For millennia, humans have navigated seas, rivers, and oceans as avenues for trade, exploration, conquest, and colonization. During the Age of Discovery—an era interwoven with what’s known as the Age of Sail—European explorers and traders embarked on journeys around the world to map previously uncharted continents, trade commodities, and establish new socio-political outposts. Imperial forces competed with one another to control as much as they could, all in the name of wealth and power, and individual landowners and traders profited immensely. But sustaining a presence in far-flung places would never have been remotely possible, nevertheless successful, without slavery.

Well into the 19th century, humans were transported through a vast slave network, with millions crammed aboard ships bound for various parts of Europe or North America. For London-based artist LR Vandy, the layered and often fraught legacies of labor, shipping, and trade undergird a distinctive sculptural practice.

Vandy’s studio is based at Chatham Historic Dockyard in Kent, where the history of wooden ships is alive and well. She uses materials such as Manila rope—a thick nautical rope made from the abaca plant, which is native to The Philippines—bobbers, navigation equipment, ship’s helms, hull-shaped wooden forms, and more, to explore the tangles of maritime history.

Vandy’s exhibition titled Rise, in The Weston Gallery at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, marks the artist’s first solo museum show. Many of the works seen here are included in the show, while others represent earlier pieces. In her most recent work, the rope is a central focus as she explores its “entanglement in human
history, its role in the development of civilisations, and its inextricable links to colonial enslavement of people,” says an exhibition statement. Everyday objects are repurposed and manipulated in an ongoing inquiry into process and materials, especially “drawing attention to the social, economic and political systems embedded within everyday objects.”

Anchoring the space at Yorkshire Sculpture Park is a giant, rope-covered form evocative of a maypole, nodding to historic European folk traditions that celebrate community, ritual, and regeneration. Other objects appear to spin or sway, as if skirts are swishing or invisible players move through a series of games. “My practice centres the hidden human costs of colonialism, transportation systems and commodities, and the knotted histories of trade and power they contain,” Vandy says in a statement. “The title, Rise, references ideas of resilience, protest, liberation, and collective joy explored through rituals and dance.”

Rise continues through September 13 in Wakefield. If you go, also see Nicola Turner’s dramatic exhibition, Time’s Scythe. Learn more and plan your visit on the park’s website, and follow Vandy on Instagram for updates.

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In the mid-20th century, before preservation efforts revived Miami’s Art Deco South Beach neighborhood with bright colors and lavish hotels, the area was a whitewashed holiday haven for retirees. And in a third-floor room of the Colony Hotel, which looked out onto the building’s marquee and the street below, a unique artistic endeavor unfolded.

Ukrainian artist Jonko “George” Voronovsky (1903-1982) transformed his humble, long-term residence into a vibrant environment of paintings and objects that he described as “memoryscapes.” Having endured incredible hardship amid the political maneuvers of the U.S.S.R. and the Nazis during the 1930s and 1940s, he chose to work in a bright, optimistic style that summoned idyllic remembrances from his youth. A short film by Dia Kontaxis, “George V.,” spotlights his legacy.

By all accounts, Voronovsky experienced a loving, typically middle class upbringing in Ukraine in the early 20th century. He spent his youth exploring his village and local forests, studying music, and dabbling in visual art. By the time he was a teenager, the Russian Revolution of 1917 marked the beginning of a protracted period of upheaval in Ukraine. His father died during this time, and the country entered the control of the Soviet Union.

By the early 1930s, Voronovsky had moved to Kyiv. He married in 1933 and became a father to two children. He worked as a mapmaker, and he witnessed the systematic destruction of Kyiv’s historically baroque architecture, which the Soviets replaced with the propagandistic Stalinist style.

In 1941, life would again change drastically. Hitler invaded Ukraine and took control of Kyiv. Three years later, Voronovsky and his family were forced—like many thousands of Ukrainians—to resettle in a camp. They were marched hundreds of miles to Prague, where he then was separated from his family when he was furthered on to a labor camp in Germany. Although he later sent them a portion of his wages to support them, he never saw his wife or children again.

