![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234909/jaxlqvisaonmohweln4u.jpg\")
Rashid Johnson at his studio in Brooklyn, New York, 2024. Credit: Sabrina Santiago.
This interview is CGN's Fall 2026 cover interview. Purchase a copy or subscribe.
By SUSAN GESCHEIDLE
Chicago native Rashid Johnson brings his 30-year survey, A Poem for Deep Thinkers, home this November. Opening November 7, 2026, the exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago follows stops at New York’s Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum and the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth.
Susan Gescheidle: You move fluidly between photography, painting, sculpture, and large-scale architecture. What is the underlying anchor connecting these mediums across this 30-year trajectory?
Rashid Johnson: That’s a big question. The lack of medium specificity in my project is born of curiosity and an ambition for problem-solving, but simultaneously recognizing that art is a horrible vehicle for that. Art is intended to allow space for exploration. It’s dynamic and unspecific. Shifting, exploring, and different outlets provide me opportunity. That’s why my work doesn’t fit easily into a simple diagnosis.
SG: The architecture of the MCA Chicago, the Guggenheim, and the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth shapes visitor movement differently. How will this spatial shift affect your early Columbia College work compared to your massive current installations?
RJ: The MCA is a great facilitator for what happens in the later work. The Guggenheim is an interesting space because the lower parts of the rotunda are built for smaller works, which allowed my earlier Columbia College photography to shine. Contemporary spaces like Fort Worth and the MCA make you face different obstacles around smaller objects. They make you gather them, build structures and narratives, and sometimes use salons to occupy the space effectively. It presents different challenges, but also opportunities.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234911/yvlialmz7lqbsuducbd8.jpg\")
Rashid Johnson, Sanguine, 2025. Installation view: Rashid Johnson: A Poem for Deep Thinkers; April 18, 2025–January 18, 2026;
Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, New York. Photograph by David Heald. © Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, New York. Courtesy of the artist.
SG: Materials like black soap, shea butter, books, and plants became central to your mid-career shift. Do these elements change in meaning over time, or do they serve as a growing vocabulary for new spaces?
RJ: I think a bit of both. Materials have a vocabulary unto themselves and a way they become legible to each individual viewer. Your relationship with plants, or whether materials are familiar or foreign, is going to dictate how you read my project.
For example, if you grew up with shea butter—applying it or seeing it sold on the streets—you may have a different sense of it than someone coming to it for the first time. The language belonging to the material continues to inform how an audience engages with it. I love that aspect; it’s quite rewarding.
The other opportunity is looking at the materials through my biography. You recognize them as foreign to you, but familiar to me, allowing you to read the work as both an insider and outsider. I’m excited by the way people translate the materials through their own experiences, but simultaneously imagine my relationship to them.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234912/z9vxzejf628vaiol97hp.jpg\")
Installation view: Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago, ‘12x12: New Artist/New Work,’ 2002, Chicago, IL. Courtesy of the artist.
SG: How has your core group of early Chicago benefactors and collectors sustained your work over the last 30 years?
RJ: My early benefactors and collectors in Chicago played an enormous role in creating space for me to make work, and they continue to give me hope in how patronage can be an effective partnership. When I was leaving Chicago, I approached supporters Paul Gray, Evan Boris and Monique Meloche, Dan Berger, and others to ask for a loan to be paid off with future artwork in order to help me transition to New York. They facilitated that.
The patronage and enthusiasm for local artists is enormous in Chicago; it’s an important part of the city’s character. The way those early patrons imagined their relationship with me is the criterion I use to judge the quality of people who acquire my work today.
SG: What do you hope a new generation of collectors discovers in your art today?
RJ: I hope a new generation feels energized, entertained, and curious about how my project translates personal experience into illustrated objects, material investigations, and a way of imagining the world. I hope they use my practice as a launchpad to explore their own enthusiasm for art and feel open to the curious opportunities it provides.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234913/h9wolwcvfrp1bkivmlgk.jpg\")
Installation view: Rashid Johnson: ‘The Rise and Fall of the Proper Negro,’ 2003, Chicago, IL. Courtesy of the artist and Monique Meloche Gallery.
