Hayden’s sculptures are meticulously handcrafted. He enlists a wide range of materials—rattan, brass, wood—and pairs moments of humor with heaviness. By tucking his new sculptures away into stalls (all works 2024), he manages to fit a surprising amount of them into a gallery—this many would have otherwise felt crowded and overwhelming. Below, the architect-cum-artist opens doors on a few favorites.

For me, the 17 stalls are like a book. You can’t see all the sculptures at once—you have to open the door, or turn the page. While all the works can stand alone, I wanted the show to be an experience. Sometimes, doors get left open so you can get a glimpse. I tried to create both public and intimate moments with each work.

The show brings together all these different materials and different concepts. People often ask if the show is a survey, because there are so many different works. But the thing that unites them all is a certain attention to craftsmanship and detail.

The show is called “Hugmans” with an “S.” It’s like the sequel to the show that I did last fall, at Lisson in LA. It had similar works the bathroom stalls, but that show had more of Hollywood lean: guns and silicone and prosthetics, even a movie director chair.  I’m always exploring the material and the cultural significance of objects.

Some of the works have humor to them, but that’s just one way of looking at it. Another person might see something very different. Sometimes, the lives of other people can seem so extreme and surreal that they become funny and humorous. For another viewer, that same work might be more of a mirror. Someone told me American Gothic (2024) [two skeletons with tools for extremities] reminded them of their grandmother, who was always working and, never being able to rest, was always busy trying to put food on the table for her family. I liked hearing that someone could see themselves inhabit this work’s world. I’m thinking about the American Dream, about capitalism, and about how the idea of usefulness can permeate someone’s existence, in a very manual-labor type of way.

I made Plywood using a process of bent wood lamination: very thin plies of wood get glued together and then stripped, so that they can become bendable. I created these rib cages using a lot of different types of wood. I was thinking about plywood being a whole made of many parts, like the melting pot that is New York: these upper bodies are packed together and intertwined. All the rib cages are made of different woods in different colors: white oak, padauk, cherry, ebony, black walnut, ash, and so on. It’s like a salad of wood, all treated the same way.

The rib cages hang on the kind of stainless-steel structure you’d find framing a subway seat: I wanted it to appear as if we just bought these racks from the MTA, though actually, we made them. As an artist, I’m always recreating my vision of reality.

Sleepover is the only work that’s about a bathroom. It’s a two-person urinal, and these sort of melting pots (Black Don’t Crack 1 and 2) are mounted on the wall and reflected in the mirror.

Walden is a skewed desk made of black walnut with a book on it. The spine of the book says The Life and Times of Frederick Douglass, but the actual interior of the book is Henry David Thoreau’s Walden (1854). The pages inside are also skewed 40 degrees. Douglass and Thoreau were born [in 1818 and 1817, respectively]. Both were self-made men, but with very different life experiences.

For Harlem, I hung these gold cooking pot forms from another subway rack. It’s part of a body of work I’m making about America as this melting pot, invoking America’s African origins by way of a physical pots. Some of these gold-plated cast iron skillets have African masks that were cast into them. There are also gold-plated copper pots with brass instruments braised into them. Together, there are seven pairs of musicians with instruments. I was thinking about the Harlem Renaissance and the creation of jazz, but also just visual pleasure of like gold reflecting. The closer the pieces are to each other, the deeper the gold reflections get.

At some point, I realized that Pinocchio is called Pinocchio because he’s made of pine. “Pino” is pine in Italian. So, if you change the type of wood he’s made of, his name changes, too. This one is made of black walnut, so he’s Nocecchio. I wanted to make him look alive; his fingers are grasping the pedestal. He’s wearing a sailor suit. I think he’s very cute.

You can see part of Idol with the door closed, from above and below. I have an ongoing body of work involving basketball goals that morph in different materials; often they are woven out of wicker, so they’re truly baskets, this ancient form made by many cultures. Typically, they are woven from materials indigenous to a given area. This net morphs into a body: two legs with this corseted waist. I wove this piece entirely myself—it took almost 5 months. I find most people refer to it using feminine pronouns. The LA show was much more about masculinity. A gay club had been the previous tenant of the space, so I folded that into the narrative. But this is “Hughmans” plural, so it’s more expansive, in terms of things like gender, perhaps.

