For millennia, humans have navigated seas, rivers, and oceans as avenues for trade, exploration, conquest, and colonization. During the Age of Discovery—an era interwoven with what’s known as the Age of Sail—European explorers and traders embarked on journeys around the world to map previously uncharted continents, trade commodities, and establish new socio-political outposts. Imperial forces competed with one another to control as much as they could, all in the name of wealth and power, and individual landowners and traders profited immensely. But sustaining a presence in far-flung places would never have been remotely possible, nevertheless successful, without slavery.

Well into the 19th century, humans were transported through a vast slave network, with millions crammed aboard ships bound for various parts of Europe or North America. For London-based artist LR Vandy, the layered and often fraught legacies of labor, shipping, and trade undergird a distinctive sculptural practice.

Vandy’s studio is based at Chatham Historic Dockyard in Kent, where the history of wooden ships is alive and well. She uses materials such as Manila rope—a thick nautical rope made from the abaca plant, which is native to The Philippines—bobbers, navigation equipment, ship’s helms, hull-shaped wooden forms, and more, to explore the tangles of maritime history.

Vandy’s exhibition titled Rise, in The Weston Gallery at Yorkshire Sculpture Park, marks the artist’s first solo museum show. Many of the works seen here are included in the show, while others represent earlier pieces. In her most recent work, the rope is a central focus as she explores its “entanglement in human
history, its role in the development of civilisations, and its inextricable links to colonial enslavement of people,” says an exhibition statement. Everyday objects are repurposed and manipulated in an ongoing inquiry into process and materials, especially “drawing attention to the social, economic and political systems embedded within everyday objects.”

Anchoring the space at Yorkshire Sculpture Park is a giant, rope-covered form evocative of a maypole, nodding to historic European folk traditions that celebrate community, ritual, and regeneration. Other objects appear to spin or sway, as if skirts are swishing or invisible players move through a series of games. “My practice centres the hidden human costs of colonialism, transportation systems and commodities, and the knotted histories of trade and power they contain,” Vandy says in a statement. “The title, Rise, references ideas of resilience, protest, liberation, and collective joy explored through rituals and dance.”

Rise continues through September 13 in Wakefield. Learn more and plan your visit on the park’s website, and follow Vandy on Instagram for updates.

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When Moffat Takadiwa sees a pile of rubbish—old technology parts, personal care items, clothing—he doesn’t just see a bunch of junk. The Harare, Zimbabwe-based artist has spent the better part of two decades collecting thousands upon thousands of pieces of plastic and metals foraged from landfills near the city’s Mbare neighborhood, where heaps of electronic equipment waste, also known as e-waste, ends up in illicit dump sites. In his studio, vast collections of colorful objects are meticulously sorted into collections.

Takadiwa is known for his elaborate sculptures made from what he describes as “everyday consumer residue”—discarded computer keyboard keys, toothbrush heads, plastic combs, buttons, and more. The colors, textures, and patina of wear and age produce patterns that it’s tempting to describe as “organic,” even though the materials are the opposite.

The artist’s current solo exhibition, The Crown! at Semiose, highlights the tension not only between visual harmony, consumer culture, and waste but also those of what curator Fernanda Brenner describes in the exhibition essay as “the tensions of Africa’s post-colonial afterlife.” Takadiwa describes it as the “colonial hangover.” For instance, afro combs appear throughout the show, “rooted in African traditions and the colonial self-fashioning they forced,” Brenner says. “Once tools for grooming and ritual, these combs now bear the weight of resistance and pride in Black political life.”

Takadiwa’s compositions drape, tapestry-like, with repetitive patterns and textures that alternate between softness and brittleness. From the distance, the details of unique components blur into a fabric-like substrate, but upon closer inspection, nail polish brushes, caps, and keyboard keys in various states of aged yellowing emerge as individual tributes to overconsumption and excess. “The result is beautiful, which is where the trouble begins,” Brenner writes. She continues:

If beauty could settle old scores, the art world would have solved more than it has…Rearranging the materials does not erase their origins. If you have ever pressed ‘delete’ and believed the problem was gone, his work offers a quiet correction. Nothing disappears; it only travels, usually to places like Mbare, where Takadiwa opened his artist-run space in what used to be a colonial beer hall.

The Crown! continues through May 16 in Paris. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

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Censorship and book bans are on the rise worldwide, prompting growing concerns about access to information and free expression. Although this trajectory is increasingly worrisome, it isn’t new, as artist Xiaoze Xie reflects on his exhibition In the Name of the Book.

