weren't for the yard signs protesting the East Whiteland data center around my community, I might not know it was happening in my own backyard. These developers operate under the radar, out of the public’s sight, often until it’s too late. In the case of the East Whiteland scenario, the developer downplayed that the site remains an active Superfund site, with contaminants still above cleanup goals. The township approved the project, and the developer’s work began, until neighbors reported dust plumes rising off the ground. The township ordered a temporary halt for EPA review. The battle is certainly not over.

Where the Grays Ferry pirates stole cargo and were hunted, these data center developers buy up cheap, contaminated land, hire working-class labor to do the dirty work for them, and turn their heads when the community’s water source turns brown.

There is silence before McDonald plays the glass armonica. She wets her fingers in a glass bowl, like before prayer or entering a sacred place of worship. She sings Lament of the River, a story of how the Schuylkill entered a season of overdevelopment:

“They dug canals and locks in me and hollowed out my banks
To float their barges on my back, carry timber, coal and shanks.
They dumped their factory waste in me ‘til I ran black as coal.
Amid the offal, paint and dye, I nearly lost my soul.”

Philadelphia-based artist Charles Jarboe built the glass armonica she plays. Originally invented by Benjamin Franklin in 1761, this historic instrument-turned-contemporary-art-object invokes the United States’ Semiquincentennial and conjures Franklin, a Founding Father.

The freeway roars in the distance.

In this space, there is momentary stillness.

She begins playing the armonica, and it’s almost like a keyboard. It sounds eerily like strings. It spins like a lathe, or like a turbine.

McDonald has long been fascinated by history, memory, impermanence, and the loss of things over time. In previous works, she explored how Victorian mourning culture provided society with tools for dealing with longing and ache. While living in Australia, she saw a catalogue for an exhibition called Black in Fashion: Mourning to Night at the National Gallery of Victoria and was inspired by an essay called “The Luxury of Woe.” Where Victorian women spent significant money and time crafting their grieving gowns and performing grief rituals, in River Ode, there’s a lack of ornamentalism while still holding faithfully to the labor of handmade craftsmanship.

The term “luxury of woe” can be found in Thomas Moore’s poem Anacreontic, written around 1801: “Weep on; and as thy sorrows flow, / I’ll taste the luxury of woe.” Essentially, it positions mourning as an indulgence that not everyone can afford.

In closing, McDonald sings:

“The river waited, oh, she waited, singing her quiet song.
She waited mourning, waited night, waiting for so long.
She kept our secrets and our stories, whispered on the breeze,
Our sad confessions, our hopes and yearnings, bore them out to sea.

Then something shifted and someone lifted the sorrow from her eyes.
They dredged her bed and cleared her head so once again she could rise.
The fish and snake came back to the river, lovers and children found her charms.
Then late one night when the moon was full, a river otter swam into her arms.”

Return of the Otter is a testament to the resilience of nature despite man’s attempts to control it. The canals described in her song remind me of the LA River’s concrete channels and the current push and pull of human intervention and natural rewilding. While River Ode is not a Victorian mourning piece, McDonald still sings a song of lament aloud as a tool to help attendees process their own losses. She uses an aesthetic of powerlessness: a plain, handmade dress, and sings a song about a submissive river waiting. Waiting itself is a feminized action explored in the 15-minute monologue poem, Waiting, by Faith Wilding, in which a woman’s entire life is spent waiting: for maturity, marriage, children, aging, and sleep.

She ends the performance with a seemingly cute description of an otter swimming into the river’s arms. Yet, as a new mom, this image is not cute, or wholesome, or happy ending, to me. Here, the river is Mother—once too sick to shelter or protect her young—now she can embrace her long-lost child. There is nothing cute about that kind of reunion. So while I, too, am feminizing the river—unlike Rush’s odalisque nymph—this Mother river has seen trauma, but still chose to embrace, to nourish, and to prevail.

There was never a moment when McDonald’s performance drifted into sentimentality. There was a refusal of mass production and a quiet revolution toward the handmade. Her earnestness was not ignorant, but an understanding that slow study of the past is important for informing the present and the future. McDonald educates and consoles. One wades in her work, soaks it up, even basks in it.

The lathe-like armonica stops with a confident click. McDonald walks toward the audience. The performance ends.

We are made up of at least 60 percent water. When McDonald speaks for the river, could the river actually be speaking through her? Rather than McDonald speaking on behalf of a voiceless body of water—a victim—is she calling us to be the “something” and the “someone” that “shifts” and “lifts the sorrow”?

It’s a luxury to attend a performance like River Ode, Field Set, or spawn. And to turn a faucet on, and clean water flows. Water is not a given.

If you would like to get involved in protecting our community and local waterways, I’ve also put together a Pennsylvania Data Center Fact Sheet.

A note on how Space On Space is currently funded:

This Substack is funded by reader support. Writing reviews, interviewing artists, and covering Philadelphia’s art ecosystem takes a lot of time. If the writing here has been useful to you, a paid subscription is the most direct way to support and go deeper. I provide exclusive essays, interviews, and PR advice for artists under the paid tier.

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between myth-making and the historical archive. The publication has produced print magazines and digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, public programming, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

This conversation is part of a series called What the Discourse?!, which unpacks how art becomes a conversation and how to steer it. This series will include case studies about artists throughout history as well as interviews with culture workers shaping art discourse. Next up, Vita Kari!

Vita Kari (they/them) is a visual artist from Los Angeles investigating Virality through textiles, performance, and video. Kari focuses on the relationship between internet culture, diaspora, and public space through their lens of being a deaf/Hard of Hearing (HOH) artist. Their figurative tapestries (inspired by their grandmother’s rugs) often feature unweaving that obscures the image, like missing dialogue without captions, while deaf/HOH. Kari’s continuous video series “Virality as Form: The Craziest Thing About Being Creative” examines the spectacle of digital attention and the loss of personhood online. These works deconstruct the pixel, comparing the digital screen to the woven grid, knot by knot. Kari earned an MFA from Otis College of Art and Design in 2024. They have exhibited nationally and internationally, including a two-person show in Shanghai/Wuhan, China, Zona Maco in Mexico City, Goodmother Gallery, Spy Projects, Bolsky Gallery, Yiwei Gallery LA, and more. They have been featured in Forbes, Artnet, Gay Times, The Art Newspaper, and more. They were named a Forbes Upfront Creator, a Meta “Gen Z Takes 2024” honoree, and honored by the City of West Hollywood for their artistic contributions promoting accessibility and LGBTQ+ visibility in 2025.

vitakari.com

Space On Space: A lot of things go viral by accident, but every aspect of your work feels deliberate and strategic. Your most well-known work is Virality as Form: The Craziest Thing series. What distinguishes Virality-as-medium from virality as an accident, or content creation for a brand?

Vita Kari: In content creation, Virality is more of a vague goal that lowkey haunts every social media user alive. For my practice, it functions as a literal material—like how some artists use paint! It literally is the material to work with, like a textile, but in this case, it’s like a participatory, ephemeral medium. I work with virtual circulation and attention, similar to how Paul Pfeiffer used installation to deconstruct spectacle.

Read more

On Saturday, June 20, Jeffrey Deitch Gallery and LACMA hosted The Art Parade, which descended upon Wilshire Boulevard, the same week that the Boyle Heights warehouse fire was hurling smoke across the Eastside of Los Angeles.

One of the sculptural performances was titled Thin Skin, a collaborative project between two Otis MFA alums, Stacey Calle and Vita Kari, curated by Leslie Fram. The three other performers in Thin Skin were Sara Mehrinfar, Mimi Li, and Emily Meizlesh.

From afar, my vantage point being 3,000 miles away via cell phone, The Art Parade looked like an antidote to climate catastrophe and the negative mood of continuously scrolling online. I couldn’t help but smile watching the pale-peach bodysuits—both the conscious ones and their inanimate clones—wobble and dance around.

Virality-as-form artist Vita Kari shared this about Thin Skin: “Working with Stacey Calle on The Art Parade piece was so interesting because it was a way to connect our practices that were outside of both of our aesthetics to meet in the middle to explore illusion and the doppelgänger.”

Below is an interview with Stacey Calle about Thin Skin.

Space On Space: How did the project come about to participate in The Art Parade?

Stacey Calle: We’ve been talking about this project in different iterations since November 2024. It all started with a conversation about what our practices had in common. We ended up discussing the clone, the copy, and the doppelgänger.

Vita’s practice involves constantly replicating themself. They frequently use their own image, playing with ideas of virality, resulting in thousands of representations of Vita circulating online as they attempt to interrupt doomscrolling. In my case, I’m deeply interested in the image itself, especially in today’s visual climate, where we consume thousands of images every day. At the time of our first conversations, I was working on a body of work about replicas. I was painting statues, representing representations.

Copies.

That became our common ground, and it has remained the central idea we’ve wanted to explore together.

SOS: I loved the reference photo of the street performers in Ecuador. Can you share a bit more about this?

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It’s hot outside, and so is this Semiquincentennial. There seem to be endless things brewing in the City of Brotherly Love, and I can’t drink enough coffee to keep up.