In May, A.i.A. visited Shechet on site at Storm King as she prepared for her show to open. She talked about approaching her work with a sense of humor and sassiness, and accepting the fact that mystery is always part of her process.

Video credits include:

Directed, Produced and Edited by Christopher Garcia Valle
Director of Photography Alan Lee Jensen
Second Cam Op Joseph Kickbush
Sound Nil Tiberi
Arlene Shechet Fabrication photos by David Schulz
Interviewer: Emily Watlington

In April, Art in America visited Sikander at Pace Paper Studio in the Gowanus neighborhood of Brooklyn, where she was preparing a new series of works on paper after sending other pieces off to the Palazzo Van Axel in Venice, where her retrospective is currently on view. While she added layers to artworks in various stages of preparation, Sikander talked about distilling ideas from around the globe, drawing as a navigational tool, and engaging history without glorifying it. Watch Sikander at work in the video above, and read more about her in Art in America’s latest “Icons” issue.

Video Credits include: Director/Producer/Editor: Christopher Garcia Valle Director of Photography: Daniele Sarti Second Camera Op: Alan Lee Jensen Sound Engineer: Nil Tiberi Interviewer: Eleanor Heartney

Scott’s fluid and free-spirited work—which also includes forays into comedy, music, theater, and performance of other kinds—is on full view in “Walk a Mile in My Dreams,” a retrospective currently at the Baltimore Museum of Art through July 14. The 75-year-old artist, who has called Charm City her home since childhood, is showing some 140 works spanning more than 50 years. Below, Scott discusses her hometown history, her capacity for craft, and how she’s navigated an evolving art world over the decades.

How has Baltimore informed and guided who you are as an artist?

My parents were sharecroppers from North and South Carolina who came to the “Up South” during the Great Migration. They got to Baltimore, and it allowed them to have a bit more agency and power in their lives. This city offered them the possibility of giving me the life that I have—the ability to become a MacArthur fellow and have a 50-year retrospective.

When I was growing up, Baltimore was much more prosperous than it is now. Unfortunately, stories these days are always showing boarded houses and Black men standing on the corner, but that’s only a pittance of what the city is really about. Baltimore, for me, is a city of largesse. When you are loved in Baltimore, it’s the best. You’re in a city filled with joy, filthy with artists, and packed with angst.

Your exhibition coincides with a Baltimore Museum show devoted to your mother, the late artist Elizabeth Talford Scott, who is also being celebrated with shows at eight other museums and colleges across the city. What does it mean to you to be showing your art along with hers?

It really speaks to a Baltimore ethos, where I, as a fabulous African American woman at three-quarters of a century old, get to do this. I was like, “What the fuck?!” (I cuss a lot, and I’m trying not to.) These young curators have given such deference to my mother and know things they probably shouldn’t. When you walk through my mother’s exhibition at the Baltimore Museum, it is mounted beautifully, and you are made aware of the consummate dignity and stank—that’s not stink but stank—and regality and oomph that my mother’s work has.

What’s something your mother taught you that has stuck with you?

The voice that I hear from my mother—she talks to me all the time, that rascal—says, “You’re worthy. And if you want it, go get it. Never stop.” We used to talk about having just one life. I, who have had some infractions in this life, probably will be reborn as a bee or as a bodily fluid—as something terrible. But as long as I’m a human being, I’m running it down. She packed me full of self-awareness, self-assuredness, and the ability to know that if this is it, I’m running for it. I’m not going to stop. And that is ever present in my artwork.

Your show opens with a newly commissioned installation titled The Threads That Unite My Seat to Knowledge (2024). Why did you want to begin with that?

This is one of my cockamamie ideas. I decided to make a dwelling that represents not only me and my brain but also the cozy, comfortable environment in which I grew up and became this person. On the outside are quilts made by my mother, grandmother, grandfather, and godmother because they swaddled me in my youth and gave me a lot of love. When I dreamed, I was on a magic carpet under those things.

Inside that installation, I’m showing large beaded pieces that talk about translucency and color—and just ass-kicking. There is a chair where I might sit if I’m in the museum, and tell stories and sing and talk. My mom brought me to the Baltimore Museum when I was a kid, when [Auguste Rodin’s] Thinker was still outside. You could jump all over him and try to find his genitalia and then walk up all those steps through the front door. The museum was one of my seats of knowledge. It was a place where I could perambulate and touch things I’m not supposed to. So it’s proper and apropos—and all those words—that I should be able to sit in this joint and disperse some common knowledge.

