Tag: art

Port Horizons: Savannah

Port Horizons is a new travel series, with each edition focusing on a single location to explore how its architecture, makers and communities shape its cultural identity. For the first edition, we explore how Spanish moss, historic squares and a university called SCAD transformed America’s most beguiling Southern city

All photography Phil Dunlop

When you arrive in Savannah, Georgia, the first thing that slows your step is the Spanish moss, laced like silver tinsel through the branches of ancient oaks. It hangs low enough to brush your shoulder as you pass – and, as the locals warn, it often gets stuck in your hair. By late summer it sways in the humid air, softening the geometry of America’s first planned city. Savannah was laid out in 1733 by British general James Oglethorpe, its grid of 22 squares punctuating the streets with fountains, statues and benches, each framed by a patchwork of Colonial, Federal, Gothic Revival and Victorian buildings. Cast-iron balconies curl with vines, verandas sag in the heat, façades wear their history in layers of paint and weather.

Yet perhaps most noticeable are the large-scale Savannah College of Art and Design signs peppered throughout town. Painted on old brick warehouses, lit in neon above façades and stencilled onto doorways are four letters: SCAD. The Savannah College of Art and Design is everywhere, stitched into the city’s fabric like a watermark.

Founded in 1978, the university was the brainchild of Paula Wallace, president of SCAD, who envisioned a new type of art school – one that bridged creativity and professional practice. At a time when most creative colleges left careers to chance, SCAD was deliberately structured as an “art and design university where students are educated as creative professionals from day one – much like a medical school or law school, so that they might be propelled towards lifelong careers”, says Wallace. From its first cohort of 71 students, the school has grown into a global institution of more than 18,500 across Savannah, Atlanta, Lacoste in Provence and an online campus, offering over 100 degree programmes spanning film, fashion, photography, design, architecture, game development and more. Its “unofficial” motto, says Wallace, became “No starving artists”. Today that ethos manifests in infrastructure like SCADpro – an in-house design studio developing briefs for NASA, Gucci and Google – and resources ranging from a casting office to industry-standard production facilities. “Our philosophy is simple,” adds Wallace. “Reimagine with reverence.”

Wallace grew up in Atlanta, the daughter of May and Paul Poetter, a curriculum designer and a Bureau of Labor Statistics employee. By the age of 12 she was giving piano lessons to neighbourhood children, discovering early both her independence and her love for teaching. While working later as an elementary school teacher in Atlanta Public Schools, she became frustrated by what came next for her pupils: “I recognised a chasmic gap in higher education, which was too heavy on abstraction, too light on application,” she recalls. In the 1970s, art schools didn’t speak about careers. “You were left to fend for yourself. Whatever happened after university, that was a black box,” she says. “Not at SCAD. Every course would be designed to meet a professional need, a client’s need.”

Her parents backed the vision, selling their belongings and retirement savings to purchase SCAD’s first building, a derelict 19th-century armoury on Bull Street that became the university’s first classroom. Wallace describes Savannah at the time as “on her deathbed”, with historic structures crumbling, downtown hollowed out and young people leaving. SCAD has since restored more than 70 historic buildings, from depots and schools to warehouses and churches, giving them new life as classrooms, studios and galleries. Walk down Broughton Street, Savannah’s main commercial artery, and the logo can be seen on buildings such as SCAD Trustees Theater and Jen Library – located a few blocks down from Paris Market: an airy, Parisian-inspired concept store that has become a destination for design-minded visitors. Forsyth Park, over 30 acres of lawn and shaded pathways in the Victorian District, hosts Saturday markets, art festivals, and is an ideal place for student projects to spill out under its oaks. The Starland District, once semi-abandoned, now hums with converted dairies, galleries and cafes, many of them run by graduates.

That initial building – Poetter Hall – became the benchmark of it all, and today it houses SCADstory – an immersive, Disney-esque biography of the institution. “So many SCAD buildings have lived many lives,” Wallace says. “Former churches, schoolhouses, private residences, Savannah’s first hospital, first power station and others all transformed by the university through adaptive rehabilitation and upcycled into new purpose.” Vice president of SCAD Savannah, Darrell Naylor-Johnson, frames it as inseparable from the city’s rebirth: “What were once uninspired or abandoned spaces have been turned into vibrant, living models of design and artistry.”

The SCAD Museum of Art, housed in the 1856 Central of Georgia Railway depot, is a contemporary art museum and teaching space. Its 65,000-square-foot expansion added galleries, conservation labs, event space and a 250-seat theatre. Winter exhibitions include shows by contemporary international artists Rana Begum, Tomokazu Matsuyama, Davina Semo and Michi Meko

The SCAD Museum of Art epitomises this approach. Sitting on the city’s west side, just a short walk from the riverfront’s Plant Riverside District, the museum is housed in the 1856 Central of Georgia Railway Company depot – once worked by enslaved African Americans. In 2011, it was rescued from ruin and reimagined with alumnus and professor Christian Sottile. More than 70,000 original Savannah grey bricks were paired with an 86-foot glass tower, a soaring modern addition nicknamed the ‘Lantern’. SCAD’s choice to preserve and showcase the bricks is a way of acknowledging the past while embedding it into a space of dialogue and creativity. “This National Historic Landmark is the only surviving antebellum railroad complex in the US,” explains chief curator Daniel S Palmer. “The building’s precious salvaged Savannah grey brick and original heart pine timbers give the museum a vital sense of place and root us to the historic site, yet the brilliant adaptive reuse renovation allows for a state-of-the-art display and experience of art.”

Davina Semo’s exhibition A Gathering of Bells at the SCAD Museum of Art

Inside, as many as 20 exhibitions a year bring international artists into conversation with SCAD alumni. In recent months, shows have ranged from a solo show of Rana Begum called Reflection to Davina Semo’s A Gathering of Bells, alumna Summer Wheat’s Fruits of Labor and a group exhibition exploring myths and legends. The museum has just unveiled the world’s first exhibition of garments and other belongings from the late André Leon Talley’s personal collection – a project Talley himself had asked Wallace to oversee.