This list is not omniscient; nor is any art round-up anywhere. Take my subjective perspective with a grain of salt. Speaking of salt, Jazmyn Crosby is experimenting with the material in a new solo show called Teleplasm Hotline at Big Ramp. In Philadelphia, there’s also baseball art, meditative scenes of Los Angeles, floating paper boats, not-so-sappy love, and street art at Suburban Station. Rather than claim to be all-knowing, I want to admit my utterly finite abilities to maneuver my way around every corner of this city while living in the suburbs and raising an energetic toddler. I am an art lover, not an art consumer. When I say lover, I mean I like to strip art naked and read it from head to toe. And some art takes much longer to read than others.

And as I write this, the debate rages on between the city of Philadelphia and the Trump administration regarding the slavery panels at the President’s House in Independence National Historical Park. The full truth of U.S. history is for everyone.

Below are six standout exhibitions happening in Philadelphia this June and July 2026.

1. Big Ramp presents a solo show, Teleplasm Hotline by Jazmyn Crosby, curated by Will Schwaller, on view through July 25, 2026. If you ever wondered how to communicate directly with cows and cats, this is the show for you. In addition to interspecies communication, there are two video projections documenting Crosby’s research, an electro exchange cabinet that includes salt foraged from boiling ocean water, and a DIY science experiment involving circuits made with alligator-clip leads, various containers of water, and pennies. Crosby channels charcoal from the Calf Canyon/Hermits Peak burn scar; you can hear it shrill when it’s touched. The artist generously offers guests caramel delights—but be warned—taking may summon the cats. The artist recently published a zine titled Other Networks: Interspecies Communication Operations Manual. These zines are on sale for $20 (or 2000 U.S. pennies) at the gallery. I left this exhibition feeling slightly more optimistic about the future and appreciating the laws and expansive nature of science.

2. Ducks on a Pond, a solo show by Alexandria Nazar, showing at Automat in the Crane Arts building on view now through June 27, 2026, is and is not about baseball. I’d reviewed a previous baseball show titled Shoulder to Shoulder, Skin to Skin at Information Space back in April, in which a few of Nazar’s paintings were included. As I stated in that review, I am a baseball hater, but I am a lover of Nazar’s paintings. Curated by painter Whitson Ramsey, this exhibition is timely, given Philadelphia’s MLB schedule happening right smack dab in June. The term “Ducks on a Pond” is baseball slang for runners on base, bases loaded. The phrase has potential far beyond baseball. A home run is possible, but not guaranteed. Nazar’s works teeter on the edge; bodies are in a tangle, neither hugging nor harming, yet certainly touching. And rumor has it that the phone number on the man’s jersey—the man being Nazar’s father—still works! If you’re ever in the Bay Area, looking for a place to eat, why not try Bravo Pizza!

3. Barnes’ Freedom Dreams* is on view now through August 9, 2026, and the exhibition invites viewers to immerse themselves in the memories, dreams, and histories of Black Americans. The exhibition features work by Arthur Jafa, David Hartt, Garrett Bradley, Ja’Tovia Gary, and Tourmaline. It’s co-curated by Maori Karmael Holmes, Chief Executive and Artistic Officer of BlackStar Projects, and James Claiborne, Fleischner Family Deputy Director for Community Engagement at the Barnes. Each artist’s moving image is presented in a dark room, and the glow of the wall text is both haunting and illuminating. Particularly striking was On Exactitude in Science (Watts), 2021, by Philadelphia-based artist David Hartt, which focuses on Black domestic environments in Watts, Los Angeles. I highly recommend this exhibition.

4. Presented now through July 24, 2026, A Traveler Weeps, A River Laughs at Twelve Gates Arts is an immersive, multidisciplinary storytelling experience that brings together four diasporic artists. This exhibition is part of the ArtPhilly What Now: 2026 Festival and includes work by filmmaker Shehrezad Maher, interdisciplinary artist sāgar kāmath, interdisciplinary artist Alexei Mansour, and poet Mir Masud-Elias. All connected to Philadelphia, these artists delve into identity, migration, and historical narratives in the year of America’s 250th. Though the four artists are working in different mediums and carrying different stories of lineage, they all use color to move the viewer through the gallery space. I sit for a while at the front table, gazing out at the busy 2nd Street, listening to Mansour’s intimate family archive via cassette tape where his mother recounts her day’s travels. kāmath’s American Dreams series includes gestural paintings depicting four character archetypes, all of whom are in pursuit of the Dream. Fragile, child-like paper boats float above, softly touching as the audio of The Curfew by Maher bellows.* The AC unit gently blows the boats to and from each other. Masud-Elias’ participatory desk station invites guests to investigate the question: Why are we here now?

5. Kati Gegenheimer’s solo exhibition We’ve Only Just Begun at PAFA in the Morris Gallery, on view through December 31, 2026, is one of those slow kinds of loves. It’s a not-so-sappy kind of love. Though I hardly know Kati, this exhibition feels close to me. I, too, graduated from Tyler School of Art, endured many late nights pacing the floors staring at the very specific green walls, and before that, I grew up in the suburbs of Pennsylvania. I remember listening to The Carpenters, especially around Christmas time; We’ve Only Just Begun, an ode to Karen Carpenter, gone far too soon. I saw Kati’s work opening weekend back in April and have been germinating words for my feelings. This is her first solo museum exhibition. It wasn’t until meeting Kati in person that I’d encountered such a force of nature in human form. She told me she still believes in America. There was a painful hopefulness in her voice. If Kati still believes in America, maybe I can too. Maybe it’s not a lost cause. Maybe we’ve only just begun.

   

   

6. Step Outside Show presents USA 250 (The Good, Bad, & Ugly America), a street art exhibit at Platform X, underground Suburban Station. The show features 250 pieces of art from the Philly street art and graffiti scene, where 100% of sales go back to the artists. It’s organized by street art leaders like Doomed Future and Robb Quattro (RoboQ4), among others, with partners including Tattooed Mom. While I haven’t seen this exhibition in person yet (I plan to!), it reminds me of the 99Cent pop-up exhibition, a collaboration between The Hole and Jeffrey Deitch, that showcased legendary street artist Barry McGee’s work from his personal collection, as well as pieces from over a hundred friends. At 99Cent, artists filled the aisles of the former convenience store; here, that energy spills out into Philadelphia’s Suburban Station. 99Cent was facilitated by large galleries (The Hole recently coming under fire for late payments to its artists), where Step Outside is funded through a non-profit called United Street Art. When I see images of the Step Outside show, I think about how Keith Haring got his start making chalk drawings on empty ad panels in NYC subways. Earlier this year, I did an Art File on EL TORO, a beloved Philly sticker artist known for his horned character. In March, he passed suddenly at the age of 43 (WHYY’s Billy Penn created a beautiful tribute to his life). I see his work honored in the photo above. In the words of the great Keith Haring—who also died far too young—“Art is for everybody.”

*If anyone is interested in writing about Freedom Dreams, please reach out. I’m looking for writers to cover it. <3

Editor’s Note: Thoughts on the word “bellows.”

After the piece was published, I spoke with Twelve Gates Arts about my use of the word “bellows,” for which my intention was positive in describing the audio of The Curfew as strong and anchoring for the show. While one might interpret bellows to mean too loud, my intention with the word was to describe the sound from the film as bathing the entire exhibition or drenching/filling the space with important acoustic texture.

A note on how Space On Space is currently funded:

This Substack is funded by reader support. Writing reviews, interviewing artists, and covering Philadelphia’s art ecosystem takes a lot of time. If the writing here has been useful to you, a paid subscription is the most direct way to support and go deeper. I provide exclusive essays, interviews, and PR advice for artists under the paid tier.

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between myth-making and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

Elsewhere was bustling with life on Wednesday’s VIP opening. Located inside YOWIE’s boutique hotel from June 3-6, 2026, this alternative fair, founded by Blah Blah gallerist Megan Galardi, provided an antidote to the larger, increasingly tired, contemporary art mega-fair model. In the same week that Pace Gallery conducted mass layoffs of both its staff and artist roster, Elsewhere was offering an alternative. As I arrived late, many art-chic people were already clustered both inside and outside the building. This wasn’t just a Philadelphia crowd: the outsider was being invited in. Emerging alongside Post-Fair, Season, Neighbors, Arrivals, etc., Elsewhere—positioned as part of the Semiquincentennial—carried a specific curatorial, historical, and cultural flavor that amplified the viewing experience.

I squeeze my way through the busy lobby of Forin Cafe, spotting artists I’ve been following online like Nazeer Sabree and Zeinab Diomande. There was friction between smooshing the body through crowds of people and seeing the work. Elsewhere is a more intimate, navigable format compared to the larger venue of Felix Art Fair located at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel in Los Angeles. Where Felix’s overcrowdedness felt overwhelming, Elsewhere’s hallway presentations in particular felt guiding and illuminating, even when full of people.

The hallway, as an architectural necessity, metamorphosed into a curatorial space, or a portal to an acquisition—sometimes it bottlenecked, other times it was a void.

The fair’s accessibility—being free and open to the public—and the chic design of the hotel created a warm, familial viewing experience where strangers could become friends, or strategic art connections could emerge.

“We were honored to be the venue partner for the inaugural Elsewhere Art Fair,” stated Shannon Maldonado, founder and art director of YOWIE. “Our hotel generates a lot of curiosity. We knew this partnership would be well worth it as we have attended many shows at Blah Blah Gallery and have been impressed and inspired by the roster of artists and exhibitions that Megan curates.” Maldonado mentioned that a few of her personal favorite booths were Indiana Hoover via Stowaway Gallery in Suite 202 and Point Blank and 5U Space in Suite 204A.