SG: You and your former partner, fellow artist Sheree Hovsepian, launched the residency at Casa Gracia on Menorca with no required deliverables or exhibition. What kind of creatives are you hoping to attract to this pressure-free environment? And is this yet another way of giving back to the artistic community?
RJ: We’re hoping to attract good ones. We want people who share our enthusiasm for art, who contribute to discourse, and who are modern—the kinds of people who don’t avert their eyes and who understand the challenges of being a maker in a complicated world. We want thinkers and writers.
I’ve been so widely supported and nourished by a community of practitioners, collectors, and curators that I see this as an opportunity to pay it forward. I want to continue to provide opportunities—mirroring the ones I had, while having the ambition to provide the kinds of opportunities I wish I’d had.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234914/kyf26lsp3vekmpkt2hqh.jpg\")
Rashid Johnson during his childhood in Chicago, IL. Courtesy of the artist.
SG: You are from Evanston and went to Evanston Township High School, just like my kids did. Raised by a mother who was an African history scholar in a home steeped in Du Bois and Baraka, how did that deep Afrocentric grounding and Evanston’s activist community shape your worldview?
RJ: It shaped it dramatically. Growing up as a child of academics in a family that prioritized critical engagement keeps that history at the forefront of my work. It drives my references and the questions my projects ask.
Evanston is a special town. Its diversity, complexity, and proximity to Chicago force you to ask deep questions. More recently, its push to be at the forefront of reparations aligns perfectly with the values I associate with the community—values like restorative justice and making wrongs right. Evanston shaped me in ways that were vital to my development, and I’m incredibly proud to be from there.
SG: Second part of that question, and most important: Do you still agree “It’s a great day to be a Wildkit”?
RJ: Every day is “a great day to be a Wildkit!” The high school was so important to my development and my understanding of the world, and so I’m still proud to be an Evanstonian.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234916/hf874fw4v3body0kueyl.png\")
Rashid Johnson, Untitled Escape Collage, 2018 (detail). Ceramic tile, mirror tile, branded red oak flooring, vinyl, spray enamel, oil stick, black soap, wax, 97 × 121 × 2.25 in. (246.38 × 307.34 × 5.72 cm). Collection of Kathy and Mitchell Jacobson X.2025.88 © Rashid Johnson, 2025. Photo: Martin Parsekian
SG: You were only 23 when Thelma Golden curated your work into Freestyle at the Studio Museum in Harlem. You’ve been open about the anxiety that followed the sudden spotlight. What words of wisdom do you have for young artists experiencing a sudden breakout?
RJ: I was always dealing with some anxiety, but the spotlight gave me space to reflect. It’s something I’m proud of, happy to have experienced, and I’m even happier to have navigated things that, at a certain stage, I wasn’t even ready for.
What I would say is keep your eye on the prize. Don’t believe the hype. Continue to fight, work, and focus on the qualities of your project. Think about it as a long-term opportunity, not a short one.
SG: That Harlem breakout proved the power of institutional backing. Today, you aggressively champion younger artists to galleries and collectors. How did your own path shape your approach to mentoring the next generation?
RJ: I came up at a time when a number of important people developing their positions in the cultural landscape provided opportunities for me. They educated me through their words, teaching, and action—people like Thelma Golden. Watching how she navigated the landscape of contemporary art, I paid attention. I tried to be present, and wanted to be a vehicle. If you continue to prioritize what matters most to you as a practitioner, you’ll be served by it long term.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234917/dbbunbn6mtx3iyf1kryj.jpg\")
Rashid Johnson, ‘Broken Crowd “The President’s Audience,”’ 2026, at The Obama Presidential Center, Chicago, IL. Credit: The Obama Foundation.
SG: Your commission for the new Obama Presidential Center here in Chicago is a massive milestone. Tying your work to the civic legacy of the first Black president must be an incredible honor. Did you get a personal phone call from President Obama? What did this request for art mean to you emotionally?
RJ: I did not get a personal call from the president, but I know that he is aware of my work, and we’ve had several discussions in the past. I was also able to walk through my Guggenheim retrospective with the first lady, Michelle. They have shown themselves to be such incredible, thoughtful patrons in the way they relate to and platform artists.
