![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1772053523/yhiyta9fcwixbuml4pfa.jpg\")
Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle, Well 35°58’16”N - 106°5’21”W (Santa Clara Pueblo, NM), 2014. Pictured: Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle. Courtesy of the artist.
By JEFFERSON GODARD
Ambiguity can be a place of uncertainty and frustration, but for Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle, it is where his practice thrives. Manglano-Ovalle is a Chicago-based artist who has created an art practice over the past 40 years that ultimately asks more questions than provides answers.
His achievements and accolades are numerous indeed. A 2001 John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation Award and 2009 John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation Fellow winner, Manglano-Ovalle was born in Spain, lived in Colombia, and studied at Williams College (BA in 1983), and The School of the Art Institute of Chicago (MFA in 1989). He has shown internationally at institutions including the Guggenheim New York and Bilbao, MoMA, Tate Liverpool, MCA Chicago, The Art Institute of Chicago, and Frankfurter Kunstverein, just to list a few. Iñigo currently serves as the Lorraine H. Morton Professor of Art at Northwestern University and will present new work at the DePaul Art Museum this September in a solo show titled Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle: A Want for Nothing, curated by Dr. Ionit Behar.
My first encounter with Manglano-Ovalle’s work was through an architecture publication that extolled his video artwork Le Baiser/The Kiss (1999) in which he played a window washer. Yet the window he was cleaning was not your average pane of glass. This window was part of the storied Farnsworth House (1945-1951) by architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and the kiss alludes to the sound that the squeegee makes when contacting the glass, but the piece also speaks to class and entitlement. It wasn’t until eight years later that I got a chance to experience a work of his in person, and I was gobsmacked.
Travelling to Documenta in Kassel, Germany in 2007, I walked into a darkened space where a large, hulking metal sculpture of a truck was tucked up against the back wall. In an adjacent space sat a small transistor radio sat amidst a room flooded with orange light cast from a filter over the glass. This culminated to create a sparce and looming feeling that was overwhelming, and I was hooked. Phantom Truck was the title of this full-scale recreation of a supposed bioweapons truck that former US Secretary of State Colin Powell spoke of when he addressed the UN Security Council prior to the US invasion of Iraq in 2003. Located within this dimly lit space, the viewer had to make sense of this through the ambiguity. It was both present and absent at the same time, reinforcing the foreboding history it held inside.
Recently, I had a chance to speak with DePaul Art Museum Curator Dr. Ionit Behar about the upcoming exhibition, Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle: A Want for Nothing. In our conversation, we spoke about this enthralling exhibition that questions utility, how we understand systems, and how art can move beyond representation. One question that the exhibition initially posits is “How does the work draw us in, and how do we, in turn, respond to it—right here, right now?”
*
Jefferson Godard (JG): Let’s begin by unpacking the term usefulness. The press release makes mention of this term. Can you talk more about how you feel Iñigo’s art has a useful factor to it, or is this more of a way of sharing how he makes work that is so ambiguous?
Ionit Behar (IB): My initial answer references the title of the show, A Want for Nothing. This title came out of many conversations with Iñigo which very much resonated with me when he said, “what I want out of this world, or out of my practice, or even my existence in this world is to really want nothing.”
I interpret this not as a rejection of desire, but as a form of radical openness, a way of being that doesn’t cling or impose. It’s akin to holding a coin in an open palm rather than gripping it tightly. In this openness, meaning can circulate freely. Iñigo’s practice embodies that spirit, leaving room for interpretation and inviting viewers to sit with uncertainty, rather than being told exactly what to see or feel.
It also reinforces a particular way of being in the world. Iñigo’s work fosters a quiet yet profound dialogue about what it means to exist within this world, not just to move through it, but to be in relation to it. A Want for Nothing is not a denial of desire or a rejection of living. Rather, it speaks to a deeper yearning, an inquiry into what we ask of the world and what it asks of us in return. It’s a subtle but powerful shift in perspective. If we were to reconsider our relationship with the world through this lens, perhaps things could begin to change, on both personal and collective levels. This was part of our earliest conversations, and where the exhibition first began to take shape.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1772053523/vqy92rw98u3xmnivjonj.jpg\")
Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle, Well 34°01’03’’N-118°29’12’’W [detail], 2015, Stainless steel, aluminum and brass. Courtesy of the artist and Christopher Grimes Gallery
JG: It is great to learn the ethos of the show and some of his philosophy. Can you walk us through A Want for Nothing?
IB: I don’t want to give too much away, but the first gallery features quieter, more intimate works Iñigo calls “discrete objects,” pieces that blur the line between function and art. It also highlights his making by hand, distilling forms to their most minimal expression. For example, there is a piece entitled, An Attempt to Say Something that Can Actually Hold Water that appears to be a simple bucket—but it has no bottom. At first, it suggests utility: a container for water, a familiar and everyday object. But by removing its base, Iñigo renders it non-functional. It still carries the memory and form of a bucket, but its purpose has been subverted. This quiet gesture unsettles our assumptions and gently redirects our attention towards what the object implies, what it lacks, and what it might mean.
The Well project will also be present, rooted in Iñigo interest in land art. His recent research in the Sonoran Desert—walking the terrain and engaging with a range of people—adds a rich, layered context to the work.
JG: Much like the Well project, ritual, interstitial space, and failure are important elements in his work. Can you comment on how this show addresses these themes?
IB: There’s something deeply ritualistic in the making of his work, laborious, repetitive, almost monk-like. This process invites contemplation and evokes a sensibility reminiscent of 1960s and 70s artists like Walter de Maria, Richard Serra and Robert Barry, or even earlier figures such as Marcel Duchamp. He actively seeks critique, much like a student, and embraces contradiction as a generative space. After all, living is full of contradictions. I appreciate that he allows this tension to surface through his objects, rather than forcing a statement that might otherwise feel contrived.
![](\"https://res.cloudinary.com/dfafo598z/image/upload/v1772053524/dtmptd2h8xosiwnzemyy.jpg\")
Iñigo Manglano-Ovalle, Untitled, 2023, Pine and graphite. Courtesy of the artist.
JG: Iñigo prefers the viewer to take what they want from the work and the overall exhibition. Did this inform your decision on whether or not to use wall labels?
IB: There won’t be any wall labels in the exhibition, something that differs from our usual approach at DPAM, but it’s important to honor the artist’s preferences. One of the things I appreciate most about DPAM is that we don’t follow a single model for presenting interpretive text. Instead, we consider each exhibition individually, asking what kind of textual support will best serve the work. In this case, the goal is to keep interpretation as open as possible while remaining generous to the viewer. Short texts will be available as handouts, which visitors can choose to read—or not—as they move through the galleries and engage with the works on their own terms.
JG: While a strong exhibition will fulfill visual and even psychological aspects, what do you hope your show with Iñigo will fulfill?
IB: This exhibition offers an opportunity to return to basics, and ultimately, to ourselves. I hope it encourages us to see things in a new light. That’s part of what Iñigo brings to his work: a way of provoking reflection without repetition. If there’s one message to take from this show, it’s an invitation to imagine what a different future could look like, rather than simply looking back. I also think the show seeks to remind us of our humanity, our capacity for stillness, for care, for contradiction, and for imagination. After all, living is a contradiction in itself. In a world that often feels rushed, fragmented, or transactional, the works gently call us back to an attentive way of being. They ask us not just to look, but to feel; not just to interpret, but to be present.
Being part of this process and working with him has been incredibly meaningful. I hope that sense of connection and possibility will resonate with viewers as well.
#
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.”