Dylan Riley, the director of Los Angeles-based artist-run Stowaway, shared, “Our primary takeaway was that Philly is an incredible city both for artists, art enthusiasts, and collectors. Indiana and I had so many great, earnest, and deep conversations about the work, the Philly scene, and others’ work that I don’t think could have happened at another fair.”

“Megan Galardi’s vision for Elsewhere is timely and urgently needed,” shared JLy (John Mauricio Lyons), senior foundation program specialist of the Independence Blue Cross Foundation. They continued, “As we celebrate Philadelphia in light of America’s Semiquincentennial, we also must acknowledge the more recent erosion of longtime artistic anchors regionally.”

Armando Veve was the first of three Forbes 30 Under 30 (2018) artists I saw at Elsewhere. Presented by artist-run FJORD, Veve's pencil drawings welcomed guests in the lobby as they entered by elevator or stairwell. Veve’s precise, tightly rendered illustrations measure time moving slowly. I was struck by End Times, an illustration created for The New York Times BookReview. Artist Alexandria Nazar, who managed FJORD’s booth on Friday, said it was Veve’s version of the apocalypse. I saw a cat and a few curious figures peering out of a dark hole into a complete white space.

The first floor of Elsewhere was overwhelmingly Philadelphian. Suite 101 shared space with Blah Blah Gallery, Pretty Boy, and—a friendly neighbor—New York City’s Good Naked Gallery, owned by painter Jaqueline Cedar. Playing nicely in the room were two sculptural fire-inspired lamps by Philadelphia-based designer Carl Durklow, a custom headboard and handmade quilt by Libby Rosa, and abstract oil paintings of candlesticks guiding the night by Vincent Stacquadanio, among other standout works.

Walking up the steps, I spot the work of another Forbes 30 Under 30 (2026) artist, Emmanuel Massillon: a decommissioned prison phone between two bullet-studded masks, via London-based Harlesden High Street. Jonny Tanna of the gallery shared, “I was surprised by the type of clients Megan Galardi brought to the fair, and [Massillon] even gained an institutional placement as a result of exhibiting. It was a wonderful experience with the best host, and I loved the 70’s style opening party.”

The act of meandering through hallways that would otherwise be liminal spaces became activated with a sharp, conceptual payoff. Particularly striking was the second-floor threshold where one encounters Dr. Darla Migan, the philosopher-critic-dealer in charge of DARLA, a nomadic gallery based in NYC. Here, we see a third Forbes 30 Under 30 (2025) Philadelphia-based artist, Qualeasha Wood. Wood’s confessional, jacquard tapestry with rhinestones, slow n steady was commissioned by The Studio Museum in Harlem. Six Black femme artists were included in Migan’s presentation, aptly titled FOUND HER FOUND HER.

While one might be tempted to resent occupying a hallway space for its added congestion, Migan stated this about her presentation, “to pass through FOUND HER FOUND HER, you can’t escape it. I became the passage through, making a metaphor about how reproductive labor, care work, and the structure of wealth creation in this country function.” Migan’s presentation also included tender collage works by N. Masani Landair and a haunting work called Archiving Ghosts by Mary Enoch Elizabeth Baxter.

The body turns the corner only to witness violence at the end of the hall in the form of a painting titled But First a Cigarette by Nicholas Stathopoulos, presented by Philadelphia’s 5U Space. It is here in the hallway—in the tension between DARLA and 5U Space—that the weight of the Semiquincentennial on Philadelphia’s soil becomes soberingly clear.

How do we reckon with the violence (both historic and current) committed against vulnerable bodies, on and off United States soil?

Leo Brooks, the gallerist behind 5U Space, shared, “In terms of reception, I think Nick’s subject matter was a bit polarizing, with some attendees finding it hard to move past the darkness, while others enjoyed engaging with the artist’s fantasy. Overall, I think the gestalt effect of the fair was the star, while the narrow hall we exhibited in made it hard to sit with the work. Still, we had good conversations and made exciting connections with artists and arts professionals in the city. I view it as a success.”

Immediately upon seeing Stathopoulos’ work, I thought of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son—an exorcism of demons.

I rise above to the third floor where The Big Ship strikes me in the hallway. It’s a quilt by self-taught artist Emma Goldstein, presented by artist and gallerist Graham Cuddy of Philadelphia’s Procession Gallery. Goldstein’s quilt is neither warm nor inviting. You can’t stand back to admire it. You’re forced to look closely at the anonymous workers powering the vessel. Invisible labor on display for those willing to look.

Gallerists and visitors had much to say about Elsewhere:

Longtime gallerist Christine Pfister of Pentimenti told me Friday morning that Elsewhere was well worth it and a big moment for Philadelphia. Local artist and writer clancy philbrick commented that he met many great folks and liked the accessible nature of the artists and galleries. Lara Cardoso, founder and director of Canadian-based Janey shared, “As our first hotel art fair, it provided a unique platform to introduce our artists to new audiences and connect with a new community of collectors, curators, and fellow exhibitors.”

“The reception to the work was beyond our expectations, with multiple pieces from all six of our artists placed mostly in Philadelphia collections, which is a testament to the strength of the arts community here,” shared Thomas Martinez Pilnik, co-owner of the Los Angeles Feia gallery. “We spoke with hundreds of visitors, museum curators from PAFA, PMA, the ICA, and the Fabric Workshop and Museum.”

I ended up buying a Matron of the Arts hat from Feia. I wore it on Saturday and several others remarked that they too had purchased Feia hats, including Dr. Matthew Kenyatta, the director of Temple Contemporary.

Leah Triplett, curator of contemporary art at PAFA (the oldest art museum in the country), shared, “I heard from many dealers and artists that sales had been strong, and I know everyone always says that, but I also heard from Philadelphia collectors who were buying.”

In its first rendition, Elsewhere had a few kinks to work out, but that’s true for anything new. One anonymous gallerist remarked that because of the casual atmosphere, some visitors thought it was ok to touch the art. And one local artist noted that they “wished to see more Philadelphia-based galleries.” I heard comments about keeping collectors on-site for as many of the fair hours as possible, and scheduling off-site VIP events during after-hours.

The fair provided numerous tours of Philadelphia’s cultural institutions and studio visits throughout the duration of the program. On Saturday, I was grateful to attend two off-site VIP Elsewhere events, including a group tour of Alex Da Corte’s studio (which I believe may have changed my life) and a hard hat tour of the construction site for the new Forman Arts Initiative (FAI) campus in West Kensington. While visiting these spaces, I learned about an organization called Less Than Half, run by Hall W. Rockefeller focused on equipping women collectors and raising the profile of female artists.

The FAI tour was led by Katie Lee, the collection and exhibitions manager at Forman Arts Initiative. While on the FAI tour, I encountered a Cassi Namoda painting. I’ve admired the Mozambican artist’s work for years online and had yet to see her work in person until being introduced to the Formans’ collection. Lee shared this about the fair, “I participated in Elsewhere both as a host committee member and through my work at FAI, an institutional partner of the fair. Those dual roles allowed me to help expand awareness of the fair, contribute to programming opportunities, and connect it with audiences across Philadelphia, New York, and Washington, DC.”

I also met an impact investor and creative-economy advocate named Margie Bacheler—she’s also a member of Less Than Half. Bacheler shared that, “As a novice art collector, I am formulating my art collecting thesis primarily to purchase art from living artists who live and work within thirty miles of Philly.” She continued, “I am passionate about promoting the arts as an economic development strategy and am excited to see new initiatives such as the Elsewhere Art Fair, Forman Arts Initiative, and the Village of Industry & Art enter into Philly’s arts ecosystem.”

Philadelphians have great pride in their city. City residents serve it with love, even if the city doesn’t always return the favor. Take the many artist-run spaces that invest countless hours and dollars into their cultural programs, often never receiving a full financial return on their investments.

As the global art world navigates current structural and financial quakes—like what we’re seeing with Pace—perhaps there’s something vital to be learned from Philadelphia’s art scene.

Not everyone operates from a heart posture of love and service, but it’s clear to me that many Philadelphia-based galleries have a mindset of hospitality, service, and even a love offering to their matrons and patrons of every gender.

And love is a sustainable path forward.

As the Philadelphia-based artist Todd Stong shared in a recent interview, “If you give of yourself, people will open up to you. And then, sooner or later, if you persist, the gift comes back.”

I hope this gift is something outsiders take with them as they leave the City of Brotherly Love to continue their business operations elsewhere.

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

WEIGH-IN

Everyone who has visited Rising Up: Rocky & the Making of Monuments can clearly see the exhibition’s ambitious swing at unpacking the movie-prop-turned-statue within the context of power dynamics, pop culture, and civic mythology. Although some of the conversations feel like feints more than jabs, the Philadelphia Museum of Art is clearly relying on street-level populist imagination for its cognitive hooks.

As guest curator Paul Farber more openly notes in his podcast, The Statue,1 the deeper problem is what happens when the wannabe strongman and wannabe underdog get to write the hero story. Built on bravado and idealism rather than nuance, it tends to be clunky, solipsistic, and conveniently blind to the actual marginalized figures in its midst.

Fictional underdogs, polished across hours of screen time or incredibly fabricated campaigns, are granted just enough flaws to feel human but not enough to implicate the systems around them. It’s the same sleight of hand Sylvester Stallone himself performed when he compared Trump—definitively not an underdog—to Rocky Balboa. The myth so thoroughly seduces that it obscures rather than illuminates, their bronzed heads too busy posing for strength to notice the truth flying right over them.

