A visit to Lincoln Park or the Garfield Park Conservatory is one of the outings Chicagoans rarely pass up, particularly when we need some reprieve from all the concrete and steel. Two beloved green spaces in the city, these spots boast oases blanketed in verdant foliage even in the depths of winter and house an array of specimens not native to the Midwest.

For artists Merryn Omotayo Alaka and Sam Frésquez, the immersive nature of a conservancy, with plants above and below and all around, became a central point for a collaborative project. Your Birth is My Birth presents the duo’s synthetic hair sculptures, which suspend from the ceiling of Jane Lombard Gallery and splay across the wooden floor like organic growths. Alaka and Frésquez describe the exhibition as a sort of “Kanekalon forest,” referring to the brand behind the luscious material.

Five different “species” emerge in the space, including Listening Roots, Hearing Bells, Mother & Child, Stacking Pearls, and Umbra Pods. Dark, dyed locks and domed shapes are throughlines, although each takes on a distinctive form. The series are influenced by epiphytes, non-parasitic plants that make their homes on a host specimen. Think orchids, cacti, moss, and kelp.

Surging upward from lily pad-shaped discs suctioned to the floorboards, the largest sculpture is part of Listening Roots, which tethers singular shoots to a central form. This connection between smaller pieces—like the feather-duster-shaped Stacking Pearls—and more comprehensive structures recurs throughout the exhibition, gesturing toward an intimate and intentional symbiosis.

Several works also reference genetics and what’s passed down through generations, as mirrored forms emerge within the same vertical tendril. “Similar to an epiphyte and its host tree, these sculptural works have their own life cycles evoking systems of dependence and exchange, where one form sustains from another,” says a statement.

Your Birth is My Birth is on view through June 13. Explore more from Alaka and Frésquez on Instagram.

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“To me, being a visual activist means I only illustrate stories that resonate with me deeply, by giving voice to minorities or social situations that need to be addressed,” says Fatinha Ramos. “It is the only way I can truly connect with others.”

Based in Antwerp, the Portuguese artist and illustrator is well-known for blending analog and digital techniques to create rich, emotive compositions. Collaborating with clients like The New York Times, The Washington Post, Tate, and Scientific American, among many others, Ramos has cultivated a keen eye for storytelling through her distinctive visual language.

Recent partnerships include the Anne Frank Museum and MoMA, the latter of which commissioned the artist to illustrate an essay on her experience being compared to Frida Kahlo. Ramos was born with osteogenesis imperfecta, commonly called brittle bone disease, which spurred a childhood spent in and out of hospitals. Drawing and art-making quickly became a preferred pastime, allowing her to transport herself from such clinical settings.

This adolescent hobby stuck, and Ramos worked as an art director in advertising and publishing for 12 years before venturing out on her own. Boasting an impressive list of clients and collaborators, she considers her practice to be an antidote to stereotypical narratives, whether related to the climate crisis, sexism, racism, or the dire lack of empathy that seems rampant in today’s world.

“I want to move away from the narrative that turns artists with disabilities into symbols of resilience,” she tells MoMA. “Creativity does not happen despite limitations but through them. Art should broaden how we see the world—and that includes how we see bodies, too.”

At the moment, Ramos is only accepting select illustration clients as she focuses on a graphic novel and her fine art practice, including a series of anatomical glass sculptures based on brittle bone disease. You can explore more of her practice on her website and Instagram.

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When it comes to photo drops, NASA has upped the ante. The organization has added thousands of snapshots from the Artemis II mission to the Gateway to Astronaut Photography of Earth archive. The album now holds 12,217 images by cosmic travelers Reid Wiseman, Victor Glover, Christina Koch, and Jeremy Hansen during their more than 250,000-mile, 10-day flyby mission around the moon.

According to PetaPixel, a couple of Nikons and an iPhone 17 were the cameras of choice for the journey. And even though many of the thousands of recently uploaded images are very similar—some are even quite blurry—scrolling through them gives the impression of being seated right next to the “Moonfarers” as they marvel at Earth and its satellite and simply can’t put the camera down—just like we tend to snap way too many photos of a beautiful sunset.

Some of the most impactful photos include the reflections of the astronauts’ hands and faces in the window of their vehicle, the Orion module. Juxtaposed with meticulously engineered equipment, the earth and moon seem somehow less abstracted from this unique vantage point, in which these orbs appear somehow more resonant and precious—and vulnerable.