SCAD’s restoration work extends beyond the museum. The Beach Institute, founded in 1867 as the first school for African Americans in Savannah, was rehabilitated and donated by SCAD to the King-Tisdell Cottage Foundation, a landmark that “thrives as a vital centre for African American arts, culture and history”, says Naylor-Johnson. He adds, “As a Black Southerner, my return to the South – and to Savannah specifically – was influenced by SCAD’s presence. Savannah is a city with a layered and often difficult history, but SCAD has helped reframe that history by restoring neglected spaces, fostering inclusivity, and creating opportunities for global dialogue through art and design. SCAD’s presence demonstrates that the South can be both a guardian of its heritage and a leader in innovation. In doing so, the university has helped position Savannah as a cultural and creative capital, while also challenging historical narratives that excluded voices like mine.”

Spanning over 300,000 square feet, SCAD’s Savannah Film Studios includes the largest university backlot in the U.S., complete with an LED volume and Hollywood-scale sets – giving students a true-to-life film production experience

Savannah’s identity today is inseparable from the university’s cultural footprint. Each autumn, the SCAD Savannah Film Festival draws around 75,000 visitors, regularly attended by Barry Jenkins, Olivia Wilde and Jeremy Irons. Jenkins hired dozens of SCAD students for The Underground Railroad, while Todd Haynes shifted production of May December to Savannah after attending the festival. The city is also home to the Savannah Film Studios, the largest university film studio complex in the country. Spanning 300,000 square feet, it includes an LED volume, a Hollywood-style backlot, and a 17,000-square-foot production design facility. “SCAD has it all. In the School of Film and Acting we have an unwavering commitment to transform every class and student project into a ‘just like Hollywood’ or ‘just like Broadway’ experience,” says Andra Reeve-Rabb, dean of the School of Film and Acting. “At SCAD, students don’t just learn film, they live it.”

The fashion programme is no less visible. Alumnus Christopher John Rogers, winner of the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund and an LVMH Prize finalist, cut his teeth here; other graduates have gone on to LVMH and Nike. Former Style.com editor Dirk Standen, now SCAD’s dean for the School of Fashion, puts it bluntly: “We bring Paris and London and New York here.” The university recently launched a tailoring course in partnership with Savile Row stalwart Huntsman, embedding professional expertise directly into the curriculum. John Rogers remains closely engaged with SCAD students, while Flora Medina was hired by i-D’s Steff Yotka straight from campus. “It’s literally hand in hand – not only in terms of placing our students or partnering on conferences, but in embedding professional expertise into our curriculum,” says Standen.

Perhaps the clearest sign of SCAD’s embedded nature within Savannah is the number of graduates who stay and build their futures in the city. Leather goods brand Satchel, founded by Elizabeth Seeger, has become a fixture on Liberty Street. “At SCAD we were encouraged to use any and all resources at our fingertips and to think outside of the box to solve problems. Isn’t that entrepreneurship in a nutshell?” she says. 

In the Starland District – now one of Savannah’s trendiest neighbourhoods – alumni have opened cafes, studios and galleries, helping anchor a creative community. Provisions, a hybrid cafe and pantry founded by graduate Nikki Krecicki, has become a downtown hub. Origin Coffee Roasters, launched by another alum, keeps students and locals alike fuelled. Laney Contemporary, run by a SCAD graduate, has established itself as one of the city’s most forward-thinking galleries. Elsewhere, Asher + Rye merges Scandinavian-inspired interiors with a lifestyle store, while jewellery designer Gillian Trask has built a namesake studio for her sculptural silver pieces.

SCAD also runs Gryphon, a tea room housed in a 1926 pharmacy, where students and alumni – like Aahana Tank, who’s studying themed entertainment design and has worked on two SCADpro projects with Universal – serve grits, quiche and sweet tea beneath stained-glass windows. Next door, shopSCAD acts as a storefront and showcase, selling student and alumni-designed works to visitors from around the world.

For Seeger, the appeal of staying is about more than a business opportunity. “I love that Savannah values quality of life,” she adds. “The city is beautiful, the people are lovely and it’s a laidback lifestyle.”

Tybee Island, about 18 miles east of downtown Savannah, is home to ~3,400 year-round residents, hosts nesting logger- head sea turtles and features one of the oldest operational lighthouses in the U.S

The work of SCAD graduates – whether running cafes, designing jewellery or staging exhibitions – wins awards, pays wages, fills hotel rooms and keeps studios in business. Meanwhile, blockbuster festivals and fashion events translate into production hires, tourist nights and local retail spend. A Tripp Umbach study found SCAD generated $1.3 billion in economic impact for Georgia in the 2023 fiscal year – roughly $1 billion of that attributable to the Savannah area. “Our capital projects employ local construction companies and workers, while our day-to-day operations rely heavily on area vendors, service providers and small businesses,” says Naylor-Johnson. Joe Marinelli, president and CEO of Visit Savannah, agrees: “Without what President Wallace and SCAD have done, it’s hard to imagine the community looking better.”

SCAD shows no sign of slowing down. In the past year alone it has launched new degrees in themed entertainment, cinematography and eyewear design. A Bachelor of Design in applied AI – the first of its kind – is beginning this term, empowering students to “shape intelligent systems with empathy, ethics and artistry”, says Wallace. “We launch new degrees that anticipate market demand – immersive reality, sneaker design, the business of beauty and fragrance.”

SCAD Beach is a 16,000-square- foot sand-filled courtyard built upon the former railway depot footprint. It includes sable palms, ambient lighting, cabanas and a lifeguard stand that doubles as an AV booth

Yet for all the scale, her vision remains intimate. She recalls a graduate who returned from India with his wife. “He described Savannah and SCAD as places ‘you want to fold up and put in your pocket, take with you wherever you go’. Our city and university reside in people’s hearts that way, carried with SCAD friends and alumni throughout their lives and careers.”