The New York Times covered Rising Up not once, but twice, and this magazine featured a local review earlier this month. Combined, these critical musings give a thorough take on the Rocky statue’s journey from movie prop to polarizing civic monument to its current place within the museum’s walls. They praise the exhibition for its “depth and moments of grace” (Hawthorne, Times) and offer a nuanced critique around its use of “Rocky as a filter to perform engagement with statue politics while avoiding its fault lines” (Sullivan, Space On Space).

This essay instead focuses on the Rocky statue itself, using mythology and pop culture as a lens to ask what it means to center a wannabe strongman at a time like this.

UNDERCARD

It is neither a difficult nor novel conceit to acknowledge that fictional figures can often be more influential role models than real people.2 Fictional heroes demonstrate an equal if not greater influence on everyday life than real people, and real heroes are often fictionalized beyond their original value. Actual or imagined, their foundations in reality matter less than the real-time energy and thought we pay them.

This becomes particularly true if, and when, we build monuments to them.

The exhibition provides nuanced frameworks that explore the “meanings and mythology of the Rocky statue” and various investigations into power dynamics (the word power appearing in nearly every didactic at the entrance to each of its six galleries).

Racial power dynamics play a major role in the exhibition. Wall texts name early boxing contests as “often entangled with systems of exploitation and exclusion, including enslavement, and, later, the precarious lives of the working class, immigrant, and newly emancipated Black communities,” and the show highlights the massive shadow the fictitious Rocky Balboa (white) cast over the real-life Joe Frazier (Black).

The exhibition gives Frazier his moment with a full gallery dedicated almost exclusively to him, even conspicuously directing Rocky's shadow away from Frazier in the subsequent room.

Yet, in a sport dominated at the championship level by BIPOC fighters and white owners (think networks, promotion companies, and media rights), Rising Up glosses over the real origins of prize fighting in the USA. It’s perhaps one of the exhibition’s few sloppy punches. A bit more attention to this discourse would have gone a long way in setting the stage for the power dynamics in contemporary boxing.

MAIN EVENT

It’s no small task to separate the art from the artist-commissioned-by-a-Hollywood-star-to-fabricate-a-statue-of-a-fictitious-character-that—as described by said actor—is a euphemism for the entire city of Philadelphia. It’s an even taller task to ask an audience to do this with you, as Farber and his team set out to do.

When the Rocky statue was placed within the walls of a museum, a work of art was invented from a movie prop, asking questions about the underlying system by which “art” is chosen or deemed worthy for museum exhibition. This query, particularly as it applies to public monuments, is Farber’s driving question.

Something I appreciate about this statue’s storyline is that, by moving from the street onto a pedestal with ‘do not touch’ placards, the exhibition asks us to objectify the statue itself. It leverages the schematics of museums—of ethnography and of anthropology—to flip the gaze onto Rocky, a buffed-up white strongman.

To use the slang of the demographic the art museum so clearly wanted to attract with its failed PhAM campaign, Stallone checks all the boxes as a looksmaxxer and mogger.3 Perhaps not the OG—I’d assume that title is held by Achilles, Narcissus, or Alexander the Great—but, at a reported 2.8% body fat with a chiseled jaw, definitely a 1980s poster boy. Listed at 5’10” and a known user of lifts around taller actors, Stallone may also have been on the vanguard of tiptoe-maxxing.4

I think it is important to note here that Stallone not only played Rocky but also wrote and directed the film. He was the person in power who decided to have a legitimate bronze statue made of himself. As the exhibition details, he posed for hours, took multiple face casts, formally directed the sculptor, gave the statue to Philadelphia (no, I insist you keep it), and eventually created two more casts. As far as mogging goes, this is the stuff of a Clavicular5 wet dream.

Let’s also look at who Stallone (remember: writer and director) chose for Rocky’s meaningful prize-fight opponents (read: antagonist because we’re talking about movies): Black man, Black man; bigger Black man; Russian; and then a slight deviation in Rocky V, where the main antagonist is not a fighter but a bombastic promoter with the catchphrase Only in America! clearly modeled on the notorious real-life promoter, Don King (not shockingly: he’s also Black). Essentially, Rocky was very busy beating up white America’s biggest threats.

In this way, Sly reads far more Trumpian than the curators would like to acknowledge. And this is the blatantly problematic part of centering Rocky and Stallone at the same time that a golden statue of Trump, publicly defended and praised by Trump himself, is being erected.6

In staging an exhibit around this character, it is hard to divest from conversations around the pernicious effects of rugged individualism, the American Dream, and racism. Farber’s podcast unabashedly dives into these conversations with more gusto and self-awareness than Rising Up.

Looking at the exhibition's photo archives that A. Thomas Schomberg used to create the statue, Rocky’s musculature seems to be a rather inflated version of Stallone. And, when viewed from the right (read: wrong) angles, it even makes the statue’s head appear comparatively small.7 A pre-roided-out Stallone commissioned the monument as a movie prop in 1980. It seems to have portended within his bronze facsimile, and with the help of Schomberg, his own beefy corporeal future. This is called heroic scale—the bronze is Stallone at 150%.

Perhaps more importantly, strictly from a formal sense, I’m amazed by the flatness of Stallone’s gluteal region and legs as rendered by Schomberg. With all the other corporeal swelling taking place in this statue, I’m surprised Stallone didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to enhance his lower extremities. Any boxer worth their weight will tell you punching power originates from the ground up. For comparison, sportswriters and announcers often categorized Frazier as having “tree-trunk legs.”

With this in mind, the Rocky statue steps into its role as the literal and metaphorical centerpiece of the exhibition perfectly: an upper body for show built on a flat base.

Speaking of lowers, the underdog myth, pervasive in Rocky and Rising Up, is legitimately irresistible—and deeply American. The exhibition leans into Rocky’s role as the patron saint of blue-collar grit in Philadelphia, a city that clings fiercely to the dark horse identity. But the underdog story, for all its visceral inspiration, quietly reinforces the masquerade of the American Dream. As a salient example, the Brookings Institution ranks Philadelphia last among its peers in upward economic mobility. At its best, the underdog lens aligns us with the marginalized and disenfranchised. But if everyone wants to claim the identity, it becomes nearly impossible to see who the real underdogs actually are.

POST-FIGHT ANALYSIS

One of the curatorial wall texts in Rising Up notes that a boxer’s value was demonstrated through violent sacrifice, endurance, and struggle.

Unfortunately, with limited versions of masculinity presented to our youth, these are the same benchmarks many boys and men use to measure their value and self-worth.

As Hawthorne astutely notes in his review, “Rising Up turns out to be the museum show American men didn’t know we needed.”

Although true, the exhibition still runs the risk, particularly for those who may not be paying close attention, of normalizing or ironically minimizing its intended target into a position of even greater strength. In this case: performative strongman masculinity.

On one of my several visits to the exhibition, I met a former boxer who, simply judging by the size of his shoulders, had dedicated much of his life to The Sweet Science. It turns out he also spent time inside the maximum-security State Correctional Institution (SCI) at Graterford in both the boxing and mural art programs.8 While we were talking, two young adults, both looking like they had come from the gym and followed Clavicular, also entered the conversation.

Perhaps inspired by Rocky, they jumped at the opportunity to talk about who we thought the Greatest of all Time (GOAT) is in boxing. I deferred to the former boxer, who, I suppose, is worth noting, was Black. As he pondered the question, the two wannabe strong bros (both white) decided to answer the question for themselves.

According to their logic, because: 1) Muhammad Ali (whose most well-known nickname is The Greatest) once said Mike Tyson was a better boxer than himself (even though the two never fought because they competed in different eras); and 2) Jake Paul (then 27) won a fight against Tyson (then 58), these two posited, with what I can only assume was true sincerity, that Jake Paul is the greatest boxer of all time.9

I praise the exhibition for getting this mix of people into a museum. It is an achievement that, say, the incredibly moving but more nuanced Noah Davis exhibit or the upcoming Duchamp exhibit would struggle to accomplish. Sports may be the most unifying cultural binder we have, penetrating social, economic, racial, political, class, and religious barriers.

My own personal experiences have shown that sports spaces are far more diverse and, at times, inclusive spaces than traditional cultural institutions. Despite the art world’s professed commitment to liberal multiculturalism, it often remains an echo chamber for a specific set of left-leaning ideologies. These are, in general, ideologies that I also value and connect with, yet recognize as limited in their scope, reach, and practical application without widespread embrace and commitment to a re-examination of structures.

This form of multiculturalism, which can inadvertently also support imperialism and racial capitalism while outwardly promoting social progress, needs to be challenged by a genuine commitment to intersectionality, understanding, and plurality. True progress requires us to embrace the discomfort of engaging with differing perspectives and holding space for cognitive dissonance. I believe that the broad emotional investment in sports, when intertwined with the transformative power of art, can provide a unique and inclusive platform for initiating these essential conversations.