The title of the show alludes to a performance piece of yours called Walk a Mile in My Drawers (2006). What is the significance of that work to you?

The first retrospective I did here [at the BMA in 2000] was called “Kickin’ It with the Old Masters.” It was funny because when we were talking about it, people would say, “Do you really want to say masters?” This [new title] is a way to talk about the many facets of what I do as a performer, singer, and theater person, as well as a visual artist and an educator. Walk a Mile in My Drawers was a funny bon mot about fatness, about big girls, sexuality, all that stuff. “Walk a Mile in My Dreams” is about how I shall not be denied.

I’ve been loved. I’ve been given the fodder I need, and the nourishment. Some of that was money and food, but a lot of it was that little extra kick you need to take the next step—someone imparting knowledge to me and not making me feel either stupid or wrong to ask questions. To receive that is a big deal. And I would be remiss if I didn’t include race in this, because that can make it a really arduous task to exhibit work about social and cultural stuff and also use materials that people don’t necessarily understand as art. I’m a craftsperson and an artist all rolled into one. But people bemoan me saying I’m a craftsperson. “What?! Are you going to sing a Negro spiritual?” Well, I just might! I’m overwhelmed by this retrospective because it allows me to look at how I’ve walked so many miles in my dreams—and how I continue to do that.

You’ve made so many different kinds of art over 50 years. Are you surprised by any of your work? Are there things you can barely believe you made?

It’s the amount of work. If I make 10 necklaces a year and 10 sculptures, that’s 20 pieces of art. Multiply that by 50. And that’s a low number! And while I was doing that for a long time I traveled as a performer with Kay Lawal-Muhammad as the [variety act] Thunder Thigh Revue. I look back at that and think, Who the hell is that person?! Isn’t it wonderful that I wasn’t dissuaded and didn’t succumb to my fears—that I just kept walking?

How do you remember the Thunder Thigh Revue?

This was in the mid-’80s into the ’90s, at a time when Whoopi Goldberg was golden, and people like Mort Sahl—monologuists—talked about really heavy subjects in a comedic manner. It was a real adventure. We would do bits. We realized there were things that we needed to say, and we wanted to say them in a way that the audience would actually listen. A lot of our work was about being accepted for who you are. It was about larger women, about large Black women, about immigration; anything we heard, we went after. A lot of it was about who the messenger is and listening to what that messenger has to say. Because incumbent in that was our ethnicity, our weight, our gender, our class: you name it. That was very important for us.

It was also a kind of feminism for us. But we kept our clothes on. It was different than what I see young women doing now, shaking their butts and whatever. We were very aware of who was looking at us, because the majority of the time our audience was not 50 percent Black. We were very aware of the message we were sending out and what we looked like. We were aware that some of the “demons” we were talking about were sitting in the audience and lasciviously wondering what’s under that lace bustier. One of the things we always were tackling was how not to pander to that—to be real and true and honest. That’s very relevant in my artwork as well.

In the past few years there’s been a shift in terms of attention paid to African American art. How different or the same does it feel to you now?

I talk with friends sometimes and we say, “Didn’t this happen in the ’60s and ’70s and ’80s, when African Americans were everything, and everybody had on kente cloth and big afros? And everybody was an Indigenous person wearing bead work and whatever was the flavor of the month?” For me the real difference is that the folks who are doing it now are not 20th-century people. They’re 21st-century people who are part of a more global society. These kids aren’t who I was. They are very different people. The abundance of knowledge and accessibility that we really had to work for in the past is at their fingertips. And there are many, many more well-educated people of color. There’s still not enough, ever. But we have great examples.

You’ve done beaded works, blown glass, and worked with all kinds of different materials. Is there one way of working with which you have a special kinship?

Beadwork. I insinuate beads into anything. If I could make an edible bead and we could sprinkle it on top of ice cream, I would bead in a beautiful design, and then we’d eat it. It is a mesmerizing technique. My mother’s side of the family were craftspeople: basket workers, clay people, weavers, all kinds of things. One of the reasons I chose beads is because I could afford them. I could carry them with me, and they weren’t toxic—unless I ate them. The more I learned about them, the more I realized I had the facility to bend them to my will. And they are my lingua franca as a teacher. They’re one of those things you can teach, and while you’re working with your hands, you can talk to people about history, about power—you can apply it to just about everything.