Nearly five decades after its founding, SCAD has grown into something larger than itself. Its home in Savannah remains unapologetically Southern – “The residents that live in Savannah are some of the most hospitable and welcoming that you’ll find anywhere in the country,” says Marinelli – but now, it’s layered with a new identity. A city of students, makers and dreamers, where the preservation of the past feeds directly into the future.

Photography Phil Dunlop

This article is taken from Port issue 37. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe here

Savannah’s marshes are rich in spartina grass and tidal creeks, hosting migratory birds and aquatic species

In the Blink of an Eye

Noor Riyadh’s 2025 programme reflects a city in flux. From Al Faisaliah Tower to metro stations, 59 artists respond to Riyadh’s architecture, movement and rhythm with light as a connective medium

Shinji Ohmaki: Liminal Air Space-Time. Photo Noor Riyadh 2025

Noor Riyadh is a citywide light art festival that reshapes how Riyadh looks and feels after dark. Led by director Nouf AlMoneef, it spans metro stations, public squares and heritage districts, turning familiar sites into installations that respond to the city’s pace and scale. Launched in 2021 under Riyadh Art and the Royal Commission for Riyadh City, it has become what’s considered the world’s largest light art event, presenting more than 550 works by 500 artists and drawing over nine million visitors. Its aim is to commission public artworks from Saudi and international artists and to use light to connect Riyadh’s cultural and urban zones. For 2025, curators Mami Kataoka, Sara Almutlaq and Li Zhenhua work under the theme In the Blink of an Eye, a reference to the city’s rapid development.

This year’s edition – which closes on 6 December – features 60 artworks by 59 artists from 24 countries, including 35 new commissions. László Zsolt Bordos’ Astrum turns Al Faisaliah Tower into a real-time planetary compass, its 7km laser beams mapping celestial movement. At KAFD Metro Station, Vali Chincișan’s The Vision Grid converts the facade into a shifting lattice of colour and sound. Christophe Berthonneau’s Synthesis, made with Bordos, merges drone choreography and architectural mapping so a building appears to lift and reassemble itself. fuse*’s Luna Somnium builds a large-scale metal framework animated with lunar data. James Clar’s When the Sky Reaches the Ground (a moment frozen) suspends a sculptural ‘lightning bolt’ made of neon and scaffolding. Saudi artists include Fatma Abdulhadi, whose fabric-based Keep your eyes on the light: Into Another Garden explores shadow and reflection, and Ahmad Angawi, whose Algorithms of Light: The Falcon draws on Najdi Sadu patterns and falcon iconography. Alex Schweder’s Clockwise Invitations is an inflatable environment that expands and shifts with its visitors.

Since its early editions, Noor Riyadh has grown into part of the city’s cultural infrastructure. Below, AlMoneef discusses the festival’s evolution, the logic behind its six hubs, the criteria shaping artist selection, and the moments she hopes visitors notice.

Fuse: Luna Somnium. Photo Noor Riyadh 2025

Port: You’ve been director of Noor Riyadh since its early editions. What does this iteration feel like to you personally, and what is it trying to do differently?

Nouf AlMoneef: Every edition carries its own identity, but In the Blink of an Eye feels especially close to the current spirit of Riyadh. Since the festival launched in 2021, I have watched the city transform at remarkable speed. This year reflects that momentum in a very direct way. It brings light into spaces that express both our heritage and our modern urban rhythm, while placing even greater emphasis on accessibility and public experience. What feels different is the immediacy. The festival responds to a city that is constantly shifting. Light becomes a way to pause, notice change, and reflect on how quickly our surroundings evolve.

How would you describe this year’s theme, In the Blink of an Eye, and how did it shape your approach to the programme?

The theme captures the pace of Riyadh’s transformation. It speaks to how rapidly life is moving, how innovation shapes our environment, and how perception can change in a single moment. Light naturally conveys speed, energy, and transition, which made it the ideal medium for this edition. The curatorial team, led by Mami Kataoka, with Sara Almutlaq and Li Zhenhua, explored these ideas through artworks that shift, react, or transform as audiences move through them. The theme shaped the programme by encouraging artists to experiment with perception, memory, and the movement of the city around us.

Encor Studio: Sliced. Photo Noor Riyadh 2025

The festival spans historic and emerging zones across the city. Can you tell us about these locations and how you decide which works go where?

Noor Riyadh 2025 unfolds across six hubs and locations: Qasr Al Hokm District (Hub), King Abdulaziz Historical Center (Hub), stc Metro Station (Hub), KAFD Metro Station, Al Faisaliah Tower, and Riyadh Art Hub at JAX District. Each carries its own narrative and atmosphere. In the historic areas, artworks interact with architecture that holds the city’s memory. We look for installations that respond to heritage through material, scale, or rhythm. In the metro stations and contemporary hubs, the focus is on movement and modernity. These environments naturally lend themselves to works that explore data, sound, flow, and digital expression. Placement is always intentional. We consider the artist’s vision, the spatial character of each hub, and how the overall journey will feel as visitors move between traditional and modern spaces.

This edition presents 59 artists with more than 35 new commissions. What criteria guided the curation?

The selection balanced several key considerations. Alignment with the theme: every work needed to respond authentically to the idea of rapid transformation and shifting perception. Diversity of international and Saudi voices: artists represent 24 nationalities, including a strong Saudi presence that reflects the country’s evolving creative landscape. Innovation in light-based practice: we invited artists who experiment with technology, kinetic movement, or immersive forms of storytelling. Sensitivity to site: each commission had to fit its location, whether a historic street or a fast-moving transit hub. Public experience: the festival remains open and free, so works are designed to be intuitive, welcoming, and engaging for all ages.