Throughout the 1940s, Voronovsky drifted, traveling with a group called the Musical Wanderers that played in Displaced Persons camps around Ukraine. In 1951, as part of a program that eased immigration quotas in the U.S. to welcome European refugees, Voronovsky landed in New York, then moved to Philadelphia, where the Ukrainian immigrant community was well established. For a while, he found work with the railroad, continued to play music, and traveled. During the 1960s, he created some of his earliest work, a series of nude sculptures.

Eventually, due to his health and a desire to retire somewhere warm, Voronovsky took a room at the Colony Hotel in Miami Beach. Piece by piece, he filled his modest space with colorful paintings and sculptures made from wood, styrofoam, aluminum, and other found materials. These elaborate, often joyful compositions drew from his memories of Ukraine. They highlighted animals, dances, architecture, and bucolic, sunny landscapes. Completely concealed from public display, it was only a matter of chance that his work was seen from the street by a young artist named Gary Monroe, who knocked on the door and befriended the artist.

The amount of work Voronovsky fit into his space was staggering. “This little room was probably nine by 12 feet—5,000 objects,” Monroe says. Star-like forms made from drink cans covered his cabinets and were arranged around paintings. He’d use the backs of pizza boxes and magazine spreads to make his work, drawing from the post-consumer landscape of Miami Beach.

It’s thanks to Monroe that Voronovsky’s work was introduced to a wider audience, first shown in 1986 at a Miami bookstore called Books & Books. It wasn’t until 2023 that the High Museum of Art in Atlanta organized the first major solo exhibition of the obscure artist’s work, recognizing his contribution to the canon of self-taught art in the U.S.

Kontaxis’ film spotlights the High Museum’s exhibition along with interviews and archival footage. See more of her work on Vimeo.

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Amid groves of trees, meadows, and aging infrastructure, Cinga Samson’s dreamlike tableaux are bathed in eerie light, as if spotlit or illuminated by the moon. The South African artist is known for his use of deep, dark pigments such as carbon black and Prussian blue, complemented by the occasional teal or purple and pops of bright white in t-shirts or sneakers. His figures, engaged in enigmatic activities, look on with spectral, all-white eyes. Green and brown foliage camouflages individuals who gather in fields, sort through mysterious items, and appear to converge with other beings like large birds.

The work seen here is currently on view in the artist’s solo exhibition at White Cube called Ukuphuthelwa. In the artist’s native language, isiXhosa, the title means “unable to sleep.” “Unlike the English word ‘insomnia,’ the isiXhosa term carries no negative connotation, and accordingly, for Samson, sleeplessness is not a condition to be cured but a state of spiritual alertness, a sensitivity that deepens in the dark,” the gallery says.

The nature of consciousness and even the realm of dreams is an apt entry point to Samson’s latest work, which examines how painting can be what he describes as “true and honest.” What is real? What do we imagine? Throughout art history, animals have long symbolized certain qualities or beliefs, such as dogs as allegories of fidelity and birds as messengers between the earthly and the divine. In the artist’s large-scale compositions, there is a sense of “readability” akin to the narrative-driven Western art genre of history paintings, where the presence of these beings hints at meaning. Yet as we spend time with Samson’s works, curiosity and wonder seem to always overtake glimpses of recognition.

Even though the artist’s scenes may seem at first indecipherable, there is a foundational sense of reverence and ceremony in how his figures commune in seemingly out-of-the-way places for undisclosed, perhaps ritualistic purposes. Samson invites us to encounter the unknown, weaving a tension between what is knowable and what is unspecified or concealed. Through this, he explores the limits of representation in art and aims for what the gallery describes as “the authority of the unnameable and the territory of the sublime,” where sacredness is present in holy spaces and everyday experiences alike.

Ukuphuthelwa continues through April 18 in New York City. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

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In the little town of Kosciusko, Mississippi, a self-described “unusual artist” named L.V. Hull transformed her home and garden of three-and-a-half decades into an elaborate, continuous artwork. Through found objects and trinkets, paint, and glue she purchased at the local Walmart, the artist created an immersive art environment—a riot of color, patterns, and textures in which creativity merged with daily living.