Comprising paintings and life-sized porcelain sculptures, the show encompasses works made in the early 1990s through the present day, all of which reflect on the vital role books play in cultural, political, and social life. Xie’s practice is largely informed by his upbringing in China—he was born in Guangdong the same year as the Cultural Revolution— and in 1989, he witnessed the deadly Tiananmen Square protests. After moving to the U.S. in 1993, he began to incorporate this history and concerns about such restrictions into his works as a form of protest.

Book banning, particularly in the U.S., can sometimes be framed as a novel issue, and part of Xie’s effectiveness is that he connects the rise in modern-day censorship to what occurred centuries before. The Forbidden Books Series interprets classic novels, plays, and more that were prohibited largely throughout the Qing Dynasty (1636-1912). Fiction like The Golden Lotus and Water Margin, for example, were charged with being sexually explicit and obscene, while the Chinese government barred the theatrical production The Peony Pavilion from leaving Shanghai for a New York performance in 1998 because of its “feudal, superstitious, and pornographic” qualities.

While these works are well-known cases of censorship, Xie points out that they’re just a sampling of a much larger problem. He writes:

Over the last 2,000 years, the books that have disappeared in China because of prohibition are countless. There is no trace of them anymore; all I have found is a small fraction. All of these old paper stacks, these silent books, consist of thoughts and discourses. These invisible and shapeless things and the stories behind them—the complicated contexts of philosophical, religious, political, historical, social, ethical, and racial issues—are gone. The history of banning books is a process of challenging repeated oppression and control, and challenging it again. It is alongside this back-and-forth repetition, I think, that history slowly marches on.

Preserving their likeness in porcelain with pages splayed out flat is an act of defiance for the artist, as he presents these otherwise concealed texts as permanently open for public consumption.

In the Name of the Book is on view through April 17 at Sapar Contemporary. Find more from the artist on Instagram.

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What is a web to the spider? A home, a tool, simply something they cling to? Tomás Saraceno presents these questions in a new segment from Art21, in which filmmakers visit his Berlin studio and examine the machinations of his collaborative practice, extending from a team of people to the tiny critters beneath our feet.

Saraceno continually considers how humans occupy space and how such environments inform the ways we connect with the world around us. This short documentary, which is part of the “Realms of the Real” episode, reviews several of the artist’s projects, from his suspended installations to his more participatory community projects.

Several artworks presented in the film have been previously featured on Colossal, and the film offers insight into the evolution of Saraceno’s thinking over several years. Much of his work strives for connection and empathy building, which he explains through the structure of the web. “It’s really trying to extend the ability of understanding who is our family, right? Who is our brothers, sisters, and grandfathers?” he says. “By allowing others to admire these incredible webs, they will become more empathetic.”

Find more Art21 films on YouTube, along with some of our favorites previously on Colossal.

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In the practices of Beverly Price and Gordon Parks, photography operates on a continuum. Images, for them, are both dynamic and archival, documenting a singular moment that continues to communicate with the viewer long after that time has passed. A Language We Share, opening this month at the Center for Art and Advocacy, probes these expansive and evolving interpretations of the practice by putting Price and Parks in direct conversation.

One of the most lauded photographers of his time, Parks (1912-2006) embedded himself in American life from the 1940s onward, creating distinctive images for magazines like Ebony and Glamour and embarking on projects rooted in civil rights and social justice. He considered his work not only a way to capture the realities of what was happening in homes, offices, and the streets from New York to Washington D.C. to Chicago but also an urgent means of advocacy. “I saw that the camera could be a weapon against poverty, against racism, against all sorts of social wrongs,” he said. “I knew at that point I had to have a camera.”

When Parks died in 2006, Price was just being released after being incarcerated and wouldn’t pick up a camera for another decade. But when she did, she entered into a dialogue with the late photographer. Price, who was a 2023 fellow at the center, similarly considers her practice advocacy for those who might not otherwise be heard, particularly focusing on prevention and the children most affected by the same issues Parks had grappled with.

As Price began to create images around her Washington D.C. neighborhood of Southeast Anacostia, a geographical overlap developed between the two photographers. In A Language We Share, we witness the affinities between Price and Parks in a presentation that explores how these particular social and cultural landscapes have evolved and the people most affected by their realities.

One throughline is that both photographers frequently focus on children. In an Anacostia housing project, Parks captures an adorable troupe of young dancers and their synchronized movements. Price, too, homes in on a moment of joy and reverie in an image of two drenched boys enjoying an open fire hydrant on a presumably scorching day. Childhood, in their works, is both sacred and vulnerable, and compounding forces like police violence, poverty, and discrimination threaten its sanctity.