Shinji Ohmaki: Liminal Air Space-Time
Shinji Ohmaki: Liminal Air Space-Time

If you had to highlight two or three works that capture the heart of the festival, which would they be, and what moments do you hope audiences notice

Several works express the essence of this edition. The commemorative installation for Safeya Binzagr is a tribute that honors a pioneer of Saudi modern art. It connects the past to the present and invites visitors to reflect on the legacy that shaped today’s creative momentum. Ayoung Kim’s installation at Riyadh Art Hub at JAX District: her work explores shifting temporalities and cultural cosmologies through light and movement, inviting audiences to reflect on different ways of perceiving time. New commissions from artists such as James Clar or Muhannad Shono explore perception and identity in ways that resonate with the theme and the atmosphere of the city. What I hope people notice are the subtle details. The way light shifts against a facade, how a work responds when you walk past it, or how an installation transforms a daily commute into an unexpected moment of reflection.

Noor Riyadh is often described as a point where art and technology meet. How do you see advances in light-based technology reshaping public art?

Technology broadens the possibilities of public art. Tools such as AR, AI and advanced projection systems allow artists to work with movement, interaction and environmental data in new ways. These tools also enhance emotional connection. They can turn a metro station into an immersive landscape or translate the rhythm of the city into light and sound. What matters most is not the technology itself, but how it deepens the experience. When used thoughtfully, it helps audiences feel more connected to their surroundings and to the stories we want to share through the festival.

Encor Studio: Sliced. Photo Noor Riyadh 2025

How has Riyadh’s art scene evolved in recent years, and what role has Noor Riyadh played?

Riyadh’s cultural ecosystem has expanded significantly. New institutions, public art programmes and creative platforms have helped build a vibrant artistic landscape. Noor Riyadh has supported this growth by presenting large-scale light artworks in public spaces and by inviting both Saudi and international artists to engage with the city. Since its launch, the festival has presented more than 550 artworks by over 500 artists, attracting more than 9.6 million visitors and spectators. The community engagement programme – including workshops, school visits, talks and guided tours – has also been important in creating new art enthusiasts and building long-term cultural curiosity.

Looking ahead, how do you hope Noor Riyadh will evolve? What ambitions or challenges feel most urgent for its future?

I hope the festival continues to grow in a way that reflects the evolving character of Riyadh. The ambition is to expand the breadth of light-based creativity, support more Saudi talent, and keep strengthening the connection between the public and the city’s artistic identity. As Riyadh develops, one of the key challenges is to ensure that public art remains accessible and meaningful. We want Noor Riyadh to stay rooted in inclusivity and to offer experiences that resonate with residents and visitors alike.

Ultimately, the goal is for the festival to evolve in step with the city, providing new perspectives on Riyadh’s changing landscape and inviting people to experience its transformation through light.

Noor Riyadh runs until 6 December, find out more here

Fuse*: Luna Somnium. Photo Noor Riyadh 2025
Zhang Zengzeng: The Light To Home. Photo Noor Riyadh

A Hunger for EAT

In 1966, Robert Rauschenberg and Billy Klüver founded Experiments in Art and Technology. Pairing artists with engineers, EAT produced fog-filled pavilions, laser performances and early uses of fibre optics. Its story reveals how collaboration reshaped art forever

Image of Frosty Myers with tower. From Frosty Myer’s ‘Light Frame’ sculpture, engineering by Pichel Industries

Today the intersection between art and science or technology feels so normal it barely raises an eyeball. We are used to immersive digital installations, LED screens, kinetic robotic sculptures, augmented reality, VR, AI and everything in between. Once upon a time, however, the idea of these kinds of interactions between art and other mediums was unheard of. That was until Experiments in Art and Technology – known as EAT – exploded in the 1960s. It is arguably ground zero of the art we know today. Its legacy cannot be underestimated, and its story is a fascinating and intuitive one.

The instigator for this fascinating crossover was Billy Klüver, who was born in Monaco and brought up in Sweden, where he studied Electrical Engineering in Stockholm. It was at the university film club that he first crossed over into the art world, making friends with artist Öyvind Fahlström and curator Pontus Hultén, who would later become director of the iconic Stockholm museum, Moderna Museet. He worked in Paris for a couple of years, where he was introduced to kinetic artist Jean Tinguely – known for his moving, wiggling sculptures. Klüver went to California in 1954 to complete a PhD at the University of California, Berkeley. When he graduated three years later he went to work in the communication and research department of what was then cutting-edge tech – Bell Telephone Laboratories in New Jersey. When Tinguely came to New York City in 1959, he needed help designing a timing mechanism for a 27 by 23ft sculpture he was creating at MoMA. He wanted the artwork to dismantle itself with the press of a button.


EAT: ‘Pepsi-Cola Pavilion in fog’ for the Expo ’70, 1970. View from the back

Klüver became the go-to guy when artists wanted to experiment. Things really kicked off when he began to work with Robert Rauschenberg in 1960. The American artist had already started to develop his signature take on pop culture painting, incorporating elements of magazines into otherwise abstract works. He was also simultaneously experimenting with sculpture and wanted to embed wireless radios into a group of works – far before portable electronics were widespread. Klüver integrated battery-powered lights into Jasper Johns’ paintings, and he sourced the metallic material for Andy Warhol’s ‘Silver Clouds’ in 1966. Klüver was an inventor and visionary, unafraid to make what would seem impossible possible. He worked with Yvonne Rainer in 1964 and created a portable microphone to project her breathing mid-performance. The idea of body-object interaction changed performance art completely. Klüver was boundaryless in his desire to enable an artist’s vision. In many ways, the EAT collaborations helped cement the focus on concept over aesthetics.

1966 was also the year that Rauschenberg and Klüver founded EAT. Its aim was to create a space of collaboration between art and technology, and its first event was 9 Evenings: Theater & Engineering which featured 10 performance artworks and took place at the 69th Regiment Armory in New York City. The pieces paired 30 engineers from Bell Labs with artists working in dance, sound and theatre. The artists who took part are now viewed as some of the most important of the 20th century. There were sound pieces by John Cage, David Tudor and Rauschenberg; dance works by Yvonne Rainer, Lucinda Childs and Deborah Hay. The pieces included fibre-optic cameras, closed-circuit television, portable radio transmitters and sonar devices. The event had a phenomenal response from the New York City art world. Part of what was so exciting was the idea of repositioning where the conception of the art world was – in some “unknown place somewhere between engineers and themselves”, as Simone Forti stated in Artforum the following year. Buoyed from the events, Rauschenberg and Klüver invited artists to turn up to be introduced to engineers. 300 artists came and there were 75 requests for collaboration. EAT was born.