Many of Hull’s works are currently on view in the show Love Is a Sensation at the Mississippi Museum of Art, which celebrates the self-taught artist’s eclectic approach to materials and space. From vibrantly painted everyday objects to idiosyncratic assemblages, Hull’s creativity and penchant for collecting knew no bounds.

“Hull merged art-making and the Southern art of ‘visiting’ to craft a creative practice that allowed her to commune with her inner spirit, her Creator, her community, and visitors from around the state, region, and world,” says a statement.

As a Black woman from a small Southern community, working within a genre often referred to as folk art, the artist worked outside of the mainstream art world. And like many minorities—especially in rural places—her practice is among those that have been marginalized within the canon, “resulting in an incomplete account of American creativity and art history,” the museum says. Love Is a Sensation spotlights Hull’s contributions to not only the creative legacy of the South but the tradition of artist-built environments.

Love Is a Sensation continues through June 14 in Jackson, and it also marks the advent of the new L.V. Hull Legacy Center, which is slated to open to the public this summer. You might also enjoy Tyree Guyton’s Heidelberg Project in Detroit, plus Jo Farb Hernández’s forthcoming book, Architectural Fantasies, which is slated for release on April 14.

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In works that merge sculpture, fashion, and kite-making, Hai-Wen Lin traverses the thresholds that connect one’s physical self, the mind, and the elements. The artist describes their practice as “an act of reorienting: looking back, looking forward, looking in, looking up.”

Using a wide range of materials, Lin creates vibrant, abstract compositions in textile often manipulated with cyanotype patterns or dyed with natural hues such as indigo and turmeric. They make kites “that speak the language of clothing,” blurring definitions of craft, art, garments, and acts of play.

Lin has long been interested in chance operations, documentation of daily life, and ways of releasing control. They artist first learned to sew as a way to explore and navigate questions of gender. During graduate school, they landed on the concept of a kite as a way of loosening up in terms of research and getting out into the open—literally embracing the wind. They were thus inspired by a stirring question: “What does it mean to care for, drape, dress, and accommodate change and instability?”

Lin’s pieces employ an array of materials and processes, such as discarded paintings, a variety of fabrics, jewelry findings, and more. “Two Can Share Heaven,” for example, incorporates dyed cotton, faux fur, polyester, velvet, and silk—the latter of which harkens to historical fashion.

The artist also occasionally includes experiential, ephemeral additions in the works’ materials lists, such as “a burning sensation, a desire to be lost” in a piece titled “Sunday, April 2nd 5:13–7:31pm,” among others, and titles sometimes reflect the dates and times when the kites were worn as garments.

Lin is fascinated by the tradition of Japanese paper sode dako, or “kimono kites,” which resemble the silhouette of the timeless robes. “It’s very simple, but the idea of the body in flight, is of course a powerful image,” Lin says, adding:

When I was young, my dad would have us write wishes on pieces of paper and send them up the kite lines when we flew them. If they disappeared when you reeled the kite back in, it meant the wish had been granted. So the kites have always been about a sense of wish-making. I think clothing offers a similar sense of aspiration for a lot of people.

Lin’s kites can just as easily be described as textile sculptures or apparel. They drape beautifully in exhibition spaces like abstract tapestries, severed from their free-flying, outdoor associations. They wrap around the human form like elegant, ethereal, shapeshifting mantles.

“What continues to interest me in this dialogue is the ways in which clothing and weather have always been in conversation,” Lin says, continuing:

Clothing is an interface that delineates our bodies from the environment, so I’m interested in reversing and reorienting that relationship. What would it mean to clothe the weather instead? I often refer to my works as clothing for the wind. I think of dress and clothing as a form of care. I love that we forecast weather and that we forecast fashion. It’s all a kind of attempt at discerning some kind of future. How do we care for a future sky with the clothes we make and wear now?

Loosely modeled after Chinese dragon robes, which were popularized among emperors and dynastic officials during the Tang Dynasty, “Two Can Share Heaven” explores notions of togetherness and cooperation. Unlike traditional garments, the artist designed the piece to be worn by two people as “a simple but direct challenge to the notion of a single ruler blessed by gods,” they share. “Here, power must be shared, redistributed, and negotiated between two.”

