As an artist working primarily in self-portraiture, I was compelled to explore my fears and insecurities around the pandemic. I have reflected on the importance of connecting to people, on how difficult that is from behind protective masks and gloves, and about the strength we all need to make it through.

The pandemic changed my sculptures. I now pack figures and landscape tightly into spaces that would have once felt hard to maneuver in. I simplified and consolidated new figures into landscapes begun years earlier. My poor sleep inspired dreamlike sculptures as galleries shut and my ER and ICU doctor kids worked in highly contagious hospitals. Throughout 2020, I hosted online drawing sessions for seniors and homebound artists, and I created new clay and wax figures too.

I am interested in the juxtaposition of fragility and strength—evident in our personal lives and our broader environment. During the pandemic, my work has been about isolation, about feeling or being trapped, and longing for escape. Flight, both literal and imagined, has become a metaphor. I continue to investigate fragile landscapes as well as the vulnerability of our individual and collective bodies.

I began this series Terra Nullius—a term for annexing uninhabited land—after finding out I was about to become a father. It is inspired by Winnicott’s child development theory of the “transitional object,” where an object, often a blanket, provides psychological comfort, especially in unusual situations. I photographed my grandfather’s WWII blanket under a natural sky to create a “transitional landscape” where all people can feel safe.

In the past year, I went into survival mode and took inventory of what matters. I re-visioned my studio practice as a place of escape and worked to create peaceful imagery that would be healing to share. I use concrete, a foundation material for buildings and our quarantine homes. I stared up at the sky, past the ceiling and the walls that define everyone’s current existence. What artifacts and social structures will be left behind for future generations?

As a strong woman, I voice my beliefs about injustices like a preacher preaching to her congregation. I have been affected deeply over the past four years by our loss of democracy and humanity, the decline of morality, and increased racial injustice in America. As he left office, the previous American President continued to downplay the then 350,000+ deaths due to Covid-19. In this work, simple cut-out silhouettes represent the pain of the needlessly lost lives.

I love taking pictures of people in a crowd. Obviously, being in crowds is not a good idea in Corona times, so I went through my archives to find my favorite images of people and made new compositions. Along the way, I invented situations that never existed.

The stairs seen here were built last summer on our family homestead. They are created from pallet wood originally used to transport oxygen canisters to medical facilities during the pandemic. Previously, neighborhood children turned the path into a mudslide. The stairs lead into the steep forest ravine behind the property. Birds, woodland creatures, and pets now use the steps. The photograph is also homemade, developed from a large negative made with antiquated equipment.

Laboriously constructed from hand-cut paper, these chairs are stand-ins for people. Their forms are familiar—they could be found in anyone's house. During Covid times, we crave and appreciate the interactions that we previously took for granted. In psychology, the Empty Chair Technique helps participants understand another’s point of view by occupying different chairs. Like the human psyche, these chairs are fragile. The relationships they speak to may be precarious or fabulous and are ever-changing.

This sculpture is named after a chapter in a textbook that my father wrote in 1962. It reflects my interest in architecture, science, basketry, and textiles, and the visual forms they have in common. The shapes here are also inspired in part by the sunlike form of the coronavirus. The overall form of the sculpture suggests an animal of some kind. Working with welded steel and paint allows me to work in an improvisational and intuitive way.

I use discarded books, transforming them into art. Painted, distressed, and cut into slivers, they curl, undulate, and return to a treelike shape suggesting their origin. This is my response to the awful coronavirus news. It helped to cut slices in books, to do repetitive actions, and to break through the symmetry with just enough variation to express the changing world. I needed some order to keep me grounded in a time of chaos.

My recent work explores the irony of group portraiture during social distancing. Made in quarantine, No Diving satirizes the present moment and society at large. Social media’s illusion of connectivity had already impacted our relationships and created a sense of social distance prior to the pandemic. My work exists in a space between real life and a fictional reality. By depicting a lack of human interaction, I ironically stress the importance of physical and personal connection.