However, if we favor immediate legibility and populist appeal without the guidance of deeper discourse or—budget-be-damned—public programming, we risk unintentionally celebrating or promoting harmful ideologies or, in this case, false idols. I’ve been to enough Monument Lab events with the tired, What Monuments do you want to see in Philadelphia? public-sticky-note-board. Where is the actual programming?10

The museum could leverage the city’s deep love of boxing to bus more youth into its doors, partner with local boxing gyms, offer satellite OST programs, engage local artists and youth organizations around the broader themes of the exhibition, or schedule watch parties with meaningful panels around upcoming fights (Trump is hosting a UFC Freedom 250 fight at the White House on June 14, coinciding with Flag Day and his birthday, for Creed’s sake!). Where sports programming works to diversify the museum audience, coinciding arts programming could deepen understanding of the exhibition and broaden conceptions of masculinity.

Ironically, this exhibition reminded me of a better version of the Jake Paul vs. Tyson fight. Both were entertaining (the exhibition decidedly more so than the fight), yet just as Tyson never seemed to engage Paul fully, Rising Up felt more like a choreographed spar with the conversations it intended to engage. Neither fighter nor exhibition delivered a knockout blow, leaving this particular viewer wanting a bigger punch.

So, in a show honoring another rugged ‘tough’ guy, I’m simply left to ask: Where are the balls?

clancy’s Ringside Feedback

When I entered the Shed, I followed a sea of people dressed in nearly identical navy blazers up the escalators to the densely packed second floor. Among the gallerists and collectors, it was delightful to encounter so many independent journalists and critics, each of us recognizable in our headphones and wry smiles of acknowledgment. I slipped quietly from booth to booth, struck by the strong presentations from South Korean galleries. At Gallery Kukje, Haegue Yang’s venetian blind sculpture A Matter of Fact (from Dan)—Peep Asymmetry was beautifully paired with Kibong Rhee’s painting There is no place. Christine Sun Kim’s unassuming charcoal drawing Echo Trap at Gallery Hyundai was another standout. There was an obvious sense of care and intention with the artworks and artists chosen, whose work often sang quietly but confidently from the walls. This poetic sensibility felt distinctly opinionated when compared to other blue-chip galleries, which often favored the kind of commercially viable neutrality that was guaranteed to be unobtrusive and unremarkable.

No need to disrupt a formula that works.

This was glaringly evident at Pace, whose two-artist display of Maya Lin and Leo Villareal left much to be desired. I walked up to a tasteful grey box, feeling transported to a luxury hotel lobby or some minimalist spa. It was the kind of aesthetic environment that implies essential oil diffusers and hot towels could emerge at any moment. In the context of the space I found myself in, Lin’s ambitious and often ecologically informed work fell into the role of decorative marble—yard art for the wealthy. The wooden plinths used to prop up the work felt like an arbitrary material connection to Villareal’s latest series, entitled Golden Game. These wall works of fluted wood embedded with LED lights are a lateral progression from the LED strip lights familiar to anyone who has entered a college dorm room in the last decade. I felt less inclined to imagine the harmony between nature, man, and technology as I was feeling like a guest at a posh, post-minimalist Airbnb.

I joined the throngs of early-career associates in chic all-black basics up the escalators to the fourth floor. Navigating the labyrinthine array of booths, the somewhat unassuming Campeche struck me as I came around the corner. I found a series of what appeared to be found objects, metal fan grills, with what appeared to be frescos. Highlighted in the Focus section, curated by Lumi Tan, Campeche made its Frieze debut with a solo presentation of work by Abraham González Pacheco. The Tepoztlán-based artist fills in the gaps that history omits through romantic, fictionalized images that combine narrative, myth, and fact into compelling abstractions.

Have you ever wondered what William Blake’s delicate watercolors would look like as ancient artifacts from a not-so-distant future-past?

I began to circle the booth to get a closer look.

Four of these painted objects hung at opposing ends of the space, flanking three large-scale vertical paintings on paper. The central painting depicts a Guston-esque tangle of bodies, which appear as arms in a dust cloud, each brandishing a fly swatter. What at first felt like a tongue-in-cheek reference to the buying frenzy of the fair simultaneously reflects a dystopian image of a barren landscape embroiled in conflict, complete with a red sky and foregrounded by a trickle of water which may have once been a stream. The following painting came as a relief: three cloudscapes stacked upon one another. The same hand that rendered a cartoonish, violent cloud now suddenly emerges as tender and earnest a few feet away. The gestures feel urgent but ambiguous, like a storm. The viewer is left on an event horizon, wondering whether they are on the verge of arriving or almost out of sight.

I turned to the painted fan grills on the leftmost wall of the gallery. The grills have a thin swathe of concrete painted with ancient-looking pigments. The larger of the two fans is painted with concentric circles and organic decorative patterns, like a piece of cosmic pottery. The smaller grill is the delicate yellow of cooked masa.

A sunflower or sunburst pressed into a relic of urban materiality.

Pacheco’s ability to oscillate between the mundane and the sublime, the real and the fictitious, is masterful and on full display. Together, the two works on the wall operate like mysterious machinery, two cogs in perpetual motion.

Pacheco’s works feel lively, referencing a thorough awareness of art history while contributing something new to the longstanding dialogue of painting. His poetic approach to examining his personal and collective cultural history imbues the work with a haptic sincerity that stood out among the rest of the work at the fair.

I returned to the booth again before I made my way out, admiring the cracks in the concrete and curling edges of the unframed paper. Each object patinaed in real time, never coming across as fragile, but resilient in the face of time, emboldening us to do the same.

Diego Juárez is a visual artist, poet, critic, and curator from San Pedro, CA, currently living and working in Philadelphia. He is the co-founder of SENSUS, an independent quarterly publication that highlights the diverse range of emerging contemporary artists, critics, and writers working within and from Philadelphia. He received his MFA from the Tyler School of Art and Architecture and his BAs in Fine Art and English from the University of California, Irvine. His multidisciplinary practice encompasses painting, poetry, printmaking, drawing, and sculpture. His work gestures toward the sublime through the residue of industry, nature, and people.

diegojuarez.com

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

I wandered into Willed to Be, Sara Mehrinfar and Stacey Calle’s exhibition at Monte Vista Projects in Los Angeles, open now through May 24, 2026. It was hot in the fifth-floor gallery space. The windows were open, but no breeze came through, and good thing too; I feared it would disturb the three-inch-thick rectangular plots of plain all-purpose flour spaced around the room. The room felt inviting, but precarious. Several panes of blue glass and one window-sized mosquito screen hovered above the floor, affixed to the ceiling by binder clips and metal wires. On one plot of flour were more bread loaves than I could count. On another sat a picturesque house-shaped loaf of bread—complete with a triangular roof. It was surrounded by other, taller loaves, which appeared like trees in snow-like drifts of flour. Small avalanches cascaded from the sharp edges of each plot, and it seemed as though a dollhouse-sized blizzard had come through the gallery.

The setup evoked a sense of anxiety, as though one careless movement could cause everything to collapse. When I felt a sudden urge to sneeze, I twisted away frantically to not disturb the flour cliff-sides further. Near the center, I saw that four wires hung empty. Below them were many pieces of shattered glass, and a single bread-loaf house standing erect among the shards. I learned later that a viewer had bumped into the glass, causing its fall. The artists intentionally chose to leave the remains where they fell, adding to the sense of tension within the installation.

I couldn’t help but think of Thomas Kinkade as I walked around the space. The rudimentary shapes of the bread houses for me recalled his glowing paintings of snow-dusted cottages, as did the title of the exhibition, Willed to Be. The title, a play on the idiom “to will into existence,” brought to mind the American dream, which Kinkade stated he was attempting to evoke in many of his paintings.

Kinkade is not well regarded within serious academic art circles. His work is referenced mostly to scorn it, at best called “unserious” and at worst “propagandistic.” His critics argue that it ignores important realities of American life. But prints of his work are ubiquitous in the houses of many Americans, and indeed dotted the houses of many of my childhood friends. I grew up in a series of small to mid-sized city suburbs, from Texas to West Virginia. Neighborhood blocks seemed to stretch for miles, and even if the county never fixed the roads’ potholes, we always had a tree to climb, a porch to sit on, or a backyard to set up a sandbox in. Although no one directly mentioned the American dream during my childhood, it was always a feeling in the air.

Standing amidst Willed to Be, I realized I almost wanted a bread house; I felt happy looking at them. The rolling hills of flour looked beguiling, like the cheerful backyards of my youth, and I imagined their edges as fences or grassy creek beds indicating property lines between my neighbors and myself. I felt hopeful for a future with a yard, trees, and a home.

But this sense of desire also made me uneasy. It reminded me of the gingerbread house I’d decorated in December, and I felt childish pretending I could live in a loaf of bread. And then I noticed my desire. It was startlingly similar to the American dream itself, in which wanting and getting are ever-present ideals. Especially regarding houses.

The exhibition brought up my childhood notions of house and home, wherein homes represent tranquility, like a Kinkade painting. But it also complicated those feelings by using each material to undermine the usual associations I might have with them. The hanging glass, rather than performing as a window or a material meant to be seen through, was turned horizontal and placed directly in my path, or above my head like the sky.

While bread is often a symbol for community, eating, and sharing, in Willed to Be it is used as a building material—becoming stones, trees, and houses. Each loaf was placed on the floor, and was slowly hardening, becoming more and more inedible. I realized the inherent tension between the artists’ sense of home and my own. As Yi-Fu Tuan suggests in Space and Place, space becomes place when a person fills it with their own memory and attachment. For Mehrinfar, the ‘cobblestone street’ of bread loaves reminds her of childhood memories of visiting her mom’s home country of Argentina. For Calle, the hanging mosquito screen is reminiscent of Miami, where he grew up, after moving from Ecuador as a teenager. Many of the loaves used in the installation were sourced from the bakery where Calle works.