Explore more of our favorites below, and learn about the Artemis II mission on NASA’s site.

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Humor and happenstance take the front seat in Polish photographer Janusz Jurek’s wry images. Working as a graphic designer and commercial photographer by day, he finds the greatest creative freedom in the candid and incidental—the things he notices as he moves about town, travels, and attends festivals and other events. These are the places where he observes some of the most unique individuals and the quirkiest coincidences. “The less commercial and more bizarre, the better—people are more authentic then, less in control of what they’re doing,” he tells Colossal.

Jurek is drawn to situations that happen outside of the mainstream, often turning his back on whatever the present attraction is in order to observe what’s happening all around him. He focuses on “the people, their reactions, small gestures, and strange coincidences. This is where moments that are truly surprising often appear,” he says.

As Jurek has learned over time, some of the best images happen right at home. The crux of the process is all about noticing what’s going on, not where it happens. And beauty is never the objective. “I don’t care about the photos being pretty,” he says. “Quite the opposite—for me, street photography is the antithesis of all the technical perfection and imperfection that’s everywhere on the internet these days.” Instead, he’s fascinated by the ability to raise questions and provoke reactions in the viewer, from curiosity to amusement to slight discomfort.

Jurek is working toward the release of a collection of photos titled Look, Before It’s Gone, chronicling his street photography over a period of five years. See more on Behance, and follow updates on Instagram. You might also enjoy the work of Eric Kogan and perusing top images in the Pure Street Photography Awards.

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When Adrienna Matzeg embarked on a trip to Kyoto, Tokyo, and Seoul in July 2025, she encountered intense midsummer heat and humidity, which led her to exploring some of the cities’ nooks and crannies in the dark, when it was cooler.

Illuminated storefronts and signage characterize the artist’s late-night runs to convenience stores, markets, and other features of these hubs’ sprawling urban fabric. “In her textile embroidery work, however, the energy of the city falls away,” says a statement from Abbozzo Gallery, which presents her forthcoming solo exhibition, After Hours. “What remains are quiet scenes that left an imprint, tactile snapshots as a record of those summer nights.”

After Hours represents an evolution of Matzeg’s travel-related works, centered around embroidered vignettes of snacks and roadside attractions that have a snapshot-like, diaristic quality. Brightly lit facades and bold displays seem to float on the surface of black linen, with the addition of a small plate of hanami dango—the distinctive pink, white, and green rice dumpling snack on a stick—drawing us close to the artist’s experience.

After Hours runs from May 8 to 30 in Toronto. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

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The shapes of Maxwell Mustardo’s ceramic works evoke ancient amphorae, kraters, and, most recently, kylix—a wide Greek cup with handles—although their surfaces feel distinctly organic. Textured growths cloak the vessels with fungal or lichen-esque forms, albeit in color palettes that are bold and otherworldly. Fluorescent oranges, pinks, and greens appear to glow in even the most mundane settings, firmly planting the pieces at the intersection of historic craft, nature, and the uncanny.

“I am always tweaking chemistry and application methods to push certain surface effects that I like, that feel organic and grown,” Mustardo tells Colossal. “More recent series of work have tried to blur the boundaries of cultural and natural forms (the amphora becomes anthropomorphic, gadrooning reduced to its fruity lineage, and so forth).”

An ornamental design with curved bands, gadrooning is typically relegated to surface decoration. As the artist mentions, though, he prefers to cast these tapered adornments as the central focus, “promptly pushing classical ornament back into their origins in the natural world, from the kingdom of fruits and vegetables.”

Mustardo is based in New Jersey, where he’s the studio manager of the former residence of artist Toshiko Takaezu (1922-2011). Find more of his work on Instagram.

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A muscular Englishman in a khaki kilt and black beret hops atop the edge of an old well clad in traditional Spanish tile, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in what can only be called an act of bravery.  High winds and rain pelt a group of visitors from all directions, and yet, this charismatic performer stands tall above the cobblestone to announce that he’s been living on this vacant island for nearly two centuries. He’s here to give us a tour.