As an interdisciplinary artist, I thought about what making art during Covid-19 means. As Lewis Hyde writes: “When art acts as an agent of transformation [then] we may correctly speak of it as a gift.” I wanted to give viewers the mental space to value their daily lives and express their personal battles. I shared this artwork on social media to encourage my audience to stay home and do something good. No one can do everything, but everyone can do something.

With so much of our communication today occurring digitally, Tools for Contact: No. 1 reaffirms the importance of human touch. Intended for use by two people, the work recreates the comforting presence of a hand on one’s shoulder, with spring-loaded plungers to mimic the pressure of the gesture. Common tool references, such as the blue rubber grip and pegboardlike display, are juxtaposed with sterling silver in order to highlight the preciousness of the touch itself.

Like many people, I must work during this pandemic. Placing groceries in a shopping cart or being a cashier could mean death. My art explores the things that keep me up at night. I am not trying to find solutions. Instead, I embrace a reality that is mostly out of my hands. I apply paint by scraping, throwing, splashing, and dripping. This process allows me to confront the things that dominate my subconscious.

This coiled basket incorporates rocks collected in South Mountain Reservation, an Essex County park. I found solace on daily walks there during the pandemic. This work symbolizes the weight of the pandemic, the political anxiety of the 2020 election, and the protests over racial injustice. The rocks bound to the lid represent the weight of sheltering in place. I maintained perspective and hope for the future through inspiration from nature.

I’m a first generation, Portuguese American artist known as “Quest.” My work confronts viewers with relevant topics through the appropriation and transformation of iconic images. In a sort of “manual photoshop,” I tweak those images to create a new narrative. Often, double meanings or hidden references can be read between the lines. My goal is to be as innovative as possible and to break new ground.

I work with trash, found objects, and other cast-off materials, but I do not treat these materials as commercial by-products. My intention is to transform their intrinsic qualities into an understated message that comments on environmental concerns.

My work imagines a less wasteful world. Retrieving my morning newspaper, I wondered what a year’s worth of New York Times delivery bags would look like as art. I wove 10 panels of plastic triangles and imagined a suffocating planet. Obit #2 is made with this ubiquitous material in a process often considered women’s work. I juxtapose the sphere with a modern-day symbol of male power—neckties—in free-fall, to comment on our destructive actions.

I use a newspaper collage as a backdrop and paint hands doing routine tasks in the foreground. For this work, I painted a faceless portrait showing a hand wiping away snow. The smearing hand reveals articles about climate change and environmental issues. The melting snow is produced by painting a smear followed by hundreds of tiny bubbles, which also serve as a metaphor for the global warming crisis.

I want my art to create a space for conversation and a look within. It explores the various layers of the world we inhabit. For me, art has no boundaries. The colors and forms flow from one space to another in my work. An idea germinates into a story, influenced by events happening around me. I use materials and vibrant paints to build layers and textures.

During 2020, it was inevitable that the Covid pandemic would influence my art. This work addresses the pandemic’s impact on working mothers. Women already have difficulty moving up the ladder in corporate America. This has been exacerbated by the pandemic. Women bear the brunt of caring for children, many having to adjust their hours or leave the workforce entirely to supervise their children in virtual schools.

I began the series (regarding) the pain of others when my brother suddenly lost his leg to a flesh-eating bacteria. The killings of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd, and the onset of the pandemic followed. The world is awash in pain and loss. I returned to the materials, imagery, and processes I first used as an art student, when I sought meaning in the world around me by using materials immediately available.

Are we mindful of what we hold dear? The momentary utility of plastic bags (which take 500 years to degrade) and the (often) lifetime love of a quilt are combined here to question our perspective about preciousness. Economics affect the use of plastics—a cheap, readily available material. Environmental justice would improve and maintain a healthful environment for those who have traditionally lived and worked closest to sources of pollution.

For the artist to express their vision, their mind needs to flow without restraint. The process begins with a blank canvas and builds up, using one’s creative powers to form a conceptual space for the work to exist. One struggles with white space and the idea that the public might not see the final work. The final image becomes the open passage to the viewer willing to look attentively.