So, I was extremely proud to be included, especially as a native son. Of the presidents I’ve witnessed, he is the most sincere, thoughtful, engaged, and sophisticated leader I can think of in my years paying attention to political life. I’m just proud to be part of something that I think has a lot of integrity.
SG: Your mosaic, Broken Crowd, lives inside the Center’s teaching kitchen rather than on a traditional museum wall. Since these commissions are site-specific, how did you choose this space, and what does a community hub add to the meaning of the artwork?
RJ: I love the utility of the space, and I love the idea that it’s going to be employed by people who live nearby and visitors who have the ambition to explore and learn. My project is so committed to intellectual and actionable curiosity.
The fact that my installation lives in a space that creates room for learning, exploration, and development—and even thinking of it colloquially, the idea of cooking, like how do you cook up something, how do you conjure something? For it to share space with those ideas is fundamentally in line with how my practice aspires to engage an audience. So, for me, that was the spot.
SG: Personal question here: You and your son, Julius, share a birthday, which inspired your artwork, Soul Painting “Birthday Boys.” He’s 15 now—does a 30-year museum survey buy you any “cool dad” currency with him?
RJ: Zero. He is the person least impressed with me that I’ve come across. I may be some people’s favorite artist, but I’m not even sure I’m his.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788234918/qpc383z36efexjzyzlbg.jpg\")
Rashid Johnson, God Painting “The Spirit”, 2025 (detail). Oil on linen. Private Collection. © Rashid Johnson, 2025. Courtesy of the artist and Hauser & Wirth. Photography by: Stephanie Powell
SG: Before we wrap up, if you could show your work anywhere in the world, where would it be and why?
RJ: If I could show my work anywhere in the world, it would be—real answer—the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago. And I’ll tell you why. It’s the museum that opened its arms to me first. It’s the one that not only brought me in as a practitioner, but brought me in as a student and as a young person—giving me space to think about what art could be, introducing me to things that I now love that I wasn’t sure what they were, and giving my curiosity space and opportunity to be challenged, to explore, and to see things with different eyes.
On top of that, it continues to be such a special place. I’m a boy from Chicago, and it gives me an opportunity to welcome in people who followed my journey from start to finish. In the vein of Woody Allen’s film Deconstructing Harry, I get to see everybody. When I’m there and everybody gets to see me, that’s enough reward.
SG: Looking ahead, where do you see your practice evolving next?
RJ: As a practitioner who’s also a sober man, I try to take it one day at a time, so I don’t look too far ahead. If I knew where my practice was going, I’m probably going in the wrong direction. I’ll know more tomorrow, so you can ask me then.
#
Rashid Johnson: A Poem for Deep Thinkers
Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago
Saturday, Nov 07, 2026–Sunday, Apr 25, 2027
Fall offers a full slate of exhibitions across galleries and museums throughout the Midwest. Behind the scenes, many people in the community are working tirelessly to support artists and bring fresh perspectives to the public. We spoke with five insiders about what excites them now and what they anticipate next.
The following preview is one of five conversations that appear in CGN's Fall 2026 magazine. To receive a copy of the print edition click here.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1789517637/noxz9olp47gfneafz8xg.jpg\")
“I’m thrilled to further expand my artistic and design practice by introducing other mediums into the mix. I’m looking forward to watching the seasons change and devoting a lot of time in the studio as well. Fall/winter is my favorite time to create new works.
I have an upcoming solo show with VSG Contemporary that I am excited about. The work will delve further into the topics of cultural mythology and how these tales and narratives have helped shape my worldview.
Also, it wouldn’t be right if I left out my excitement for this upcoming season of Chicago sports.”