The layout challenged me as well. Like a giant in a sandbox, I found I needed to tread carefully, lest I disturb a perfectly placed object. Even the broken glass—although an unintentional outcome from the show’s opening—worked to upend my sense of stability, forcing me to move away from where I might have walked before. Each material asserted a power over me. Although I’d pictured Kinkade cottages I’d like to move into, the materials asked that I stay away from them, rather than get closer.

Willed to Be presented “home” as a place of tension. In it, idealism and disaster lived side by side, much like Kinkade himself, who died of an accidental overdose rather than at peace in a seaside cottage. The bread houses enchanted me, the precarious structures disrupted me, and the materials contested my presumptions. Home became a place of instability, a place I wanted but could not touch.

*********

Editor’s note: While I’m certainly not god, I am 3000 miles away from Monte Vista Projects. From my zoomed out perspective, the exhibition Willed to Be reached me from a small picture on my iPhone. I’ve worked with Stacey Calle in the past for Issue #3 of Space On Space Magazine and have been following his work for a few years now. Currently, I’m in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Philadelphia is where the Pursuit of Happiness was crafted, and where the city is actively wrestling with how to tell its own story. And while I can’t attest to the effectiveness of Willed to Be from viewing it in person—that is to be determined by every guest who entered the space physically—I can say that it had an effectiveness on me from viewing it from afar virtually.

To get to where I am from Los Angeles, one would most likely travel by plane across the Great Plains—where the majority of wheat for bread is grown. Calle chose to use all purpose flour invoking wheat’s origins in America; a colonial project that weaponized food to discredit Indigenous foodways built on maize. The Europeans had counted them out from making bread that could transubstantiate into Christ’s body. These colonial settlers had limitations around what could be deemed holy, and they missed a deeper truth that still causes pervasive damage in today’s world.

The work presented in Willed to be is minimalist and plain. And without the tipoff of the press release’s curatorial statement, I may not have considered wheat’s origin stories in America. Willed to Be only uses a few basic found or baked materials. These items have a kind of ordinariness to them that makes me wonder about any kind of deeper meaning. The work holds tension, instability, unresolve, and perhaps the spiritual is the most ordinary thing. Perhaps the most spiritual thing any one of us can do, is to constantly remind ourselves of how much we don’t know. How powerful being child-like is, or even more, how powerful being around actual children is. The work of the home is between parent/guardian and child; it’s often unseen labor. Work around the home is a prayer for daily bread. Willed to Be for me is a reminder to approach life with the eyes of a child and to attempt to zoom out.

Willed to Be: Sara Mehrinfar and Stacey Calle
On view at Monte Vista Projects through May 24, 2026
1206 Maple Avenue, 5th floor, #523
Los Angeles, CA 90015

Katherine Kesey is a writer and fine artist based in Los Angeles. She has an MFA in Fine Art from Otis College of Art and Design. Her writing can be found in KAIROS Literary Magazine, Bristol Noir, and Space on Space Magazine.

katherinekesey.com

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

The recurring intermission just after this musical number fixed the lyrics firmly in my head, and now, years later, they’ve taken on a new meaning. More than silly words to encourage small children, My Favorite Things is a model for slow looking, for appreciation of the little things, and for heightened attention, which is a remarkably restorative practice against the overstimulation of the contemporary visual landscape. New York Art Week, for example, held just so much stuff. So much money. So many booths. So many people. It felt difficult to appreciate any of the art. Crowded aisles, standoffish gallerists, I was feeling quite overwhelmed. But in creating a list of my favorite things, I don’t feel so bad.

Last week, Independent stood out for the participating galleries’ preference to show only one or two artists per booth, a strategy that gave viewers a clearer picture of each artist presented and created a rhythm across the booths. Here are my six favorite moments from Independent this May 14-17 at its new Pier 36 venue in far East Chinatown.

1. Eleanor Conover’s shaped canvases at Abattoir Gallery

I’ve been following Eleanor Conover’s work since a serendipitous encounter a few years back. Walking down Horatio toward the Whitney Museum, I caught a glimpse of Conover’s shaped canvases installed as a part of REGISTERED at White Columns. Her new works presented by Abattoir Gallery maintain what I have known of her stretcher structures, resisting not just the assumed rectangle of a painting but also the fixed depth of the canvas from the wall. Her canvases bow out from the wall like faceted gems reflecting the light, or like the literal mountain forms rising perpendicular to their base.

The canvases themselves are a composite of many sections quilted together, forming the architecture of their painting and breaking up space with the seams of each section. Conover’s marks in paint, dyes, and even drawing materials like graphite reinforce or defy the underlying structure. Sometimes the crazy network of stretcher bars peeks through a particularly sheer section of material. Some of the paintings even incorporate pockets sewn into the canvases to hold bits of rock, a reminder of Conover’s commitment to the landscape even through the language of abstraction.

2. Johan Samboni’s carved brick figures at SGR Galería

Samboni’s was my favorite sculpture on view at Independent, both for the material specificity of the work as well as the consideration of the installation. Where many booths seem to just set the sculpture on a basic pedestal (which is also often the wrong size for the artwork), Samboni’s brick figures were arranged on reclaimed wood shelves and rough-hewn sawhorses. When artists define the installation of their work by building the support into the work itself, they extend the artwork into space, changing its presence from one of random appearance to quiet confidence. The provisional feel of the shelves and sawhorses recalls the “obra negra” phase of construction described by Samboni, where brick and mortar remain exposed. Samboni’s references to an unfinished state connect to his discussion of cycles of erosion and rebuilding across family history and identity.

3. Dan Gunn’s puzzle-piece forms at Pentimenti

Dan Gunn’s forms are shaped birch wood pieces puzzled together and secured with nylon cord. The result is a strange hybrid between a sculpted 3D model of the object and a rendered 2D representation of its form. The negative spaces between the birch pieces create the drawing, a mesh that sections the space. I was particularly struck by his dishrag forms. Suspended from a single nail, they gently succumb to gravity in a way that seems to defy their wooden construction. Gunn’s work reflects on his experience growing up in the Midwest and on everyday objects that serve as indicators of regional identity. A Philly resident myself, I was on the lookout for galleries and artists with a connection to my city. Gunn is based in Connecticut, but Pentimenti is in Philadelphia. I’ve been observing a preference for hybrid art forms in the city—something that doesn’t fit neatly into the traditional categories of painting or sculpture. Gunn’s work is emblematic of that hybridity. His process is reminiscent of craft traditions like quilting, which rely on assembling smaller pieces to form the whole.

4. Ian Davis’s darkly humorous gatherings at Galerie Judin

Ian Davis’s meticulously painted scenes portray large gatherings of identically dressed figures, seated placidly or walking in formation. Relying on the uncanny unison of the figures’ actions, dress, and the orderly environment they find themselves in, the paintings relay a deep uncertainty and a sense of being just one tiny part within a larger organism. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry at the reminder of fixity in systems beyond my control. I thought of Franz Kafka’s absurdist narratives, highlighting the incomprehensible mess of bureaucratic systems of power. As is the case with Kafka’s writings, Davis’s audience is never treated to a reveal or explanation. The paintings keep the viewer in a place of tension, wondering how these figures could have gotten themselves into this position and whether they will ever get out.

5. Rika Minamitani at Tomio Koyama Gallery

Rika Minamitani may be Nicole Eisenman’s long-lost cousin for her similarly striking use of color and blend of realistic and illustrative renderings of figures. The compositions rely on both humor and sincerity in their anecdotal compositions. The viewer feels like they have arrived mid-conversation. I felt a particular kinship with her painting of an octopus as the artist in the studio, many arms trying to accomplish many tasks at once. Even with eight arms, it’s a challenge to work at the speed of thought when inspiration strikes.

6. Kentaro Okumura at Vardaxoglou

Easily my favorite work I saw anywhere in New York last week, Okumura’s paintings are a texture and color dreamland. Ranging in scale from tiny to very large, the mark-making is fast, but the surface quality is slow. My favorite work was a small rusty cross hovering in a dimpled, heavily built-up field of blue and green paint. Working with abstraction, Okumura’s paintings maintain a deep connection to the embodied experience through the specificity of his color relationships and use of high and low contrast. Rather than represent the sight, Okumura creates the feeling of that experience, like the feeling of walking out of a dark room into a bright summer day, or the feeling of looking off over the ocean toward the horizon. We actually see neither water nor sunshine, but we feel them.

I could keep adding to my list, but I don’t want to dilute my designation of favorite. If I’m not careful, a few of my favorite things could turn into an exhaustive catalogue of all the beautiful moves made by the many artists represented by the 76 galleries at Independent. It’s worth reiterating that my willingness to go on adding to what I noticed and appreciated was made possible by the prevalence of solo or duo shows at the fair, a strategy that helped shift the experience away from shopping for a product and back toward really looking at and experiencing an artwork. And, not being a gallerist or business person myself, I suspect that this viewer experience may actually help collectors make better or more confident decisions about artworks they would want to live with. A viewer’s ability to assess what they like in an artwork is made easier through a slower pace, where people can notice the details and determine their favorite things.