Robert Rauschenberg: ‘Oracle.’ Engineers: Billy Klüver, Harold Hodges, 1962-1965
Installation view of Andy Warhol’s ‘Silver Clouds’ at Castelli Gallery, 1966. The Andy Warhol Foundation. Engineers: Billy Klüver, Harold Hodges

Over the next two decades, EAT grew to include thousands of members. Hundreds of collaborations were created between artists and engineers. The pairing process used edge-notched cards, a little like the computer cards of the era, that would be organised by the engineer’s name with clipped holes for their speciality. A request would be punched in using knitting needles, apt engineers would come out, and the names were shared with an artist. It was a bit like a creative matchmaking service. The project entered the canon. In 1968 they worked with MoMA on an open call competition that was so large it had to be exhibited across multiple institutions – the Brooklyn Museum showed Some More Beginnings and a number of EAT artworks were included in MoMA’s highly influential show, The Machine as Seen at the End of the Mechanical Age.

Julie Martin worked with EAT initially because she was assisting artist Robert Whitman. “I was working for Bob Whitman as a stagehand. Once 9 Evenings started everybody got involved. I remember working with Pontus Hultén on a catalogue and finding photos or editing. After nine evenings, Klüver and Fred Waldhauer asked me to join as editor of the newsletter. Artists, and not that great spellers…” she recalls. “As things developed, I just kept working there.”

Some More Beginnings: Experiments in Art and Technology at Brooklyn Museum, November 25, 1968-January 5, 1969. ‘Fakir in 3/4 Time’ by Lucy Young and engineer Niels Young

There was something utopian about EAT. It was driven by the idea that creative endeavours were vital to shift the path of machine-led progress. “That artists and engineers could get together and build something for the future – using a new technology to improve people’s lives. Less aesthetics and more active in society and utility.” In that era, there was hope and positivity around the possibilities of technology. There was a hope that working with artists would also influence engineers. “The idea was that the engineer working with the artist would somehow see his or her role differently, and might see other ways that they could use their skills in society,” Martin explains. “Fred Waldhauer is a perfect example. He was working with David Tudor. His mother was becoming deaf. He said he listened to the radio in the car and got the idea of a hearing aid that could be programmed to help people who are losing their hearing. He left Bell Labs and started a company to make the hearing aid. It became the model for things that came later. That’s an example of somebody who really went out into society.”

The pinnacle of EAT would be the Pepsi Pavilion for the Japan World Exposition in Osaka in 1970. It was created by a number of artists, including Robert Breer, Frosty Myers, Robert Whitman and David Tudor. It consisted of a Buckminster Fuller-inspired geodesic dome whose interior was covered in mirrors – a “Bucky solar dome”, as Julie Martin, who worked on the project describes it. “The artists hated it. First, they decided to cover it,” she recalls. The idea was to surround it with fog – but the process didn’t exist yet. At that point the American technique of using carbon dioxide would attract every mosquito in the fair. “When we got to Japan, the group worked with Fujiko Nakaya, who was an artist. She knew Bob Rauschenberg from his trip there. She was working with a kind of desktop fog.” She agreed to create the fog – without having an actual idea of how to do it. She connected with engineer Tom Mee, and the project gave birth to her practice – an ethereal, floating sea of mist made from small droplets of water.

‘Pepsi-Cola Pavilion in fog’, Japan World Exposition 1970, Fujiko Nakaya, Getty Research Institute, © J Paul Getty Trust. Image is part of the exhibition Sensing the Future: Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T.) at LUMA Arles

In this mist, Breer developed six-foot-tall moving sculptures. These white, abstract, domed objects moved very slowly around. Myers made a night piece out of four towers projecting columns of light into a linear form around the pavilion. Inside the dome, David Tudor created a laser work that made patterns on the floor and showered people with light. “The dome was actually a 90-foot-diameter dome made out of reflected plastic. Our architect, John Pearce, figured out how to pull a vacuum between the dome and the cage so it was held up by negative pressure. You could see real images around the floor, upside down in space. People could go in and see themselves in space.” Martin recalls. The intention was to have performances programmed through the pavilion but Pepsi pulled out – confused about what they were funding. The project remains one of the most memorable and haunting works of the era. A truly immersive experience.

EAT never kept track of the outcome of the hundreds of introductions and pairings it made over two decades before it gradually disbanded. Its legacy, however, can be seen in many art practices today. What makes EAT so fascinating is how the project broke boundaries. It was the first time where time became a truly present element in art. Object, experience, performance, architecture all blurred. The idea of collaboration, rather than the single ‘artist-genius’, was truly present here. The idea that working together, artists and engineers could reach beyond their fields. That art was not just representation or decoration but something with serious, social purpose. That art could change the world.

Sensing the Future: Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T.) is on view at LUMA Arles until January 11, 2026, find out more here

This article is taken from Port issue 37. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe here

Billy Klüver talking to the fireman during the performance of Jean Tinguely’s ‘Homage to New York’ at MoMA, 1960. Photo: David Gahr
Yvonne Rainer performing ‘At My Body’s House’ in 1964. Photo: Peter Moore. Engineers: Billy Klüver, Harold Hodges
The armoury floor with David Tudor performing. Photo Peter Moore. David Tudor: ‘Bandoneon !’ Performance Engineer: Fred Waldhauer. October 14 & 18, 1966. TV Images: Lowell Cross. Cart controllers: David Behrman, Anthony Gnazzo, Larry Heilos, Per Biorn

 

 

The Art of Duality: Max Radford

The final film in PORT and Sage’s The Art of Duality series follows designer and gallerist Max Radford in his South London home and gallery. Between sketching, research and curating what he calls “radical design”, Radford’s day moves between fast-paced projects and slower, reflective moments – with the Oracle™ Dual Boiler coffee machine threading through both

Max Radford is an interior designer, gallerist and curator of emerging British furniture talent. His eponymous gallery showcases both contemporary innovators and iconic design pieces, reflecting his philosophy that objects should hold value through presence and engagement rather than transaction alone. Radford’s journey spans fine art studies, early experience with an antique dealer and years of cultivating a nuanced eye for materiality and form. He has collaborated with brands such as Ercol, Aram Gallery and LS Gomma, and archives his work and insights via his interiors Substack.