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961823/s3lp0uull2s8mvd8funj.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Extension Cords, Glazed stoneware, chrome, Sizes vary 2021-present. Photo: Mikey Mosher
This interview is part of CGN's Fall 2026 issue. Purchase a copy or subscribe.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961824/mghrpnghxd9j9ko2dsjt.jpg\")
Andi Crist
BY ALISON REILLY
Andi Crist’s warm, engaging demeanor is evident in the first few minutes of our conversation. Generous with her time and forthcoming in her observations, she cares deeply about building relationships through her art making. Crist grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, devoured art classes, wrote songs and played music in high school, and moved to Chicago to study visual art at Columbia College. In 2024, she received her MFA from the University of Illinois at Chicago. She is a woodworker, sculptor, ceramicist, and conceptual artist, and she teaches at Illinois Institute of Technology. We discussed her multidisciplinary practice, her experience working as an art handler, preparator, and fabricator, and how she thinks about labor, creativity, and value in the art world.
CGN: You grew up in Birmingham, Alabama. How did that environment shape your point of view as an artist?
Andi Crist: That’s such a funny question. Nobody’s ever really asked.
CGN: Oh, really?
AC: Yeah, maybe because I never was super connected with the arts community down in Birmingham. I moved to Chicago in 2007, so it’s been 20 years since I lived in the South. I was definitely one of those art kids—one art credit was required in high school, and I graduated with like seven. I was surrounded by artists who had a big impact on me, because they were working artists. All my art teachers were trained in Alabama and then continued to teach and work in Alabama, which gave me this desire to try to expand my community outside of what I was familiar with.
CGN: Do you identify as a Chicagoan?
AC: My family still lives in Alabama, and I go back every year. I love being in Alabama. Maybe now being in Chicago for almost 20 years, I identify as a southerner living in the city. I carry on the social qualities of a friendly southern person [laughs].
CGN: You have a varied art practice—woodwork, ceramics, mold making. What drew you to those types of fabrication methods and that type of art making?
AC: My dad is a carpenter and a hobbyist woodworker, but his career was psychology, and my mom was a professor and an incredible craftswoman. I absorbed my mom’s model of creativity, which is to try a bunch of different things and not necessarily finish them but to try to learn as much as I can by just going for it. My practice over the years has become an exploration of conceptual elements of what makes art art and not just craft. Do you have to be a master craftsperson or a professional artist in order to make something that resonates with people?
I make a lot of work that references the mode of making and requires a variety of different media. I just finished teaching a ceramics production class where students learned how to produce molds, think about positives and negatives, and get into a level of production rather than just handicraft as a way to multiply their output.
I got into fabrication because I’ve always liked working with other artists. I have a background in theater and gallery work. I’m a voracious learner, and I like being able to share those skills with my community. Then I end up making work about that. It’s a self-feeding cycle.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961825/zzejqwibga5f5wk6einh.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Artist’s Ladder, 2023. Photo: Jeff Perlman
CGN: Thinking about your background as an art handler and preparator—how did you get to the point where you were making work about that experience?
AC: In 2010, right before I graduated from Columbia, I was living in a storefront in West Logan Square with my partner at the time. We started a gallery called Autotelic in the space and had to build it out using the worst tools with very minimal resources. Then we started curating shows there and that meant helping other artists figure out how to install their work in our unusual space. Eventually, I gained the reputation for knowing how to do that type of work. I started getting invited to work in museums and galleries.
The Holocaust Museum was the first museum I worked at, and as difficult as that subject matter is, that experience was really important to me because I was learning more about the larger world of gallery work. As an artist working as a preparator, you’re straddling both sides of that space. You’re really seeing how the sausage is made. You’re hearing all the conversations about artists, curators, the process of exhibition making. There is a lot of information you can gather about the economics of the art world by just being the person that has the know-how to touch and handle artwork. Eventually that started feeding into my art practice because I wanted to make work that was contributing to a conversation around art as a type of job. It fueled a methodology of seeing everything in the world as the result of a long line of processes that required effort and thoughtfulness by many hands.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961826/uv5bysb5fbne30gr5czh.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Fair Warning, 2025.
CGN: The title of your recent exhibition at the Cleve Carney Museum—Live, Laugh, Lo—sorry, not Live, Laugh, Love—Live, Laugh, Labor.
AC: [Laughs] That’s what everybody does.
CGN: I love the title—it’s perfect. You incorporate humor along with thoughtful critiques about labor and value in your work. What role does humor play? How does it help you connect with your audience?