The Museum of Arts and Design (MAD) has awarded Lin the 2025 Burke Prize, a prestigious grant given to an artist under the age of 45 working in the U.S. whose practice revolves around contemporary craft. If you’re in New York, see Lin’s work at MAD from February 28 to October 11. The artist is also currently working toward a solo exhibition at the Knoxville Museum of Art. Follow updates on Instagram.

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When we think of terms like “flowing” or “fluid,” we could be referring to the nature of water, but we can also just as easily apply these concepts to our understanding of art and craft. Fabrics “pool” and different mediums converge. The nature of creativity is often referred to in terms of an “ebb and flow.” Ecologically speaking, bodies of water are metaphorically woven into the fabric of our planet. Rivers and lakes sustain an abundance of life, shape cultures, and course through history. Amid the ongoing climate crisis, how do artists express concerns about water and the environment?

Water | Craft, a group exhibition at the Minnesota Marine Art Museum, dives into this question. The museum itself is situated on the banks of the Mississippi River and often directly engages with its expansive biological and cultural reach. Works by seven artists, whose practices incorporate weaving, pottery, basketry, glass, and textile arts, directly interface with contemporary issues of water access and cultural preservation amid climate change.

Colossal readers may be familiar with the mixed-media pieces of Tali Weinberg and Nicole McLaughlin, both of whom combine quantities of colorful thread with other materials in meditations on interconnectivity and multi-disciplinarity. Weinberg translates ecological data into tendril-like installations and abstract weavings, such as a series of three pieces from her Climate Datascapes series that visualize information about silt in the Upper Mississippi River. McLaughlin’s dramatically fringed ceramic platters reference Pre-Columbian cultures and the continuum of human history and time.

Water | Craft also includes works by Rowland Ricketts, Sarah Sense, Therman Statom, Kelly Church, and Tanya Aguiñiga. The latter is known for her intricately knotted wall works containing terracotta forms, which cascade gently to the floor. And Ricketts’ large-scale installation, “Bow,” comprises strands of indigo-dyed linen that suspend within a large gallery space, creating the effect of a current or perhaps the silhouette of a boat.

“Just as water flows through bodies, landscapes, and cultural histories, craft knowledge is passed between generations, carrying technical skills alongside cultural values,” the museum says. “The artists in Water | Craft employ traditional methods not as nostalgic gestures, but as living practices that continue to evolve in response to environmental change.”

Water | Craft continues through December 27 in Winona.

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Redolent of African basketry, hairstyles, headwear, and pottery, Donté K. Hayes’ abstract ceramic sculptures may be interpreted as poetic vessels, even though they lack traditional openings. While we easily associate clay pots and round woven forms with ideas related to storage, protection, and even spiritual significance, they also nod to the human head as a holder—a kind of receptacle for culture, language, personal expression, and dreams.

For the past several years, Hayes has approached porcelain with an emphasis on mostly monochrome black forms with meticulously hand-marked surfaces with textures that appear almost strand-like. Recently, he’s begun incorporating colored porcelain into the bulbous forms, inspired by African textiles like kente cloth and a kind of hat called ashetu, or prestige hats, worn by high-status Bamileke people of Cameroon. “The head is more than the center of the brain and thought; it is the place where the soul lives and must be protected,” the artist says.

In addition to Indigenous adornment traditions of Western and Central Africa, Hayes often references his interest in hip-hop culture. “Sweater,” for example, nods to the late rap star Biggie Smalls—a.k.a. The Notorious B.I.G.—and his penchant for wearing colorful knits, such as COOGI, a brand hugely popular in the 1980s and 1990s.

In addition to other vibrant new works, this piece “speaks to the African Diaspora’s freedom to be bold, unapologetic, and fully at ease in their own skin,” Hayes says. “Through experimenting with colored porcelain and by combining porcelain with mason stains to create distinct colored tones, like a DJ, I remix inherited materials into new forms, challenging ceramic hierarchies and cultural assumptions tied to color.”