“This has been my home for 174 years,” the man says, introducing himself as Captain Horatio Hollingwood. “I arrived in command of a well-known British merchant ship, responsible for transporting goods of every sort. But alongside grain, wool, and oil, there travelled with us certain rather unwelcome companions—terrible diseases. We stopped here for a sanitary inspection. And from here, I never left.”

As our group endures the Balearic Islands’ mercurial spring weather and shivers among towering stone walls and outbuildings, this exuberant actor introduces us to the Lazaretto of Mahón, an 18th-century fortress and infirmary that once housed merchants, shipping crews, and any travelers seeking entry to Spain. His ability to rouse a group of studio artists into the turbulent outdoors is a fitting introduction to the activities of the week ahead. Alongside nearly 80 others from Slovakia to Argentina, Washington D.C. to Melbourne, we’re here on this small, uninhabited island for Quarantine, a residency-style program conceived by artist Carles Gomila, who is determined to help artists break free from creative blocks while giving them permission to fail, discover, iterate, and hopefully, discover something new about themselves. 

For seven days, participants follow a rigorous schedule, arriving by boat on the island by 8:30 a.m. and leaving no earlier than 9:30 p.m. Their days are filled with talks, workshops, and meetings with invited artists who serve as mentors, the schedule of which isn’t shared in advance. Phones, laptops, and any device with an internet connection are banned, and there’s no option to retreat to a hotel bed or wander off for an afternoon. Such a demanding and purposefully opaque schedule invites artists to settle into discomfort, abandon expectations, and confront the insecurities and anxieties capable of stifling their best work. The theme of this edition is Tears in Rain, which takes its name from the iconic monologue at the end of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner.

“What I wish now is to share with you the story of the people who lived here over the past centuries,” the actor continues. “Your quarantine, unlike theirs, is not compulsory. You have chosen to be here, to experience something meaningful in the way you live your lives and understand your creative process. This is a space and a time for transformation. Some passed here from life into death. Yours is a passage from blockage into freedom. Follow me.”

Getting to the island is no small feat—our journey from Chicago took two days and required three flights, a car trip, a 15-minute walk, and a short boat ride—and there’s no open, public access to the lazaretto. Given its remote location and secret programming, Quarantine asks interested artists to apply on a true leap of faith, one that many describe as the first moment they had to relinquish control and believe the bold claims the program boasts. Testimonials include lofty statements about the organizers “minting a legion for the revolution” and how participants feel “like my insides have been blown out.” Some people even get the program’s tally logo tattooed, and many have returned for multiple visits.

If you’re thinking this sounds like a cult, you’re not alone. When Quarantine’s organizers invited us to observe the April 2026 edition, we were skeptical, and so were the friends and colleagues with whom we shared our plans. As it turns out, many of the participants had similar reservations, which we learned when we landed in Menorca and met an artist at baggage claim. (In keeping with the spirit of Quarantine and the idea that what happens on the island stays on the island, we’re only sharing information about participants anonymously.) He was coming from Los Angeles and first encountered the program through one of the session’s mentors, Yuko Shimizu, whom he’d long admired and previously collaborated with. Lured by the opportunity to untether from daily life and connect with professional artists, he hoped to reinvigorate his practice and figure out how to take the next step, something former Quarantine participants lauded and that he hoped he could access, too. Was it a cult, though? None of us was sure.

From the 18th to 20th century, the Spanish government required all travelers, no matter their origin, to sequester on the island for 40 days or if they fell ill, longer. These groups were cordoned off by their presumed and actual illnesses, and about five percent died during their stay, succumbing to infectious diseases like the Bubonic Plague and Yellow Fever. Today, the double-walled sanatorium is mid-restoration as the local government repairs crumbling limestone halls and terracotta walkways and trims back an abundance of thistles. Along with a handful of loquacious peacocks whose eerie calls echoed across the island, just a skeleton grounds crew and the occasional tour group occupy the island with any regularity.

Quarantine is one of two recurring events held on the lazaretto, with weeklong editions each April and October that are supported by the local government and local tourism organization, Fundació Foment del Turisme de Menorca. Nearly everything needed for the program must be loaded onto boats and carried to the island for every edition, and a local caterer packs food for 80 and traverses the harbor each lunch and dinner. Enormous musical instruments like the bilas—a rare, standing contraption of flat bells conceived by Russian Alexander Zhikharev—even make their way over for live, outdoor performances.