What made you inclined to work across so many different art forms?

I took advantage of every opportunity. I was so hungry for knowledge. If knowledge is truly cumulative, then being able to relay and pile on from the past and also unite that with what’s happening now … If I live, what the hell will I be doing in 2030? I’ll be in a wheelchair, but I’ll be rocking, baby. 

Before the Biennale opened in April, Art in America visited the artist in his studio, a spacious workshop teeming at the time with some 20 studio assistants in a former schoolhouse near Hudson, New York. While he primed a canvas and examined other works in various stages of preparation, Gibson talked about the allure of painting, his interest in the history and intricacy of beadwork, and advice he offers to aspiring artists looking to make their mark. Watch Gibson in his studio in the video above, and read more about him in Art in America’s latest “Icons” issue.

Video Credits include: Director/Producer/Editor: Christopher Garcia Valle Director of Photography: Daniele Sarti Second Camera Op: Alan Lee Jensen Sound Engineer: Nil Tiberi Interviewer: Andy Battaglia

You have a rigorous research-based art practice. How did that begin?

The earliest works in the show begin in 2014 when I was a student, with explorations into employing research-based methodology. I’ve always been asking questions and trying to visualize language and relationships. At the time, I was experimenting with researching histories of American school desegregation. In particular, I was focused on the cases that led to the Brown vs. Board of Education Supreme Court decision of 1954. As a student at Yale, I had access to the law library. I spent a lot of time trying to understand the many cases of this landmark legislation. Anyone who uses interstate travel, public education, or public broadcasting is a direct beneficiary of this legislative package.

I found myself with lots of questions about public-school transportation and a long legacy of devaluing the lives of children of color and public space, as well as defunding and depriving public schools of resources after the Supreme Court decision to desegregate schools. I had faith that if I focus on an area of research or a particular question that something is going to come of it. I didn’t know what the work was going to look like. I didn’t know what the solution was going to be. But I just started reading the cases.

How did you become interested in public spaces and resources?

I’m from Southern California. Growing up in the ’80s and ’90s, I was very impacted by the prominence of murals and narratives painted in public spaces. There’s this part of me that I can’t really shake: a desire to inquire about issues of public concern and embed them into a process by which new material is produced. The first works start there.

I was exploring the perception of color and its impact on the value of life in public space. As an adult, I was able to again study Josef Albers’s Interaction of Color, which I had first learned in elementary school. This work gave me an opportunity to start exploring color relationships chromatically and societally. I realized that the impact of color perception and optical illusions initiated by interactions of particular colors which make us see things that aren’t really there. I saw an echo in the case law that I was reading.

Subsequent bodies of work follow this methodology, with site-specific research on such topics as the relationship between public transportation and voting referenda in Atlanta, for example, as well as a comparison between the contemporary use of third-party transfer programs seizing paid properties and the historic property dispossession of people of color in New York. Let’s talk about some of your latest works, which were produced during an artist residency in Boulder, Colorado.

There are three new pieces in the show that use marble dust from the nearby Yule Mountain Quarry, which produced the marble for the Lincoln Memorial and most—if not all—of the great monuments in Washington D.C.

Not unlike your earlier works, you employ a rigorous material process that alludes to the history of abolition and democracy in America. How do you create these multi-layered surfaces?

Before I know what the image is going to be, I’m building a surface with material that is symbolic to me of a place in some way. The material used for Here at the Western World…, for instance, is made of a quilting liner. I spent a lot of time in southern Colorado, outside Denver in the San Luis Valley, and I made friends with people who gave me such textiles. I attached the quilt liner to a piece of raw canvas. I used paper bags, which I separate from the handles. Over many days, I soaked the paper and unfolded it carefully, before laminating it into the surfaces of the work. The pieces become kind of like animal hides that are stretched onto the wall and cured in anticipation of stretching them onto awning style frames. The surface of the piece was then encrusted with sand from southern Colorado and marble dust from the Yule quarry.

There are additional layers and images constructed on top of that surface as well.

The halftone line image that’s projected on the surface in yellow hues is an image of a particular classroom from This Is Not Who We Are (2002), a documentary film about Black communal experiences in Boulder from the 1800s to more recent years. The catalyst of the film, which questions Boulder’s standing as what some have called the happiest place to live in the U.S., is a controversy over excessive police force used against a Black student at Naropa University in 2019. I included an image from the film of Professor Wyndham’s classroom.