A typical day for Radford involves balancing his dual roles at his gallery and studio. “My weeks are very varied, having two different businesses as a gallerist and also as an interior designer, you have to balance those things,” he says. At home, he switches between focused creative work – like drawing, research and sketching – and domestic tasks, moving between desk, dining table and a small cubby by the kitchen. His home doubles as both sanctuary and studio, a space that allows calm reflection alongside bursts of high-focus activity, whether planning exhibitions, conceptualising furniture layouts or organising objects for the gallery. He spends time reading, scanning magazines, listening to records and lighting incense, crafting moments of quiet within a busy schedule.

Coffee is what drives these different modes. “I always have to start the day with a coffee. Nice and easy flat white on auto mode in the morning,” he says. In the afternoon, he opts for a “nice, slow” pour-over Americano. The Sage Oracle™ Dual Boiler mirrors this flexibility with its auto and manual modes, enabling Radford to switch between automated efficiency for morning routines and manual precision for when he has time to explore his craft. By using the new Auto Dial-in system, which monitors each extraction and adjusts the grind size automatically, Radford is able to achieve the perfect brew every time. “The duality of the machine is something that is certainly great for our lives. We’re easily able to just make a coffee in the morning, pressing a button, or you can fiddle around and learn how to make coffee on the weekends,” Radford adds. 

Looking ahead, Radford plans to expand the gallery internationally while continuing to platform London’s emerging design talent. His home and daily practices remain a laboratory for ideas, where coffee and creativity live in harmony. “The pieces of furniture that we work with within the gallery are regarded as something called collectible design, but we like to call it radical design,” he notes.

This is the closing film in the PORT x Sage The Art of Duality series. Relive the earlier stories with Rejina Pyo and Jordan Bourke here, and Thomas Straker here.

Production Studio Union
Exec producer Dan Pickard
Director & DoP Theo Tennant
Lighting & camera assistant Matt Bramston
Hair & makeup / groomer Margherita Lascala
Port producer Jack Stacey
Port editor Ayla Angelos
Production assistant Annabelle Brown
Barista / drinks stylist Luke Lane
Edit Ned Donohoe
Edit David Tse
Colourist Lucrezia Pollice
Dub Tom Guest
EMEA PR & Partnerships manager Kira Schacht
Breville Group General manager, global communications Lucy Martyn
Concept agency John Doe

 

 

The Virgin Suicides

Twenty-five years on, Sofia Coppola’s debut film continues to shape how we see girlhood

In depicting Cecilia Lisbon’s first attempt to end her life, Sofia Coppola created a timeless image. Her seminal adaptation of The Virgin Suicides is filled with these, but this frame of a 14-year-old Hanna R. Hall always stayed with me: lying in the still pink water of a bathtub with her tawny hair splayed out, expression serene. Bathed in the dim blue of summer twilight, the scene is a conscious echo of John Everett Millais’s Ophelia, whose fictional subject is also clothed in a pale gown, part-submerged and in the throes of madness. Evoking enduring images like Pre-Raphaelite portraits and religious motifs, Coppola situates her depictions within a long tradition of art history, staging contemporary scenes that feel both familiar and eternal.

Like many others who first encountered the film as a teenager, the Lisbons’ sticker-lined bathroom ledge was instantly recognisable to me as an altar to girlhood by way of consumption – powder brushes, perfume bottles, nail polish, lipstick, bangles and candles – and through the strategic draping of a crystal bead and crucifix necklace, implicit of a life constrained by Catholic upbringing. Kitschy compelling details like these are a hallmark of Coppola’s cinematic work, which critics today recognise as having a profound influence on the iconography of female melancholy.

When the filmmaker, then 27 years old, began shooting the suburban malaise of her debut feature, she had already dipped a toe in several industries – having appeared in multiple music videos, produced four episodes of an ill-fated Comedy Central series and interned at Chanel as a high schooler. In this respect, Coppola is arguably as much a part of the pop culture infrastructure as a formative influence upon it, and her multidisciplinary approach has become second nature for style-adjacent brands anxious to keep evolving their offering.

In aestheticising the Lisbon girls’ suffering, she made a non-physical illness legible to audiences who might struggle to grasp its invisibility. By doing this, Coppola also iconised the ‘sad girl’, positioning her as a disruptor rather than a victim and turning her into a vaguely aspirational figure. She’s effortlessly beautiful, stoic in her abjection, and with a sympathetic rage in her heart; she is given agency, and therefore dignity, in the deaths she dies.

In a recent retrospective for The New York Times, Emily Yoshida writes that Coppola’s films comprise a “stylistic manual for how to be sad, or at least disaffected” in today’s world. But Coppola’s filmography isn’t instructive as much as it is unabashedly expressive and unfailingly allied to the visual, experiential and imaginative – a Magic Eye book more than a manual. However, this hasn’t stopped players in fashion, film and music from taking extensive notes, or adopting concepts wholesale.

The most high-profile designer in this regard is Marc Jacobs, with whom Coppola has an artist-muse relationship described as one of fashion’s “great platonic love stories”: she’s modelled in his campaigns, sat front-row at his fashion shows and worn his clothes to her premieres. In 2014, Coppola directed a short for Daisy Dream, the then-latest instalment in Jacobs’ cult-favourite perfume line. The video uses the dissolve transitions employed in the dream sequences of The Virgin Suicides, which also feature fading palimpsests of blue sky and grassy fields. Campaign face Antonia Wesseloh is styled in accordance with the naturalistic Lisbon girl look, wearing a flowy prairie-style dress and imperceptible makeup, her long hair lank and loose around her shoulders.