A sort of mystical bootcamp for artists, Quarantine is both intensely communal and unabashedly introspective. Gomila designs the workshop sessions, known as the “Art Lab,” to tap into as many emotions and responses as possible, often frustration, confusion, and eventually, clarity. Many incorporate music, and almost all center on life drawing, whether through self-portraiture or enthusiastic models who embrace the spirit of the project as much as the participants. They don costumes, hold sabres as props, and accessorize to an outlandish extent. Models are invited to share in the creative process, too, and as one tells us one evening over glasses of Cava, the program allows her to reconnect with the self she doesn’t always encounter in her life as an architect.

Everyone we meet at Quarantine echoes this sentiment, whether they’re full-time artists or not. There’s a young father whose work at a video game design studio is forcing him to rely more and more on A.I. A fine art educator laments the corporatization of her position as a faculty member at a for-profit university. And countless others who work in tech, finance, government, design, and illustration have ventured to the Mediterranean to reclaim focus, hone their voice, and if they’re lucky, make something that excites them.

The accomplished group of mentors doesn’t hurt either. April’s edition included Shimizu, Martin Wittfooth, Mu Pan, Phil Hale, Yulia Bas, Sean Layh, and Adam Miller, while past sessions featured Miles Johnston, Jeremy Mann, and Nicolás Uribe, to name a few. Mentors each present a morning masterclass on a wide range of topics, from Wittfooth’s concept of art as a “spirit artifact” to Shimizu’s courage in changing careers after a decade in a corporate job. Layh shares his story of picking up his paintbrush for the first time in more than a decade to re-learn his abilities over two and a half years on a single canvas (last month he won an Archibald Prize). Participants also receive one-on-one sessions with three mentors, in which no topics are off limits. They can ask for guidance in developing a particular technique, although most choose to utilize their 45-minute sessions to chat about more personal problems they’ve both faced and connect about what it means to be an artist in today’s world. 

This equalizing ethos is the foundation of Quarantine. When participants complete an exercise, all work is displayed on a central table, and if they’d like, they can share something with the group. There’s no critique, no comparison, and no need to explain why they made the decisions they did. The focus instead is on the process, on seizing moments of low-risk spontaneity. Experimentation and abandoning patterns that no longer serve their creativity are encouraged, along with developing practices to work through frustrations and insecurities. The wide range of skills is liberating: many artists have worked full-time for more than a decade, while others are painting with oils for the very first time.

“What happens here is so psychological,” shares one participant from Argentina who heard about Quarantine by following Layh. “Because it’s all so mysterious, I was worried it was going to be cheesy, but I’ve cried three times this week.”

On the final day, after participants have painted and sketched for dozens of hours, been subjected to creative exercises they hope to never encounter again and others they will gladly replicate at home, and let themselves be vulnerable in a way that rarely happens outside a therapist’s office, what seems to stand out is the camaraderie and an overwhelming sense of belonging. In comparison to the eager anxieties of the first day, the group has settled into a shared clarity, knowing not to fear mistakes and feeling a new sense of kinship among like-minded peers. They pair off to get coffee, encourage one another to try a strange technique, and make plans to meet up once they return home. We were told that WhatsApp group chats from previous editions continue to this day. A large contingent from a previous year also wants to return en masse. 

The last evening under a star-studded sky, unusually visible to us city dwellers, a fire pit appeared adjacent to the well that the Englishman jumped atop on day one. All 80 of us gathered around, and one mentor, Bas, kicked us off. In her hands were an old letter that once held significant weight in her life and a work on paper. She walked over to the fire and tossed both in, then asked everyone else to do the same. 

As the fire pit grew so full of paintings and drawings and sketches and notes that pieces spilled onto the cobblestone, the communal sense of catharsis and release was palpable. Artists danced hand in hand, cried, hugged, and stood solemnly watching their breakthroughs crumble into ash. The idea, of course, was that these material objects–these “spirit artifacts” in Wittfooth’s parlance–were just that: artifacts. Artworks made on the island were both irreplaceable and irrelevant, as the program had already built up a herd immunity to any sense of assuredness or control. What Quarantine offers instead is a shared pathology, one that focuses not on remedying the symptoms of creative blocks or failures but rather zeroes in on the underlying cause.