Printed on the pink vinyl is a still that I created of a very quick moment from 1972 home video footage of the choir from the Second Baptist church—the only black congregation in Boulder for many years—singing, which resonated with my own experiences going to church growing up in Los Angeles. These places historically in the United States and other colonized countries are where people of color gather for respite and liberation. There are these moments that happen where people are trying to get closer to freedom by gathering together for release and for mutual exaltation.

In her work—including the painting Loves Me, Loves Me Not (2023), pictured above—Kahraman draws on a personal interest in binomial nomenclature, a naming system for living species started by Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus in the 18th century, and its relation to refugees and migrants.

How did you first incorporate binomial nomenclature into your work?

I grew up learning about Linneaus in Sweden, where he is seen as a heroic national figure. He was on the 100 kroner bill when I was growing up, and has multiple statues across the country. What a lot of people don’t realize about Linneaus, however, is that the sexual system of plants that he created is hierarchically divided. The male stamens came first, with female pistols listed at the end. In his writing, he equates a lot of his thinking on the natural world through a religious lens. The petals of a flower, for example, were described in relation to the bedchamber of a married couple. He also described this sexual system as a marriage between plants.

Another aspect that people might not be aware of is that Linnaeus divided the human species into four categories that he called varieties. The heteronormative European man is first, and as one goes down the list, it describes different races, with African listed on the bottom. Linnaeus created an incredibly problematic system rampant with biological racism and sexism, which has informed modern society and culture.

When the Black Lives Matter movement took off in 2020, it spurred discussions and protests about what has been culturally promoted and upheld. A lot of people think Sweden is this incredibly egalitarian place, but marginal voices often get stomped on very quickly. These were the thoughts that were on my mind when I took a trip to the Huntington Library in San Marino, California, which carries many of Linnaeus’s rare books.

How did your experience of those books inform your artwork?

The library had a copy of one of Linneaus’s most notable volumes: Hortus Cliffortianus [1737]. When I opened it, I discovered that the end paper is marbled. Marbling was very prevalent during that time. It prompted me to delve into the history of marbling, which is believed to have started in Japan in the 12th century and then moved to the Ottoman Empire, where it took off. It was not decorative but was also used in legal documents to prevent forgeries, because there is no way to duplicate the marbling due to all the variables that come into play when it’s being made. This is a monoprint that cannot be forged. It asserts itself on whatever surface it’s on. It refuses erasure. That spoke to me so much that I started trying to figure out how to marble.

What was recreating that process like?

I’m very deliberate and systematic in my work—I do sketches, color schemes, and research before even touching paint. I grew up under the European Swedish educational system, and this necessity to classify, to understand everything, to render everything knowledgeable is ingrained in me. Marbling was the complete opposite in that it demanded me to relinquish control and became a way of pushing back against these systems in asserting that, no, you cannot render me knowable.

How does the process of marbling play out in relation to migrants and refugees in your work?

I was a refugee from Iraq to Europe in the early 1990s. My family hired a smuggler and became undocumented asylum seekers in Sweden. I was a refugee who became an immigrant, and now I have Swedish citizenship. As part of this process, my mom made a cassette tape in 1997 and sent it to the immigration office in Sweden because we has been denied residency. The Swedish government denied us on the basis that my mother could not prove who who she said she was. On this tape, which is included in the show, my mother had recorded her pleas to the immigration office. It’s 20 minutes of her saying things like, “If you don’t believe me, take a sample of my DNA and cut my skin.” It’s full of visceral metaphors linked to the idea of dehumanization. Marble surfaces not only have this quality that mirrors tissue under a microscope or a unique fingerprint—it also resists the endured systemization to which refugees are subjected.

Eyes and the act of looking are also a big part of the show.

My mother’s tape prompted me to start thinking, what does it mean to be believable enough to an immigration officer? You’re being scrutinized—the slightest movement you make, the tiniest alteration in your voice pattern, any deviations in your story. It’s so subjective. And then there’s a decision made that will completely alter your entire life.

It seems to speak to efforts to fit people into preexisting systems.