Hayes’ motifs and forms draw from an array of sources, such as pottery made in Ghana and Burkina Faso, which often have ceremonial purposes. “Garner” takes these often bulbous, heavily textured vessels as a starting point, which Hayes also considers within the context of everyday use and popular culture.

“In ‘Garner,’ these traditional pottery forms visually evoked for me both bubble wrap—a material designed to safeguard fragile objects—and the Daleks from Doctor Who, a protagonist authoritarian race who destroy and exterminate other worlds and cultures through time and space,” Hayes says. “By merging these divergent ideas, I create a ‘future artifact’—a work that preserves ancestral knowledge and reclaims what was lost or erased due to the historic Atlantic slave trade and systemic racism, while also opening new possibilities for healing, care, and empowerment in the present and future.”

Hayes currently has work on view through February 18 in Ancestral Objects: Holders of Memory, Space and Time at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville’s UT Downtown Gallery. Forthcoming exhibitions this spring include his solo show, Ancestral Tomorrows, at the Sarah Moody Galley of Art at the University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, plus inclusion in the group exhibition Remix to Motown 45: Side A, Side B at The Carr Center in Detroit. Another solo show, Ancestral Remix at Peter Anthony Fine Art in Charleston, opens in April. Follow updates on Instagram.

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For the first time in more than 50 years, NASA launched a mission to the Moon. A lot has changed since 1972, when we last checked in on the enormous, rocky satellite, but there is much to learn—and revisit—when it comes to traveling through deep space and considering what, as NASA describes it, a “long-term return” to our lunar companion could look like. The Artemis II mission, which is currently underway and scheduled to last a total of 10 days, has also released some remarkable images of our home planet.

A striking image of the Earth “setting” behind the cratered Moon takes a truly unique view of our planet and prompts us to consider our perspective. It’s reminiscent of one of the most iconic photographs of all time, known as “Earthrise,” which was snapped by astronaut William Anders during the 1968 Apollo 8 mission—the first crewed trip to the Moon.

Artemis II is scheduled to return to Earth on the evening of April 10, when the crew will splash down into the Pacific Ocean off the California coast.

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When we think of Los Angeles, we often picture seemingly endless sunny skies, postmodern downtown skyscrapers, Hollywood, and beachy enclaves like Venice. But there’s also a mysterious, lurking side of Los Angeles popularized by legendary gangsters like Mickey Cohen and the hardboiled novels of Raymond Chandler, published between the 1930s and 1950s.

For Emmy award-winning director and photographer Daniel Sackheim, this gritty, shadowy underbelly lends itself to a series of bold black-and-white photos that highlight the noir valence of this iconic hub. His forthcoming book, The City Unseen, leans into L.A.’s dualities, focusing on historic buildings, trains, and individuals walking through urban spaces.

Often silhouetted in patches of sunlight, Sackheim’s dramatically cinematic effects of deep shadows and crisp highlights suggest a kind of timelessness. Even the daytime shots feel eerily as if they could be shot during a full moon or amid uncanny artificial light. In a city that is both contemporary and steeped in history, “Sackheim’s journey through these urban spaces is a testament to the paradox of the night, where stillness and trepidation walk hand in hand,” says a statement.

Sackheim is curating an exhibition alongside photographer Julia Dean for Ren Gallery, which is slated to open in May. The City Unseen is scheduled for release on May 12. Find your copy from Hat & Beard Press, and see more of Sackheim’s work on Instagram.

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When Moffat Takadiwa sees a pile of rubbish—old technology parts, personal care items, clothing—he doesn’t just see a bunch of junk. The Harare, Zimbabwe-based artist has spent the better part of two decades collecting thousands upon thousands of pieces of plastic and metals foraged from landfills near the city’s Mbare neighborhood, where heaps of electronic equipment waste, also known as e-waste, ends up in illicit dump sites. In his studio, vast collections of colorful objects are meticulously sorted into collections.

Takadiwa is known for his elaborate sculptures made from what he describes as “everyday consumer residue”—discarded computer keyboard keys, toothbrush heads, plastic combs, buttons, and more. The colors, textures, and patina of wear and age produce patterns that it’s tempting to describe as “organic,” even though the materials are the opposite.