While Coppola didn’t install lithe young white girls as the aesthetic ideal, her films further glorified and romanticised their appearance, reinforcing a narrow scope of desirable femininity and unfortunately contributing to an ever-expanding repository of imagery weaponised online to inspire anorexia. Thus, Coppola’s heroines live a second life on social media as “nostalgia effigies”, a term used by cultural critic Safy-Hallan Farah, who also invokes Tavi Gevinson’s Rookie magazine, the photography of Petra Collins, and “Lana Del Rey’s fully-realised visual and sonic identity” as associated totems.

What each of these touchstones present is a highly-stylised facsimile of unattainable girlhood, burned on a stake but remembered forever. A quarter century after the premiere of a film set another quarter century before that, The Virgin Suicides endures in its portrayal of adolescent desire and terror. An art object whose central critique is of the implicit violence wrought on the female body, its visuals were perhaps always going to exist apart from their far pricklier context. As it continues to age, find new audiences and accrue acclaim, the film only appreciates as a time capsule full of anachronism: a wholly uncondescending coming-of-age tale that asks us to believe what we see rather than what we’ve been told.

This article is taken from Port issue 36. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe head here

Reading Between The Lines

Digital platforms are changing how we discover, judge and read books, but what does that mean for the art of cover design? Below, Ayla Angelos speaks to Na Kim, Alex Merto, Coralie Bickford-Smith and Rush Jackson who each share their insights

Alex Merto: Among Flowers by Jamaica Kincaid

You step into a bookshop – perhaps Daunt Books or Libreria, if you’re in London. Your hand glides across a row of spines, fingertips catching on raised titles, debossed illustrations, the gloss of a foil-stamped name. A single book catches your eye. The cover is bold, enigmatic, resisting instant interpretation. You pick it up immediately and take it to the till.

Online, it’s different. Probably on Amazon, you scroll too fast and everything blurs into a sea of thumbnails, covers designed for algorithms. At the moment, book design is being pulled in two opposing directions; one towards clickable, hyper-optimised visuals, the other back to the tactile, crafted forms. Somewhere in that tension, the book cover is shifting.

Before book covers were designed to sell, they were built to protect. Early books were bound in leather, embossed with gold leaf, sometimes clasped shut like vaults. They were objects of rarity, more sacred than commercial. That changed with the rise of mass printing. Dust jackets emerged in the 19th century, first as disposable wrappers and then as a canvas for design. By the mid-20th century, the modern book cover had found its form with bold, abstract graphics designed to grab attention.

Na Kim: Alphabetical Diaries by Sheila Heti

Penguin’s classic tri-band paperbacks are perhaps the most well-known example of effective book cover design. Introduced in 1935 by founder Allen Lane, the covers became an early exercise in branding. Designed by Edward Young, who also drew the penguin logo, they featured a standardised layout with three horizontal bands, colour-coded by genre – orange for general fiction, green for crime, blue for biography and so on – allowing readers to instantly recognise the type of book they were picking up.

Meanwhile, designers like Alvin Lustig revolutionised book covers in the 1940s and 50s, bringing modernist abstraction to the form. His influence continues today in figures like Irma Boom, dubbed the ‘Queen of Books’, who treats each project as an object rather than just a container for text.

Today, book cover design is at a crossroads. AI-generated imagery and algorithm-driven marketplaces have reshaped how covers are created, producing efficient but often generic designs. And yet, there has been a resurgence of craft – a digital resistance of sorts, keeping the art of book design alive.

Na Kim: The Sun Walks Down by Fiona McFarlane

Na Kim, creative director at Farrar, Straus and Giroux and art director of The Paris Review, is part of this movement. A painter as well as a designer, she draws inspiration from the physical world: “I don’t find too much inspiration behind the screen,” she says. Instead, she seeks out sensory details – like certain moods, the colour of the sky on a particular evening, or a texture of an object – and uses them to shape her creative instincts. “Cataloguing these things helps me in my process and pursuit of making something feel true or real. You have to practice noticing things, and finding beauty in the world.”

Kim always reads the book before designing, and lets the author’s writing guide her – the structure, pacing, mood and message. She begins by establishing the book’s tone, absorbing the rhythms and atmosphere before translating them visually. For Yiyun Li’s The Book of Goose, a novel she describes as “cutting, deft, vivid yet simultaneously lyrical and lush”, Kim sought to capture that duality with graphic elements and a pastoral image. Designing Sheila Heti’s Pure Colour felt like “a meditation, or entering a flow state”, which translated into a simple and large green splodge centred on the page. Justin Torres’ Blackouts evoked “layered thick air and discovering new things from room-to-room”, inspiring a cover that mirrors that sensation – dark, smoggy and unsettling.

But as much as Kim’s process is rooted in intuition and deep engagement with the text, she’s also aware of how digital culture has reshaped book design, and therefore our relationship with consumption. “It’s become the filter for everything. Even if somebody buys a hardcover book, their first contact with it is probably digital. The speed in which the digital world is evolving also requires us to constantly consider how to capture the attention of a potential reader.” She cites a study by the American Psychological Association that found the adult attention span has dropped from two and a half minutes in 2004 to just 8.25 seconds in 2024. “It’s a hard gap to accommodate. It requires constant repositioning and reinventing the way we make books.”

This shift has made designers more conscious of marketing-driven aesthetics and the pressure to conform. “Maybe taking risks isn’t affordable anymore,” Kim reflects, acknowledging how algorithmic trends can stifle originality. “But I bet if designers were given more trust, the covers would feel less homogeneous.”

Alex Merto: On Photography by Susan Sontag
Alex Merto: Blind Spot by Teju Cole

Alex Merto takes a similar stance and argues that book covers should stand in contrast to the fast-paced digital world, offering a sense of permanence and legacy. “I’m inspired by my daughter and the idea of leaving behind work I’m proud of,” he says. “I love designing books because they have such a long life – maybe one day she’ll see one of my covers on a shelf and feel that connection.”