Many refugees end up violently removing their fingerprints by pouring acid, using sandpaper, and cutting—all in an effort to circumvent biometric scanning into what is called Eurodac, a centralized database that tracks asylum seekers and migrants. If one is denied entry into a European country, one is prevented from applying to another. It’s detrimental. So a lot of people end up trying to mutilate the pattern on their fingers, essentially erasing a part of their body in order not to be erased [by the system].

The border police have moved beyond fingerprinting. They are scanning not only your fingerprints but also your iris, your voice, your vocal patterns. They put it in their algorithms. It’s so incredibly invasive. But this is why my figures lack irises. This is a way for me to implement tactics of subversion being used by refugees. It also connects to the concept of classification and surveillance by refusing to be scanned. There is this demand for opacity so as not to be rendered knowable. It’s basically saying, “I get to be what I want to be.”

In Loves Me, Loves Me Not (2023), we see three female figures eating eyes off of a plant. Where did that idea come from?

The figures seem to be not only persistent—there is a kind of anger to them. I was always taught to be an obedient little girl who performed well. Even as an immigrant in school, I had to prove myself worthy and never show anger, never protest. These figures are the complete opposite. They’re channeling resistance.

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A member of the Cherokee Nation who is also of European descent, WalkingStick has been exploring relationships between people and the earth for five decades. Diptychs are her signature format: often, she pairs landscapes with abstractions. Since the 1960s, her output has been marked by impressive range. During the ’70s, at the height of the feminist art movement, she painted brightly hued images of her nude form. In the decades following, she took up various triumphs of Native American culture alongside tragedies of Native history. Among her few sculptures is Tears (1990), representing a traditional Plains Indian funerary scaffold, but this version is embossed with a poem identifying the structure as a memorial to those lost, and to those never born. It’s a piece about Native grief that WalkingStick made in anticipation of the quincentennial of Columbus’s 1492 voyage.

WalkingStick has long been revered in the Native American community. Several key surveys of Indigenous art organized by artist Jaune Quick-to-See Smith have included her paintings. Feminist critics such as Lucy Lippard have also lauded her, writing that WalkingStick’s recent landscapes “brilliantly achieve the unity that is her aesthetic goal.” The National Museum of the American Indian put on her 2015 touring retrospective, helping secure her spot on the institutional map. Today, her work is on view in the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, both in New York, and her solo show at the New-York Historical Society runs through April 14. For the latter show, WalkingStick hung her signature two-panel landscapes, superimposed with traditional Native patterning, among works by Hudson River School painters. She borrowed these historic compositions, but overlaid them with recognizably Indigenous imagery—like Native patterning, or silhouettes walking the Trail of Tears—refuting those painters’ false depictions of land that lay vacant before colonizers arrived.

Below, WalkingStick discusses her approach to painting—and probing— landscapes, all the while looking past the land’s surface to unearth its wounds.

In your diptychs, you seem to establish binaries—between figuration and abstraction, for example, or land and people. But there is often a lot of continuity beyond the harsh juxtaposition a diptych might imply. How do you approach flipping between either/or and both/and?

Whenever I talk about my paintings, I start by saying I’m a biracial Cherokee woman. Of course, that impacts the work, and I suppose this impact is most evident in the diptychs. The [nonfigurative half of a diptych] is never an abstraction of the other—it’s an extension. It tells more of the story. I’ve often thought of each panel as the inside or the outside of the painting’s subject. The inside is the spiritual side, the one that has to do with the soul. So one side involves seeing the present—it often looks like a snapshot—and the other might involve the deeper meaning of the present, or the future.

When people see the diptychs, they’re going to see whatever they want to see. Some people just see geological history, and that’s a valid way to look at them. There are just so many ways to see a piece of art that are valid; that’s what keeps our historians working.

Your work has drawn on so many different eras of art history, from 14th-century Italian icons to 19th-century Hudson River School landscapes. How has your relationship to art history changed over the years?

Well, I think I got a better education in art history than young people get today, judging from what I hear and see. I had good art history classes in my undergraduate and graduate schools, and my vacations are usually to visit museums. I’ve been heavily influenced by European art and American art, whether it was Native or Indigenous art, or art by Euro- Americans. The New-York Historical Society sensed this when they reached out to me.

Many of your paintings are very sensual. Your landscapes often feel corporeal— landforms have warm, fleshy undertones, landscapes are shown next to breasts. What is the importance of sensuality to your work?