The artist’s current solo exhibition, The Crown! at Semiose, highlights the tension not only between visual harmony, consumer culture, and waste but also those of what curator Fernanda Brenner describes in the exhibition essay as “the tensions of Africa’s post-colonial afterlife.” Takadiwa describes it as the “colonial hangover.” For instance, afro combs appear throughout the show, “rooted in African traditions and the colonial self-fashioning they forced,” Brenner says. “Once tools for grooming and ritual, these combs now bear the weight of resistance and pride in Black political life.”

Takadiwa’s compositions drape, tapestry-like, with repetitive patterns and textures that alternate between softness and brittleness. From the distance, the details of unique components blur into a fabric-like substrate, but upon closer inspection, nail polish brushes, caps, and keyboard keys in various states of aged yellowing emerge as individual tributes to overconsumption and excess. “The result is beautiful, which is where the trouble begins,” Brenner writes. She continues:

If beauty could settle old scores, the art world would have solved more than it has…Rearranging the materials does not erase their origins. If you have ever pressed ‘delete’ and believed the problem was gone, his work offers a quiet correction. Nothing disappears; it only travels, usually to places like Mbare, where Takadiwa opened his artist-run space in what used to be a colonial beer hall.

The Crown! continues through May 16 in Paris. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

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Chiseled from wood, Aleph Geddis’ spindly, playful, vaguely alien wooden sculptures evoke an enigmatic tension between identity and glyph. His organic, hand-worked objects teeter between abstraction and figuration like retrofuturistic icons. The artist lives between Japan, Bali, and Orcas Island in Washington. “This split has been incredibly generative, allowing me to carry my practice with me and respond to very different environments and energies,” he tells Colossal.

Scale is a constant source of fascination. Geddis has recently been working on a series he calls Littles, which are “inspired by the way children disappear into dreamy, imaginative worlds while playing with toys,” he says. “They feel personal and secretive, almost like talismans.”

On the larger side, Geddis is lately considering how pieces may transform into site-specific responses to environments. He’s also currently working on a large-scale project for the Burning Man festival amid Nevada’s Black Rock Desert, which people will be able to walk through. “I love the idea of these forms existing in the clean, open environment of the playa, where they can be experienced at a completely different scale and in relation to the vast desert landscape.”

Some of Geddis’ works are currently on view at Crow Valley Gallery on Orcas Island alongside the work of his aunt, Kate Geddis. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

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Archaeologists have long known that the ancient peoples of North America—not unlike us—played a lot of games. Going back millennia, cultures around the world developed myriad ways to keep entertained, and for a long time, it was thought that the first dice ever used could be traced to the ancient Eastern European and Near East cultures of Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley, and the Caucasus. But according to a new paper by Robert Madden, published by Cambridge University Press, games of chance developed much, much earlier than originally thought—halfway around the world.

Researchers previously believed that the earliest dice originated about 5,500 years ago, but Madden shares that examples excavated in North America date back as far as the Late Pleistocene—the Ice Age. Among the oldest reported examples are a few found in modern-day Wyoming, Colorado, and New Mexico. The rich archaeological sites in these places are associated with the Folsom Culture, representing a dispersed hunter-gatherer lifeway that extended across the North American West, Southwest, and Great Plains around 12,000 years ago.

“The dice tend to show up in liminal spaces where you have a lot of high mobility,” Madden told Live Science. “It might have something to do with how separated these people are and the need to relate to people you don’t see very often.”

In the report, Madden also says that “the making and using of dice represent humans’ first known efforts to intentionally generate, observe, and record streams of controlled, random events…” He adds that, possibly for the first time, people were comprehending patterns or regularities in probability—a kind of precursor to understanding what we now call the law of large numbers. Anthropologists consider this to be “a crucial early step in humanity’s evolving discovery and understanding of randomness and the probabilistic nature of the universe.”

Madden compared hundreds of examples found across the American West with a comprehensive, several-hundred-page publication called Games of the North American Indians, published in 1907 as part of an annual report by the Bureau of American Ethnology. It’s currently available in a two-volume edition from Bison Books.

You might also enjoy seeing what may be the world’s oldest crayon.

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