The wide-reaching impacts of the carceral system also permeate throughout the exhibition. In an image from 1963 Harlem, Parks captures a young boy casually leaning up against a temporary barricade, while another photo from that time documents a protest against the police state. There’s also his striking look into a Chicago jail in which a man rests his hand through the steel bars, his shadow framed by the cage on the wall nearby.

Price, too, nods to policing with a tightly cropped photo of someone showing off an Air Jordan, an electronic monitor fastened just above the sneaker. “Photography, for me, is a powerful tool for social justice—a means to document truth, challenge perceptions, and advocate for change,” Price says in her artist statement. “It is my hope that through my work, viewers will gain a deeper understanding of the complexities of the black experience and join in the collective effort to create a more just and equitable world.”

A Language We Share runs from March 20 to June 19 in Brooklyn.

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In mid-2025, the Trump administration rescinded $9 billion in public media funding and foreign aid, including $1.1 billion slated for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CBP). CBP, in turn, was responsible for distributing funding to organizations like National Public Radio (NPR), Public Broadcasting Service (PBS), and their member stations across the nation. The corporation was established following a 1967 law called the Public Broadcasting Act, but just like that, when the funds were no longer there, CBP voted to dissolve. What did NPR have to say about that? Its “mission will continue, unchanged.”

NPR aims “to create a more informed public—one challenged and invigorated by a deeper understanding and appreciation of events, ideas, and cultures.” While CBP-allocated funding amounted to only about one percent of the broadcaster’s annual funding, there’s a bit of a trickle-down effect. NPR relies heavily on fees from its member stations, plus endowments, cash contributions, and other revenues. And while one percent doesn’t seem like a lot, member stations—many of which are in rural areas—often depended on about 13 percent of their revenue from CBP, making them much more vulnerable to the cuts.

Reporting continues with vigor at NPR, despite some inevitable challenges, and the organization has doubled down on its mission to approach stories and news through the lens of curiosity and understanding. In collaboration with New York-based ad agency Mischief, a new campaign reimagines NPR’s logo into prompts aiming to ignite inquiry and investigation.

Mischief “creates work that makes a stir, because the riskiest thing a brand can do is be ignorable.” The campaign, titled For your right to be curious, is conceived as a way for NPR to “stand up for the public’s right to ask hard questions,” the agency says in a statement. Across a range of formats, from merchandise and the sign on NPR’s headquarters to billboards and ad screens on the New York City subway, the recognizable block letters transform into urgent and timely questions—many that listeners around the country are asking. “How does AI affect my electric bill?” “Why are groceries still so expensive?” “How is my farm going to survive?”

“Curiosity is the fuel of a functioning democracy,” says Mishka Pitter-Armand, NPR’s chief marketing officer. “NPR is essential civic infrastructure built to protect the right to inquiry. As a cornerstone of American life for over 50 years, this work is our pledge to the public: we will continue to provide the trusted context you need to explore the world, encouraging every American to keep listening and asking the hard questions.”

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Americans are uniquely disconnected from our food. More than 10 percent of the working population is employed in agricultural sectors, but it’s rare for the average person to grapple with—let alone witness—the number of people involved in growing, harvesting, packaging, and ultimately getting dinner onto their plate. Given that many farms, restaurants, and other food-related businesses employ those who are undocumented, these sectors have also been targeted for deportation, further pushing the people who keep them running into the shadows.

For Narsiso Martinez, this essential labor has long been the central point of his practice. The Oaxaca-born artist is known for painting tender portraits on produce boxes, utilizing the discarded packaging as a metaphor for how we assign value. Often working from photos, Martinez depicts people he knows and even worked alongside in the fields when he first migrated to the U.S.

For a recent presentation with Charlie James Gallery in Los Angeles, Martinez stacked a collection of strawberry boxes to create a towering, double-sided totem. One features a masked person clutching a fistful of asparagus, while the other portrays a mechanical picker. Both crops grow low to the ground and require a significant amount of labor to harvest. By including the wheeled device, Martinez draws attention once again to the ways farm labor is often disregarded and the additional depersonalization of the agricultural process when machines replace people.

Other works include an enormous wall-based installation featuring a single worker with a bandana covering his face, the stars and stripes of the American flag distorted as they wrap around his neck. The lenses of his sunglasses reflect a group of people gathered around a full spread, many holding their drinks as if to toast. “In a style informed by 1930s-era Social Realism and heightened through use of found materials, Martinez makes visible the difficult labor and onerous conditions of the ‘American farmworker,’ itself a compromised piece of language owing to the industry’s conspicuous use of undocumented workers,” says a statement from the gallery.