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In the late 12th century, a nobleman named Count Gerard van Loon commissioned an abbey to serve as his final resting place. Over the next few decades, amid plenty of political tumult, Herkenrode Abbey in Hasselt, Belgium, was converted to the first Cistercian convent for women. It was a site of pilgrimage from the 13th to the 15th centuries, and despite regional wars and economic uncertainty, it stayed the course. During the 16th century, it experienced its heyday thanks to the patronage of a figure named Prince Bishop Evrard van der Marck, seeing the addition of a Gothic church that brimmed with beautiful stained glass windows, textiles, paintings, and more.

The Eighty Years’ War paused Herkenrode’s prosperity, and once things stabilized again politically, the abbey experienced several decades of good fortune, although much of this wealth was spent on the abbesses’ own acquisitions of property and art in a show of their prestige. But the paradigm-shifting Liège Revolution, which coincided with the French Revolution, brought all of this crashing to a halt by 1796. The abbey complex was promptly sold and dismantled.

Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, Heckenrode went through many other uses, including factories and even a series of private homes, before it was again acquired by a religious organization in the 1970s. While the original 16th-century abbey church no longer exists due to a devastating fire in 1826, the site remains one of the region’s most culturally significant. And Herita has been working to restore it. As part of a phased regeneration of the landmark and its park, an ethereal, life-size sculpture of the abbey titled CLAUSURA by Gijs Van Vaerenbergh has risen from the building’s original footprint.

The studio, founded by Belgian designers Pieterjan Gijs and Arnout Van Vaerenbergh, conceived of CLAUSURA as “an artistic vision for the vanished heart of Herkenrode.” True to scale, the structure is made of slender steel rods that rise from the ground in an airy framework. The installation revolves around the idea of memory and sensation: rather than rebuilding the abbey to try to mirror what it may have looked like hundreds of years ago, the work nods to its past with an airy elegance.

“The new volumes are transparent, allowing their silhouettes to blend seamlessly with the landscape in the background,” says a statement. “The intervention balances between reconstruction and abstraction, as the original structures are evoked through a refined play of suggestion. Iconic details such as windows, vaults, and towers enhance the sense of recognisability, although at times, these elements dissolve back into a chaos of lines.”

Gijs Van Vaerenbergh is known for its architectural interventions, often utilizing steel, stone, wood, and a wide range of other building materials to re-envision spaces as structural sculptures. “What unites their diverse output is a sustained focus on how space is experienced—visually, bodily and temporally,” a statement says.

CLAUSURA is being constructed in three phases. The first, which is also the most ambitious, is slated to open to the public on June 18. Visitors will be able to walk and reflect amid the installation. See more on Gijs Van Vaerenbergh’s Instagram, and learn about the restoration progress and how to visit on Herita’s website.

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During the Victorian era, innovators made huge leaps with optical technologies. It was the period of the stereoscope and an early projector known as the magic lantern, not to mention that eyeglasses became more affordable and entered the mainstream. These advances also influenced scientific inquiry, making microscopes more powerful, and the pursuit of microscopy enabled researchers and enthusiasts to discover creatures invisible to the naked eye.

One of these enthusiasts was London-based educator and amateur scientist Charles Thomas Hudson. Along with other scholars and aficionados, he participated in interest groups. “As President of the Royal Microscopical Society and a Fellow of the Royal Society, Hudson was a leading figure in this growing scientific community,” says a statement from Osh Gallery, which is currently exhibiting a collection of unique illustrations in The Hudson Transparencies.

Curated by Luke Powell and Jody Hudson-Powell of design firm Pentagram, which runs Osh Gallery, the exhibition literally brings to light a number of colorful transparencies that Hudson used during his lectures. While they appear dark and even unfinished in a typical setting, “when lit from behind these intricate works transform into magical visions of life previously only glimpsed when viewed under a microscope,” the gallery says.

The Hudson Transparencies includes 58 original transparencies that measure a surprisingly large 37.8 by 29.5 inches. Each of the graphics’ proportions are “the equivalent of drawing ants the size of elephants,” says a statement. The animals and botanicals emerge through a combination of painted paper and perforations, which are made with lines and clusters of pinholes.