AC: One of my biggest criticisms of art with a capital A is how easily it can be overly intellectualized. I think that’s why I end up making a lot of work that references things that already exist or have some kind of real purpose. It’s important to give people a foothold so there’s an obvious place to board that train of thought. As an artist—maybe this is me getting into a sweeping argument about what artists should be—but I personally believe in intellectual accessibility. Humor is a swift way to drop defenses and allow people to come in without feeling like they are not getting the joke or not understanding. I like to make work that can hold both of those things at the same time—it’s funny on the surface level, it’s kind of cheeky, but there’s also another way to look at it that is intellectually clever. There is a joy in the attempt to “get it”. Like the satisfaction of grasping how a crossword puzzle actually works.
It’s also so much a part of my personality. I take myself seriously as an artist, but my ego isn’t at the heart of it. It’s really something that I do because I love to make things, and I love to connect with other people. My parents raised me on puns, creating those language relationships between things and people and space. Understanding a joke is the same way that we understand art, and while neither of my parents would consider themselves artists, they taught me how to think about art.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961828/gnotyfijabr7e15kb6hm.jpg\")
Andi Crist, 69 Bananas
CGN: Your work, Artist’s Ladder, explores hierarchies, workplace cultures, and institutional values. What experiences shaped your reflections on these themes?
AC: The ladder piece distinctly represents the complicated relationship between front of house, back of house, and the hierarchy of labor. Who is the artist in those relationships? How much does another person’s knowledge and expertise contribute to the success of another artist?
There are enormous, industrialized art practices out there, warehouses full of people making things, and those people are also artists. When you make work that involves other people, it’s important to acknowledge their contributions. I’ve had complicated interactions with other artists who are like, ‘Hey, do you want to collaborate with me on this thing?’ but really they just want me to make their idea. I made Artist’s Ladder while I was in grad school at UIC, and it really represented my relationship with a lot of other artists, because I could be an actual support structure for them. Then it turned into this absurd physical thing. It’s extremely overbuilt with inlaid racing stripes made of exotic hardwood, and a butcher’s block-style plaid top. It’s not really like an FU as much as it is asking for acknowledgement of my skills and the essential support structures that exist.
CGN: I want to ask you about another piece, Five O’Clock Somewhere, a wool rug that resembles a children’s play mat. I work at a library, and it reminded me of rugs I see all the time. It’s a peaceful image of an office park with a large fountain surrounded by a parking lot. I’m curious why you chose a rug as the medium to depict that image.
AC: To me the heart of that joke was that it was a landscape. I wanted it to be physically traversable. And that was, I don’t want to say controversial, but it was something that I had to talk about a lot. The critique of that work was the fact that I didn’t want to hang it on the wall and turn it into a tapestry. I really wanted it to be a rug that people could walk on. When I showed that work at Chicago Artists Coalition for the New City Breakout Artists show. There was a lot of pushback about having it on the floor and allowing people to walk on it.
That, to me, was such an important conversation, because, in my mind, the fact that you could walk across it and traverse it was part of how I was thinking about the object. Rugs are utilitarian–they are floor coverings. When you make art that doesn’t do anything, you don’t get to participate in that part of the conversation.
I enjoy sparring around art like that. I am totally tickled by the pushback. The critique of display is exciting, and sorting through the politics of utilitarianism in art spaces is fun to me. And then—it was so crazy—we ended up showing it halfway on the wall and halfway on the ground.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961829/r1zylkwfw9rkw191skdl.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Five O’Clock Somewhere, on display at Live, Laugh, Labor: Thoughts on Usefulness and Other Myths at The Cleve Carney Museum of Art, 2025.
CGN: Oh, wow.
AC: I was like, this is the epitome of compromise! I had to build a structure so that it could hang that way safely.
CGN: I would say just put it on the ground if that’s what you want to do. It’s interesting that there are still very fixed ideas about the way that art should be displayed.
AC: That preparator part of it, that’s what I’m all about. I was having that conversation about what physically supports the work or what conceptually supports it in the way that it’s shown.
CGN: Have you always been a writer? How do your art and writing practices work together?