Martinez’s work is on view in Los Encuentros at Ballroom Marfa, which has been extended through March 29. Find more from him on Instagram.

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From his monumental, meditative installation of 100 million hand-painted porcelain sunflower seeds on the floor of Turbine Hall at Tate Modern to architectural columns wrapped in 14,000 salvaged life vests worn by refugees, artist-activist Ai Weiwei has long tapped into the power of scale, repetition, and symbols to plumb cultural heritage and expose societal issues.

Ai is known for his wide-ranging practice that encompasses large-scale installations, video, architecture, photography, public art, and more. This spring, TASCHEN releases a fully revised monograph titled Ai Weiwei. Updated Edition, building upon the initial volume published a decade ago.

Originally published right after Ai left China, unsure if he’d ever be able to return due to the country’s hostility toward his critical practice, this new volume happens to coincide with the artist’s first trip home after 10 years away.

The new edition chronicles the Chinese artist’s global practice, from his time spent in New York City in the 1980s to his well-known multimedia Zodiac series to recent, architectonic LEGO compositions.

Ai Weiwei. Updated Edition is slated for release next month. Pre-order your copy on Bookshop.

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We’re thrilled to invite you all to the Chicago premiere of Paint Me a Road Out of Here, the award-winning documentary from Aubin Pictures directed by Catherine Gund.

Along with Intuit Art Museum and the Women’s Center at DePaul University, Colossal is co-hosting a screening of the film followed by a conversation between film participant Leah Faria and our editorial director Grace Ebert on March 25. This event is free to attend, but seating is limited.

Featuring artists Faith Ringgold and Mary Enoch Elizabeth Baxter, Paint Me a Road Out of Here uncovers the whitewashed history of Ringgold’s masterpiece, “For the Women’s House,” following its 50-year journey from Rikers Island jail to the Brooklyn Museum.

Read our coverage of the documentary, watch the trailer, and RSVP to save your seat.

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As a child, Artem “Alfred” Nakache (1915-1983) was afraid of water. The youngest of 11 children in a Jewish family that emigrated from Iraq to Constantine, Algeria, Alfred eventually overcame his terror of the depths and actually excelled at swimming. He became so skilled that by the mid-1930s, he had won both local and French national competitions—Algeria was under the control of France at the time—and moved to Paris to pursue his competitive career. He would, however, be impacted by an unthinkable tragedy, indelibly linked to what he would eventually accomplish.

A short film by director and artist Florence Miailhe titled “Papillon,” which is nominated for an Oscar this year, is based on Nakache’s extraordinary story and resilience in the face of unprecedented adversity during the Holocaust.

The star’s talent earned him numerous accolades and made him popular in France despite the Nazi occupation of Paris starting in 1940. By 1943, though, attitudes had shifted dramatically. He was ousted from a tournament as a result of being Jewish, and later that year, arrested by the Gestapo along with his wife and child. They were eventually transported to Auschwitz, separated, and never reunited.

Nakache eventually moved to Buchenwald, where he was released following liberation by American troops in 1945. Afterward, he returned to swimming and continued to win competitions, and in 1948, he even competed in the Olympics in London.

Miailhe met Nakache in person as a child, she tells Animation Magazine. “At the time, I was taking swimming lessons with his younger brother, William Nakache, and at every lesson, my father never failed to remind me: ‘You know, William, he’s the little brother of Alfred Nakache, the great swimming champion!'” One day, Alfred Nakache attended the lesson, and Miailhe got to demonstrate her butterfly stroke. But it wasn’t until years later, when her curiosity led her to research Nakache’s story, that she learned about what she presumed she had been too young to be told when she first met him.

Referencing a historical story, Miailhe’s poignant rendering of Nakache’s memories and experiences is nevertheless prescient as the 2026 Winter Olympics have just kicked off. And just this past weekend, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl LX Halftime Show quickly became fodder for partisan political discourse in the U.S.—the Puerto Rican pop star has been highly critical of ICE—highlighting the current administration’s nationalist, and even white supremacist, inclinations.

“Papillon” was created using an animated painting technique, similar to Miailhe’s 2021 feature-length film Le Traversée, or The Crossing. Brushstrokes create both texture and depth as gestural swatches of blues and greens with white splotches indicate deep water with splashes or bubbles.

Nakache died shortly after swimming in a port just a few miles from where Miailhe used to swim when she was young. In addition to the personal connection, she continues in the interview with Animation Magazine: “It all seemed obvious to me: telling this story brought together many themes that are dear to me—resilience, transmission, memory, but also political issues, such as the fate of a Jewish swimmer facing adversity.”

See the film in its entirety on YouTube.

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