I respond to sociopolitical events through my metal and enamel jewelry. When America went into free fall in 2020, my work and my images reacted. America In Free Fall: Covid 19 reflects the cellular layers, the destruction, and the presence of the pandemic, enlarged and perceptible. America in Free Fall: after George is a concussive reaction to the chaotic emotions and overwhelming pain brought on by the horrific, arrogant murder of George Floyd.

As an artist, I combine my pottery with my commitment to equal rights and social justice. My work is grounded in the primary elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Yet, I cannot escape the violence and the injustices surrounding me. I began pressing words that envision a better world into the clay. Knowing that words alone are not enough, I donate a percentage of sales to organizations working for positive social change.

This poster resembles an eye chart and sends a clear message. We need to look for facts, search for reasons, and think independently. This way we won’t be deceived by fake news and rumors. These carefully selected words are separated by a red line that leads the viewer’s eye to see the red numbers 20/20, indicating perfect vision.

In my work, I assemble items purchased from the Supreme brand. Here, I hand-stitched waistbands and white cotton fabric from men’s underwear. Since 2008, the fashion industry has experienced a radical reshaping. Some retailers have adopted a strategy from the art market: resale. Supreme products reflect this phenomenon: limited supply, creating value for buyers, dealers, and resellers. My art explores this blurring boundary between fashion, art, and value.

These vessels allude to the Black body, personal struggles in navigating public spaces, and not feeling welcome. The pineapple as a symbol of hospitality is rooted in slavery and the agricultural colonization of the Americas. When ships arrived in port, foremen placed a pineapple on the dock, announcing a shipment of enslaved Africans. The artworks suggest the past, discuss the present, and explore possible futures for the African Diaspora.

This work was inspired by Dorothy Porter, an early 20th-century librarian at Howard University. She challenged the Dewey Decimal System, which segregated Black authors, by shelving them together with white authors. I attempt to neutralize the many ‘isms’—ethnocentrism, classism, colonialism, sexism, racism—embedded within the Library of Congress catalog cards, and reveal how these biases shape opinions, language, thought, and action. I draw attention to how information can be skewed, granting agency to some while stealing it from others.

My work explores paper, prints, and books as forms of national identity.
Here, I used a bookbinding technique based on ancient, Southeast Asian, palm leaf manuscripts. Women were forbidden to touch many of these books. My Thai grandmother’s silk pa-nung, or tube skirt, and the act of feeding mulberry leaves to silkworms inspired the handwoven and printed patterns. This work honors the role of women in generating and preserving knowledge and heritage.

My grandparents fled China when Mao Zedong took power. My family’s relationship with the mainland has been checkered with bitterness and pride. Using the style of Chinese Communist propaganda posters, I make portraits composed of chaotic and jagged overlapping stickers that from a distance resolve into a smooth, coherent image. Watching my nieces, nephews, and daughter grow up here in the States, the Cultural Revolution feels distant. Yet, those posters resemble us more than anything we’ve seen here.

My photographs capture contemporary Native American life. Too often, “Indians” are depicted as figures in history books, as long-forgotten museum relics, and, still, as mascots. Native People are very much alive. We live and work in present-day society while protecting and cultivating our rich traditions and culture. It’s time to update the image of the “Indian.” We aren’t just people posed in photographs from the 1800s. We are here, we are alive, we are important.

Photography is a powerful form of communication. It transcends all the barriers of language. Through my art, I can speak to anyone in the world—about their world and as a way to change the world.

My work explores the new identity created by different cultures coming together in multicultural societies. I sew various fabrics together, similar to the way kente cloth in Ghana and boro cloth in Japan are made from smaller pieces of fabric. I also dye canvas using varied techniques and join them. Like a language or name, textiles identify a group of people and convey their aspirations, history, and beliefs. This unspoken language expresses hope and preserves a memory.

Lightmaker.
“Lighting technician” you correct me silently from the employee ID card
the photo taken long before
pandemic
when you sat at lathes and shaped quartz bulbs
like those that pulsed outside
casino walls
lullabies in arc lamps
you learnt to fashion soup to nuts.
They light up Cristiano’s torso
and a Rolex watch
In Times Square or above Route 22.
You-and we-had gifts-no matter
You keep shaping, drilling, goner.
You keep shaping, drilling, believer.
Knurl the metal at its base.
These diamond shapes
hold promise.