AC: I can’t say that I’m a writer, it’s probably the same way that it can feel weird to call yourself an artist. But I feel like I’ve always been relatively good at writing. The first time I ever did any kind of professional writing was contributing, a long time ago, to a website called eHow. The editors would send me a title, and then I would have to research how to do that thing. Then I would write out step-by-step instructions for how to do that.
I think that’s how I had to make myself think through my conceptual practice—I had to do the research, coagulate that into some kind of document, and then I would have stream-of-consciousness conversations with myself. “Why are we interested in this? Why would we make it this way? What would I want to talk about if someone were to ask me about this?” It’s almost like I was pre-interviewing myself.
I think the writing is just another way for me to process that idea before I put in all of the time and energy to actually accomplish it.
CGN: What are you working on right now? What projects do you have coming up?
AC: The biggest project that I have right now is my house. My family and I suffered a major house fire on New Year’s Day. We’ve been displaced since then and are navigating rebuilding our house. It was a total loss.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961830/kekfqzf9f87fq48juogh.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Single-Use Fireplace, 2025. Photo: Mikey Mosher.
CGN: I’m so sorry to hear that.
AC: Thank you. We’re all okay, but it’s been a really tumultuous year. I moved my studio into a storefront last summer, and so most of my, at least relatively recent, work is safe, and I still have all of my materials, but my home life is starting over. I just had my first full year at this space, and it’s got a little gallery built out in the front called Coming Soon. It’s beautiful with floor-to-ceiling windows on Division and Central Park. I’ve been inviting people into the space to try things out.
After teaching the ceramics class, I came into a bunch of nice slip casting molds, and I’m making some really playful, weird, ceramic stuff. I want to be open and not put too much pressure on myself. Having a big studio by myself is very expensive, so it’s easy to want to make it feel like it’s worth it. But if for now all I can do is make it a resource for other people, then that will be the thing I do. Be less selfish, but more selfish with my time. Saying I can’t do that, or I don’t want to do that. It’s not my nature to say no—I’m such a yes man. I’m learning how to be a yes man for myself.
CGN: That makes sense after going through something so traumatic.
AC: I have an amazing support system. Our friends started a GoFundMe. It was incredible. I’m so humbled and floored by how held I felt by Chicago. I can’t help but throw a little shout out to my Chicago people. I can see how people’s lives get totally ruined by this kind of tragedy. I feel so lucky. Chicago definitely showed its love back.
CGN: For your project Coming Soon, are you bringing in other artists?
AC: My philosophy is that I want to be involved as little as possible. I am thinking about it more as a hosted than curated space. I’m actively soliciting proposals or ideas for workshops, meetings, book clubs—I’m down for making it a resource, whatever that means. I don’t want to over-think it, I want it to be an intuitive and organic thing, which is why I call it Coming Soon—it can be a placeholder for anything. It’s exciting. Taking my hands off the reins is a good exercise for me.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1788961831/gno5dhliwfnzpuaim78s.jpg\")
Andi Crist, Extension Cords, Glazed stoneware, chrome, Sizes vary 2021-present. Photo: Mikey Mosher
Fall offers a full slate of exhibitions across galleries and museums throughout the Midwest. Behind the scenes, many people in the community are working tirelessly to support artists and bring fresh perspectives to the public. We spoke with five insiders about what excites them now and what they anticipate next.
The following preview is one of five conversations that appear in CGN's Fall 2026 magazine. To receive a copy of the print edition click here.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1789516769/izokunnmrufdyjbjnypk.jpg\")
“Intuit Art Museum’s renovated, expanded spaces give audiences the chance to connect with art through daily art-making, third Thursday Art After Work, group Slow Looks designed to provide a mindful experience with a single work and upcoming conversations with sculptor Bill Brady (Oct. 3) and Dr. Mary Trent (Oct. 15), who curated our current exhibition on the role of scrapbook-making in Henry Darger’s art.
On view is the thought-provoking Monumental: The Sculpture of Dr. Charles Smith, which encourages guests to consider the lack of historical representation of African Americans and Black people in America. Dr. Smith’s memorials champion Black history and stories of everyday life he sees missing in mainstream narratives.
This fall we’re opening an exhibition of paintings by Karla Wong, an artist who immigrated from Oaxaca and who explores themes of life and death, gender identity and self-discovery.”