Macy West (she/her) is a Philadelphia-based artist and writer. She received her MFA from Tyler School of Art and Architecture and her BFA from Louisiana State University. Her practice explores artistic and scientific visualization through painting, drawing, and printmaking. She has been included in exhibitions at Pink Noise Projects, Ice Box Projects, Frameworks Gallery, 82Parris, and Bond Millen Gallery. In 2025, she co-founded SENSUS magazine, a quarterly arts publication highlighting contemporary art in Philadelphia.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

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Below are six exhibitions happening across the city in artist-run spaces, galleries, and museums.

1. Mouthful, a large group exhibition currently on view at Vox Populi, open now through June 14, 2026, is one such show that goes beyond words. Words, specifically, are its main subject. Curated by executive director Blanche Brown, the show melds current Vox members with regional and international voices. Brown conceptually frames the show around an iconic work by the late artist Theresa Hak Kyung Cha (1951–1982), Mouth to Mouth from 1975, and Janet Zweig’s Mind over Matter (1993), and puts the artists in dialogue with new and contemporary pieces. The exhibition includes work by Robert David Carey, China Rain Chung, Logan Cryer, Catia Colagioia, Jordan Deal, Lucia Garzón, Mona Gazala, Rachel Hsu, Cecilia Vicuña, Tan Lin, M Slater, Lea Devon Sorrentino, Eva Wu, and Connie Yu.

My biggest takeaway from Mouthful came from untitled, duet for an opera (2026), by Jordan Deal. This video was one of the biggest—excuse my language—mindfucks I’ve ever encountered, in the best possible way. I’d just finished an art marathon of viewing exhibitions across the city. I sat down alone to view the work and to catch my breath. Running a little over nine minutes, the video spans two walls with two green beings serenading the viewer with operatic gibberish.* The performers are singing in English, but the dialogue doesn’t connect and often overlaps. At the bottom of the video are French subtitles that do and do not line up with the English opera. It was like they were singing in tongues. It felt otherworldly. Incredibly haunted by the surprise encounter, I had to close my eyes at times and just let it wash me. I swear I’d seen the green bearded figure before: either in another artwork, a dream, or another lifetime. Perhaps they are from the future.

“untitled duet for an opera is a work that is staged for an opera, marking a duet, one singing ‘the 99 names of snow’ and the other, in a complementary contrast, ‘the 99 names for the n word with a hard r,’ said Deal. “This work is intended to take the stage as a material part of Capeforce. The performers in this work will remain anonymous, unless stated otherwise in the future.”

2. Uuughhh at Fleisher/Ollman is the Dufala Brothers’ fifth solo exhibition, open now through May 21, 2026. The first time I attempted to view Uuughhh, I got stuck in traffic for 2 hours because a car had caught fire. A grey smoke billowed in the distance as I missed all the openings I’d hoped to see. The second time I arrived, the gallery was closed in solidarity with May Day. The third time was a grand success. The work presented in Uuughhh included a solar system made from Billy’s belly button lint, an over-designed wheelbarrow too heavy to function well, and an air filtration ductwork made of the especially toxic, pre-1970s galvanized steel in the shape of gigantic human lungs, among other artworks. The Dufala Brothers use humor strategically and highlight the materials and objects utilized in the labor of working-class men. I stopped for a while to admire Stephen’s drawings, which took him at least 12 hours to create each. You can feel the labor in the surfaces of the drawings. Time well spent.

3. FJORD’s XYZ ACCESS is on view now through June 16, 2026. XYZ ACCESS is a three-person show of new art by Logan Elise Crompton, Jocelyn Tsui, and Ryan Scails that’s been in the works for over a year. It began based on FJORD’s annual open call. Sean Starowitz, the curator and co-director, stated that FJORD was interested in expanding and critiquing the artist open call in artist-run spaces.

“FJORD curated us from our open call applications. We didn’t get the open call show, but they saw through lines in each of our work relating to grids and underlying structures guiding or dictating the work,” said Crompton.

I spoke with each artist individually, and all three touched on the importance of craft traditions within their practices and the presence of the grid. I loved how, even though all three artists’ works were critiquing the effects of technology on place and the body, they used very handmade materials to do so.

Crompton rarely incorporates figures in their work, and when they do show a Black figure, it's typically covered by a protective element or material that acts as armor, like sequins. Elements of their own bodily DNA, likeness, and items like hair scarves are incorporated within their work, along with a keen interest in fiber studies. Scails utilizes found materials like tea bags, and he also often uses found fabric in his practice. He shared that his parents owned a vintage store, and he grew up rummaging through its treasures.

When speaking with Tsui, she went into detail about RISO printing techniques she utilized to replicate specific patterns and colors in the paper tapestry, Analog Glitch, and the floor installation, Paper Tiles—a reference to Kowloon Walled City in Hong Kong.

4. Blah Blah Gallery presents its first group show of all male artists in Boys Boys Boys, on view now through July 10, 2026. The exhibition brings together work by Adam Lovitz, Branche Coverdale, Charles Hickey, Kevin Sabo, Luke Forsyth, Michael Saunders, Nasir Young, Nicolo Gentile, Samuel Richardson, Scott Vander Veen, and Todd Stong. Having previously centered works by women, queer, and gender non-conforming artists, this is a bold move for the gallery, and the comment section on the Instagram announcement post proves it. I excitedly attended this opening, most eager to see Charles Hickey’s work in person for the first time, and I was delighted to report it’s even more incredible. Hickey is a Los Angeles-based artist utilizing 3D pen techniques to “paint” references to art-historical paintings, and he shows with Feia gallery.

I was most surprised by a sincere work by Nasir Young in the very back of the gallery titled Faces of London #02. A gouache on Bristol painting of a graffiti-covered church storefront that reads “New Life Bible Pentecostal Church.” With a title like Boys Boys Boys, I’d imagined only sexy renderings of muscular men in little to no clothing, but this piece is a literal come-to-Jesus moment. Don’t get me wrong, there are speckles of scantily clad men included in works like Put to Wrest (Lick) by Nicolo Gentile, which seems to use clips from a vintage muscle magazine. One particularly electrifying work was The Compromise by Todd Stong, a pencil drawing on grained glass of a skeleton with an erection. A discovery for me was Michael Saunders’ work, Doorway and rough trip. Saunders’ paintings seem to be reflections on death, dying, or even just the precarity of being alive, a relevant topic for this woman who recently experienced postpartum depression.

5. Temple Contemporary’s SPACES OF ENCOUNTER, on view now through June 27, 2026, is “a research-driven exhibition exploring cultural literacy in the built environment, the ministry of presence, and the biological impacts of space and place on American life. Conceived by public art researcher Danicia Monét Malone and guest curated by Alyse Tucker of New York University, the exhibition brings together 21 artifacts and artworks across image, audio, and data from multiple cities in conversation.”

Outside the gallery is a large, golden inflatable porch. The inflatable is pushed up against—and towers over—the bronze statue in the green hallway, and the sound of block-party music plays nearby. Upon entering the gallery, the first work is a sharp cultural reclamation placard that inverts historical segregation language, “COLORED ONLY No Whites Allowed.” This piece will land very differently depending on who is looking at it. It immediately establishes the exhibition's frame: structural inclusion and exclusion within space. Walking through, one is presented with statistics about public art access across Albuquerque, Indianapolis, and San Basilio de Palenque. The exhibition weaves Malone's research among nooks and havens—the family photo wall, for instance, where the curators invite the viewer into 'the interior worlds of Black life.’

6. Lastly, my underdog recommendation is to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s current exhibition, Rising Up: Rocky and the Making of Monuments, on view now through August 2, 2026. I rolled my eyes at an exhibition about Rocky, but the show surprised me and encompasses much more than the man and the myth. Joni Sullivan wrote a review, “In Rocky’s Shadow,” and SOS has at least two more reviews in the works by other writers. I am still thinking about the exhibition, which is the biggest compliment I can give. And like I just said in my most recent essay, perhaps it’s time we trade the underdog stereotype of Philadelphia for a more accurate description of the city.

I wish you happy gallery-hopping this May and June!

*Editor’s Note: Thoughts on the word “gibberish.”

After this piece was published, I had a conversation with Jordan Deal about my use of the word “gibberish” to describe the vocal content of untitled, duet for an opera. Deal pointed out that the words being sung in the 99 names of snow and the 99 names for the n word with a hard r, both written by them, are charged and intentional, and that “gibberish” risks dismissing as meaningless what is in fact a deliberate enumerative composition.

What we worked through together: the experience of trying to receive two voices singing in parallel projected onto different walls, neither harmonizing nor resolving, was for me less like hearing nothing than like hearing glossolalia: singing in tongues. Deal embraced that framing as resonant with what the work itself is investigating: language transforming into a register of the metaphysical, the spirit, the encounter. They stated that there is still disagreement in the use of the word itself, particularly in framing what’s happening. We agreed to leave “gibberish” in the piece with this note.

A note on how Space On Space is currently funded:

This Substack is funded by my PR practice and reader support. Writing reviews, interviewing artists, and covering Philadelphia’s art ecosystem takes a lot of time. If the writing here has been useful to you, a paid subscription is the most direct way to support and go deeper. I provide exclusive essays, interviews, and PR advice for artists under the paid tier.

I provide PR and editorial work for galleries, artists, and academic institutions. If you have a project you’d like to talk through, email: emily@spaceonspace.com.