This video poem re-envisions an immigrant woman’s 35-year ”career” in a disappearing/disappeared, industrial, working-class Newark. I found the materials when cleaning out my mother’s house after her death. The images of her at her lathe contrast with a movie camera whose lights might have been made by lamp technicians like her, but who were never “stars” of American films. This work sheds light on ”artisans” whose jobs no longer exist. They contrast with “virtual” ones created during the pandemic.

I am a Jamaican-born outsider artist. I explore the layers of my own identity—Blackness, womanhood, mother, worker, and immigrant. This work uses Jordan Peele's film Us to consider Black girlhood and how Black girls navigate across time, history, movements, laws, and spaces. There are things we can never erase or forget. They are forever Tethered to us. Jump rope is one way that Black girls resist and find their voices.

"Working with all healthcare professionals to protect lives and rebuild the community."

“During the pandemic I got in touch with my faith in order to remain hopeful."
"My carefully curated twitter news feed that helped me learn the objective truth about the pandemic, instead of the 'political truths' that are misleading a lot of the general public.”
"My family, simply being around people that love and support me.”
"Having coffee with my friends outside on the patio".
"Nurturing and taking care of my plants.”
"Bicycle ridings, family, dog.”
The Weaving Narratives series preserves personal stories by incorporating them into artworks using a floor loom. This interaction with participants measures the pulse of public opinion and sentiment about remaining hopeful during the pandemic. As a tangible record, it gives voice to people through art. The work features written words from Rovin Chonielall, Ezequiel Medina, Tamba Peters, Jennifer Gomez-Hernandez, Lisa Matalon, Blake Skerritt, and Sean McGregin.

Derma exposes the power dynamics associated with skin. It is inspired by my experience of struggling to accept my own skin and the changes that come with age. Emphasizing the idea that all people are just skin and flesh, this work is meant to be a physical representation of the ugly truth that white skin holds unfair privilege in society.

As a soft-spoken artist, I create bold, fearless, thought-provoking work inspired by my life experience. This brazen offering conveys the intense beauty and wretched pain I absorb from the world around me. I use photomontage, found objects, paint, raw materials, and collage. My artistic offerings aim to arrest the viewer, to transport them away from the pretentious and into a realm rooted in truth. I create to enrich and push the needle forward.

It is important to capture and archive today’s events for future generations. During the 2020 People's Uprising and Black Lives Matter movement, I traveled to New Jersey towns that were overshadowed by news in major cities. I amplified and documented the voices of people speaking out about the injustices against Black and brown people. Though the media portrayed protests as violent, I photographed peaceful marches of families and friends. Newark and other towns deserve their place in history.

After the 2016 presidential election, I collaborated with individuals who felt invisible and unentitled in this American moment. The subjects told their stories through pose, gesture, and props, asserting their identity and humanity. I ripped the photographs to express the damage rendered by fear of the "other." Inspired by the Japanese practice of Kintsugi—which repairs broken pottery while highlighting its scars—I restored the torn portraits with golden rice paper and thread, underscoring the need to mend our wounds.

Created during quarantine, my Drawn From Instinct series is a response to my personal situation of taking on multiple roles: worker, artist, student, teacher, chef, housekeeper, and coach. Using this concept of one becoming many, this work is composed of hundreds of small drawings. They all began from one drawing that I continually rephotographed using the mirror app on my iPhone. While we all went back to basics during lockdown, technology kept us connected.

Microaggressions are everyday interactions that communicate negative assumptions toward marginalized groups. People committing microaggressions are often unaware of it. If pointed out, they say, “That wasn’t my intention, you are being too sensitive.” Which is yet another microaggression. People often touch my hair without asking, making me feel like merchandise on display. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been complimented for being “articulate.” This presumes that Black people are not capable of intellectual conversation. The weight of these daily interactions underpins real consequences: stress, frustration, self-doubt, powerlessness, and invisibility.