Hudson was particularly fascinated by rotifers, a phylum of zooplankton named for their so-called “wheel-bearing” characteristics. He also catalogued algae, protozoa, and larvae—such as that of the mayfly with its feather-like tail. Microscopic marine organisms were a particular favorite, though, and these back-lit images highlight the convergence of science and spectacular visuals that not only brought these creatures to life in a unique way for 19th-century viewers but continue to awe us today.

The Hudson Transparencies continues through June 11 in London. You might also enjoy Martin Kunz’s turn-of-the-century tactile graphics and Lorenz Oken’s seminal natural history work, Allgemaine Naturgeschichte Für Alle Stände.

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Kim Dacres gravitates toward renewal and care, transforming worn rubber into expressive sculptural portraits. The New York-based artist twists and braids tired treads into sleek buns and rows typical of Black hairstyles, which she embellishes with gear-like crowns and jewelry made of metal bike chains. Spray painting the material to mask marks, Dacres utilizes what might otherwise be deemed worthless to create bold visages.

A new body of work extends a series of celebratory busts the artist made to honor those who’ve inspired and influenced her. On view this month at Charles Moffett, Lost on a Two Way Street follows this trajectory, while adding flatter wall works evocative of Victorian-era cameos. “The emphasis on the subjects’ buns and braiding underscores the extreme efforts required to ‘keep up’ appearances in the harshest of environments—an acknowledgment of the vital role played by Dacres’ community in uplifting her spirit and maintaining her mental health,” the gallery says.

In an explicit reference to the current political climate, the artist has also interpreted the U.S. flag, replacing the stars with Black and brown figures. The stripes fray at the edges, while binding these anonymous faces to the fabric in a way that constricts movement. These works “flash in distress and cry out to helpless void—their condition betraying the truth of a symbol that has long failed to live up to its promise,” a statement says.

Lost on a Two Way Street runs from May 7 to June 20 in New York. Until then, explore more of the artist’s work on Instagram.

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Home might be a mutable concept, but some objects retain the aura of belonging and comfort even outside the walls we reside in. For Monica Rohan, those items are patterned fabrics and bentwood dining chairs, which venture outdoors in her vibrant oil paintings.

The Brisbane-based artist has long depicted the supple folds and bright motifs of textiles, which tended to swaddle her characters or hide their faces among natural landscapes. Upholstered loungers and carved wood seats have similarly appeared in unusual spots, precariously holding a figure while nested in a slim hedge or slumping down a small hill.

In recent years, though, Rohan’s characters have slowly disappeared. Arms that once pulled back a curtain or reached out for stabilization are no longer present, leaving just the domestic objects in place. “I’ve found this quite freeing, allowing me to explore new ideas about the relationship between people and the landscape,” the artist tells Colossal, noting that bentwood chairs have become human stand-ins. “I love their elegant yet rickety construction, and I grew up with them around my kitchen table, so they’re a strong reminder of home for me.”

Many of the works shown here are part of this transition and will be shown this June at Sophie Gannon Gallery in Melbourne for Rohan’s solo exhibition, Invitations. Against dramatic alpine summits, fast-moving streams, and lush, springtime meadows—scenes derived from the artist’s hiking trip through Tasmania—plaid tablecloths and crocheted blankets float above the earth as if hung on an imperceptible line strung between two invisible poles.

“With their exaggerated patterns and strange billowing forms, they appear more ambiguous, wavering between unassuming decoration and smothering intrusion,” the artist adds. “From their precarious vantage points, the bentwood chairs no longer offer safe and restful repose. They invite the viewer to join their predicament.”

Explore more of Rohan’s paintings on Instagram.

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Earlier this month, dozens of metallic discs suspended from the ceiling of a large industrial space invited viewers to immerse themselves in what SpY describes as “a continuous choreography of movement and reflection.” The artist is known for his large-scale installations, often repurposing objects like traffic cones and metallic rescue blankets to create striking urban interventions.

SpY’s most recent room-scale work, titled “Halos,” reimagined the industrial interior of a former railway-related factory in Florence—a place we typically associate with Renaissance elegance as opposed to brutalist design—as part of the city’s Bright Festival.

Three stories high, “Halos” interacts with the natural breeze that flows throughout the space, which is exacerbated by people moving around. Glimmering light further lends a sense of ethereality and even magic.

See more on Instagram.

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