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com

Right after 10 a.m., I wandered into Big Ramp’s solo presentation of Todd Stong, part of Anthony Elms’ TD Bank Curatorial Spotlight. It’s a corner booth—large—right near the bathrooms and refreshments, an ideal place for attracting visitors. Big Ramp is an artist-run space based in Kensington, Philadelphia. Maria Stracke, one of the Big Ramp gallerists, greeted me wearing a gorgeous blue blouse. She was seated casually at a table in front of the booth, stewarding a relaxed atmosphere. The day was just getting started, and the crowds had yet to emerge. We took a deep breath together. Stracke and Chris Hammes—the other Big Ramp gallerist—shared with me a few days later: “The overall response to Todd’s work has been amazing. We can’t say too much about sales just yet, but it’s going very well, both financially and as a learning experience. It felt like an experiment before we got here, but one that has been worth the effort.”

Todd Stong’s The Johann Joachim Winckelmann Sculpture Park could be seen from far away while seated in the lunch area. However, looking up close, its grandeur was even more apparent. It was one of the largest two-dimensional artworks at NADA this year, spanning two full walls. Hammes sprinkled some kind of special art handler magic and hung the piece on an inside corner. When spread upon a flat wall, the work hangs 21 feet long. “This booth follows a narrative I’ve been developing over the last four years,” Stong said. “The Johann Joachim Winckelmann Sculpture Park [is] dedicated to the eponymous founder of art history who textually sublimated his homosexual desires onto sculptures of Greek young men in a show of unbridled political and cultural (read: sexual) nostalgia. The rest is art history.”

At NADA, Stong’s mural-like sculpture park got a chance to breathe out in the open. Previously, it hung at Peep Projects in 2024, in a hallway-shaped space where one could only stare at it up close. Here, air gently blew through the monotype panels, as if the work were only truly activated through viewership. It’s alive with bodies, dark holes, scaffolding, and many hands. It’s said that many hands make light work. Yet, in Stong’s rendering, many hands seem to be making work that is actively undoing itself as it’s unfolding. The ice monument melts as it’s being constructed. History is told as it’s being erased.

Around the bend was another TD Bank Curatorial Spotlight: 5U Space, a nomadic gallery in Philadelphia, started by Philadelphia native, design-forward Leo Brooks. Brooks was showcasing a delicate, thoughtful presentation by Mika Obayashi, a mix of paper works and sculptures created during her papermaking residency at Dieu Donné. It was a quiet counterpoint to Big Ramp’s bold statement. Brooks shared this about his debut fair experience: “We’ve been thrilled by the enthusiastic reception our booth has received following four opening day sales. Visitors have been taken by the blend of technical skill and visual subtlety present in Mika’s handmade paper works, expressed interest in our nomadic model, and commented that the restraint of our booth provided a moment of calm in the chaos of the fair.”

I could attest to the grounding nature of 5U Space’s booth. The three-legged Ecstatic Matter and four-legged Entropy Management System sculptures in the center are intricately handmade with so many small details. These are not readymades, but highly crafted, one-of-a-kind intimacies. While Dotted Line, the two tiny paper spirals attached to fishing wire, hung in the opposite corners of the gallery, reached skyward beyond the temporary white walls. The sculptures both touch ground and sky, while the eight diagram-like paper drawings create depth, blankness, and spaciousness, like a beautiful meditation. So far, 5U Space has received a spotlight in the New York Times and Whitewall.

Blah Blah Gallery, directed by dealer Megan Galardi, was the third Philadelphia gallery on site this year at NADA. Galardi is a dealer to watch; though Blah Blah has only been around since 2023, Galardi has quickly risen to become a standout commercial gallery in Philadelphia and has participated in art fairs across the country. “I chose to plant Blah Blah in Philadelphia because I saw a way to help fill the gap between artist-run spaces and larger institutions, creating more commercial pathways for artists while still staying connected to the energy and community that makes the city’s art scene so strong,” said Galardi. “I’m interested in building a space that feels deeply rooted in Philly but also connected to broader national and international conversations.”

Galardi has recently been featured in ARTnews and Artnet for launching a boutique hotel-style art fair happening June 4-6 in Philadelphia called Elsewhere Art Fair. For NY Art Week 2026, Blah Blah was showing at NADA and Future Fair and has already received mentions in Artsy and Hyperallergic. At NADA, Galardi presented work by Philadelphia-based artist Julia Policastro and Austin-based artist Sydney Vize.

“I worked at the Fabric Workshop and Museum in high school,” said Policastro, “and was introduced to the Philly art community through that institution. The zeal and support of the community were so inspiring. I wanted to immerse myself as much as possible.” Vize shared about how she connected with Galardi, “I was included in Blah Blah’s juried exhibition, Holding Pattern, earlier this year. It was my first time exhibiting in Philadelphia. I had always admired Blah Blah’s exhibitions and curatorial vision from afar, so I’m very honored to be included.”

Historically, Philadelphia galleries have had a presence at NADA, including showings by Paradigm Gallery and Pentimenti. This year, Pentimenti was invited to showcase work at Independent Art Fair, where the gallery presented a solo debut of work by Dan Gunn. Christine Pfister, Pentimenti’s director, shared that, “visitors were excited to encounter a Philadelphia gallery at the fair, underscoring the significance of regional voices within an increasingly international art landscape. For Pentimenti, the fair offered a significant opportunity to introduce the artists we champion to a broad and discerning audience.”

Beyond the Philadelphia-based galleries, several artists with roots in Philadelphia are present at NADA. Feia, a rising Los Angeles commercial gallery, debuted at NADA this year with an artist who got their start in Philadelphia. Marianna Peragallo received her undergrad from now-shuttered UArts and presented a solo display titled POCKET PARK. Feia sold out Peragallo’s work on day one. Peragallo is a Brazilian-American artist currently based in New York. All the works in the show were made while she was early postpartum with her child and are completely made of ceramics, though some pieces are convincingly metal-looking. She displayed a fountain feature of a biomorphic plastic bag that is leaking into a drainpipe. Feia will present new work from six artists at Elsewhere next month.

When asked about her time in Philadelphia, Peragallo remarked:

Another Los Angeles gallery at NADA, Yiwei Gallery, presented paintings by Philadelphia-based artist Kay Seohyung Lee. In a recent interview with Vibes N Vistas, Lee shared extensively about her experience as an emerging artist in Philadelphia: “There is curiosity and openness towards difficult discussions, which had a huge influence on my practice and how I view the art world.” Yiwei Lu, the gallery owner, originally connected with Lee through a collector in LA who bought her piece from Spring Break NYC. Lee received her MFA from the University of Pennsylvania and has shown at Paradigm Gallery, Blah Blah, Vox Populi, and Icebox Project Space, among others. When asked about Yiwei’s programming at NADA, Yiwei shared the following:

Saskia Fleishman is another Philadelphia artist whose work arrived at NADA via an out-of-state gallery, in her case, Dallas-based Galleri Urbane. Fleishman’s presentation included several wall-mounted sunrise paintings made of acrylic and locally sourced sand on digitally printed chiffon. The chiffon is translucent, allowing for a ghostly peek through the other side. The acrylic on top of the chiffon is applied in thick dashes, like the sky is moving toward the viewer. The ceramic sculptures have a similar sunrise ombre treatment, where the surface was sprayed with an underglaze.

When asked about her practice in Philadelphia, Fleishman said:

Galardi tipped me off to a handful of other Philly threads across the fairs I hadn't caught. Jen Wink Hays, a Philadelphia-based painter and sculptor, was showing with Sears-Peyton at NADA. TZ Productions had a special project at 1-54 — Dr. Tukufu Zuberi, the founder, is a Penn professor based in the city. Carl Drukow was showing with Good Naked at Future Fair. And DUDD HAUS, a Philadelphia-based design collective, launched DUDD LITE—a collaborative presentation of more than 120 artist-designed nightlights—at the New York design firm The Future Perfect.

Philadelphia’s art scene is special because it’s supportive and relatively accessible. There are likely more artists with Philly roots at NADA I didn't catch, and certainly more throughout the rest of New York. Whether artists and galleries choose to plant their practice in Philly or elsewhere, the city remains a cultural hub for creative talent. Perhaps it’s time to trade the underdog stereotype for a more accurate description—Philadelphia has a quiet confidence. It can be brutally honest, which is more an asset than a flaw. It pushes forward incredible contemporary art talent. It doesn’t need to be New York or Los Angeles. It is distinct in and of itself. I left the Starrett-Lehigh building at the end of the day—15,000 steps later—hopped onto a southbound train at Penn Station, back to the Keystone State.

Emily Logan is a nomadic art writer and publicist. Since 2020, she’s been building Space On Space: a media movement investigating the connections between land, power, and art. Previously, she worked as a publicist at ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, CA. She holds a BFA in Sculpture from Tyler School of Art and an MS in Innovation Management and Entrepreneurship from Fox School of Business, Temple University.

Space On Space is a media movement started in 2020. Originally a cathartic impulse to process the times, SOS has evolved into an investigation into the connections between land, power, and art. The outlet creates content and offers PR services to help artists, designers, and businesses take up more space in the media. At the intersection of art writing and public relations, SOS interrogates the line between mythmaking and the historical archive. The publication has produced three print magazines and a mountain of digital content covering artists from around the world. The magazine hosts parties, art talks, and poetry events. In a media landscape built for speed, SOS slows down—because depth is disruptive, and attention is power.

spaceonspace.com