The act of painting is sensual. For me, if it’s not sensual, it’s not painting! Night/ƠRT (Usvi) [1991], a painting owned by the Montclair Art Museum in New Jersey, shows a riverbed at night. I made the abstract panel of that painting using my hands [instead of a brush]. I was physically playing with the paint. For me, all my abstractions, all my diptychs—making them was a sensual act.

Sometimes, you mix your paint with natural materials, like rocks and sand, which causes it to appear rough. At other points, you’ve used encaustic, resulting in paintings that feel chunky. What made you want to do that?

I love the way it looks, I love the way it feels, I love the way it smells. With the works made with acrylic and wax, I liked what [the paint] did when it was piled up. And of course, when it’s made out of beeswax and acrylic and an emulsifier, the smell of it is heavenly—it’s like honey. So, I liked the look of the paint when it was very dense, but then, oddly, I stopped liking it for about 12 years.

What changed?

I just didn’t like the way it looked. But part of it, I think, was moving around the country, seeing different landscapes. And eventually, I went to Rome [during the ’90s, while teaching at the Cornell University campus there], and there were so many wonderful paintings there. I was doing paintings on paper in my little apartment, and I started using figures. Change doesn’t happen quickly for me. But over a few years, the paintings just sort of evolved.

How do you get to know a landscape before you paint it?

I do a lot of drawing, but I don’t necessarily use those drawings in the painting. I draw a place from a number of different viewpoints, so that the scene really gets in my head. It’s useful for me to have a solid idea of what a place looks like and feels like. After that, I usually take photographs. But photographs are always a problem because they’re not what the eye sees. You lose a lot of depth perception, and the blacks drop out; information in the dark areas gets lost. Photography is just useless unless you have a lot of equipment and knowledge about how to take photographs. It’s not totally dependable, you have to fill them in with memory. So after I make photographs, I often come home and make color drawings or oil sketches on paper.

And how much do you research the history of these landscapes?

It depends on the place. For instance, if I’m in Navajo country, it’s so easy to find great patterns [to superimpose on the landscape paintings], since they do all that wonderful rugs. I use these maps showing where different tribes lived, so if you’re looking at Wyoming, for instance, you can look up where the Shoshone lived. They’re related to the Crow and the Nez Perce, and they make marvelous parfleche bags, so they have perfect patterns to use in a painting. They’re not too curvilinear, so I can cut them with a stencil.

But I can’t always find what I’m looking for. I went to see the glaciers in Banff, and I looked for the people who lived in that area, the Nakoda. But they’re not allowed to live there—the Canadian government took over that land, so they’ve all been removed from their ancestral home. Only about 12 years ago were they allowed back into the park to have their ceremonials. It’s a disgusting history. So, I couldn’t find anything about the Nakoda—I looked everywhere. I finally called a friend, David Penney at the National Museum of the American Indian, who gave me some patterns. So, it goes from an easy find, like the Navajos, to a very difficult one, like the Nakodas.

Your “Chief Joseph” series, a group of paintings from between 1974 and 1976, is about a Nez Perce leader from the 19th century, but the imagery is mainly meandering lines against dark backgrounds. Does it bother you if not everyone gets his story from the paintings?

The subjects of all abstractions are identified by the artist. If an artist says, “This is about bloodlust or mother-and-child love,” you can attach that meaning to the painting. For me, the “Chief Joseph” pieces are about honoring the journey of Chief Joseph across Idaho and over the Bitterroot Mountains into Montana, and the battles that he fought in Montana with the American forces. It was a dark and difficult time for him. And it was a long journey. When you put them on the wall in the way I prefer them to be shown, which is a group of all of them together, it implies movement—rather slow movement. Sure, I’m assigning an idea to them, but that’s what artists do.

You’ve continued to paint during periods when some critics claimed the medium was dead. Did you ever feel pressure to change your work to meet the dominant modes of a specific moment?

No, not really. I was fortunate in that. When my kids were little, my first husband would basically take care of us. I got some part-time jobs, doing substitute teaching, and then taught adults painting at an art center for a while. But I didn’t have to get a full-time job. I didn’t have to sell art. I’ve always made paintings for myself and my family—and my own interior growth. I’ve never made paintings for clients. I didn’t feel like I had to make paintings for other people, ever. What a blessing.