Known for his graphically bold covers for publishers like Picador, Penguin Random House, and Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Merto’s work often relies on striking typography and unexpected colour choices to distill a book’s essence. Notable projects include Blind Spot by Teju Cole, in which he took a more minimal approach: “Teju’s writing style is so visual already that I wanted the cover to have a quiet depth, something that invites you to look closer.” Merto also enjoys reimagining classic works, like reissues of Elias Canetti, Susan Sontag and Jamaica Kincaid. “There’s a built-in audience, so we can experiment more with image-driven ideas, bolder colours or unusual layouts without worrying that a new author won’t stand out,” he says. “It’s about drawing in fresh readers while still honouring the existing fan base. That balance of respect and reinvention keeps it interesting.”

Alex Merto: Two Nurses, Smoking by David Means

When asked about AI’s role in book design, Merto explains he’s cautious, viewing it as a potential disruptor rather than an aid to creative originality. “I’m definitely worried about AI. Part of me hopes people will push back against it,” he says. While he acknowledges its usefulness in summarising text, he doesn’t believe it can replace the human process of reading, interpreting and responding to a story. “If everyone types in the same prompts, we’ll end up with a flood of covers that look alike,” he warns. For Merto, originality in book design stems from human insight, which is something that AI, no matter how advanced, cannot replicate. “AI isn’t the source – we are.”

Rush Jackson: Keep the Kid Alive by Arielle Bobb-Willis (Aperture, 2024)

Rush Jackson shares this sentiment, recognising AI’s ability to streamline workflows but insisting it cannot replicate human creativity. “I’m not too worried about AI gaining the skills to autonomously design a book by itself,” he explains. An artist, designer and educator, and founder of Jackson Studio, Jackson is drawn to projects with a socially reparative quality. He’s also influenced by Black design history and pre-colonial African design systems, which he values as highly as the Bauhaus movement. “I find the history of African rhythmic practices, writing systems and performance as important to design history as anything that’s come out of European modernism.”

His approach is intuitive rather than formulaic, allowing space for unexpected moments. “For me, the process of arriving at a cover design is always different, every time,” he explains. This openness has shaped striking works such as Notes Towards Becoming a Spill for artist Shikeith and Keep the Kid Alive for photographer Arielle Bobb-Willis, both published by Aperture. He also designed In the Black Fantastic, edited by Ekow Eshun, which saw Jackson develop a bold, type-driven cover that honoured the book’s subject matter. “Ekow was extremely open and trusting throughout the process,” he notes. “I love how the typography carries the rhythm of the book.”

Despite the growing presence of AI, Jackson has observed an increasing emphasis on materiality in book design, from cover textures and production techniques to unconventional formats. “I think a great book, and a great cover, has the potential to feel like an art object,” he says. “I think the best covers arise as unexpected moments, and should surprise you.”

Rush Jackson: In the Black Fantastic by Ekow Eshun (Thames & Hudson and MIT Press)

Coralie Bickford-Smith, a designer known for her work on the Penguin Clothbound Classics Series – in which she created custom patterns stamped on linen cases, colourful endpapers and ribbon markers – also emphasises the importance of tactility in book cover design. Much of her inspiration comes from art history, nature and classic design, particularly the work of William Morris and William Blake. “Their ability to blend text and imagery to tell a deeper story has always fascinated me,” she says.

For her, materiality is just as vital as imagery in shaping the reader’s experience. Her Fitzgerald collection, for instance, channels the glamour of the Jazz Age into mechanical patterns and metallic foiling, as seen in the cover for The Great Gatsby. “The design reflects the novel’s themes of destruction and disillusionment, capturing the moment when Gatsby’s dreams fall apart.” A more recent project, White Holes by Carlo Rovelli, pushed her conceptual approach further. “With this cover, I took a step back, zooming out to offer a fresh perspective on space,” she says. “It mirrors the way Rovelli’s writing guides readers through complex ideas – conveying depth and exploration.”

Coralie Bickford-Smith: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Though technology continues to shape visual trends, Bickford-Smith – like Kim, Merto and Jackson – treats books as objects of beauty rather than mere vessels for stories. “Minimalism and bold colour choices have gained prominence due to the way books appear online as thumbnails,” she says. “But I believe the physical experience of a book – its cloth binding, foil stamping – remains irreplaceable.” She is also mindful of AI’s expanding role in design. “AI can be a powerful tool, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of human creativity and rights. The key will be ethical guidelines that protect original work.”

Even as AI continues to reshape industries, book design, for the time being, feels like a space where human creativity, intuition and lived experience will always have the upper hand. And perhaps the most exciting shift is the resistance to homogenisation, where designers are creating covers that feel excitingly fresh, raw and real, all while balancing clarity with craftsmanship. As Merto notes, the best book covers should be “something eye-catching and enticing”, setting the tone and leaving space for discovery. Bickford-Smith emphasises the harmony of typography, imagery and layout to create an “inviting, balanced design”, while Jackson sees the cover as “a thoughtful and intelligent response” to its content. Ultimately, the most successful designs spark both delight and recognition, feeling inevitable but at the same time unexpected – making us, as Kim puts it, wish we had thought of them ourselves.

This article is taken from Port issue 36. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe head here

Zanele Muholi

The visual activist continues to reclaim Black queer visibility in photography with an exhibition at SCAD Museum of Art

Zanele Muholi: Phila I, Parktown, 2016. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi

A crown of rubber fingers fans around a head like a halo. Each latex glove – puffed, surreal and pitch black – seems to reach, crawl or cling, pushing against the edges of the frame. At the centre is Zanele Muholi’s unwavering gaze, a stillness that grounds the sculptural chaos. Titled Phila I, Parktown (2016), the self-portrait is at once defiant and unsettling, invoking a sense of labour and the intimacy of touch. Like much of Muholi’s work, it insists on being seen.

Born in Umlazi, South Africa, in 1972, Muholi is a self-declared visual activist who has spent decades documenting and celebrating the lives of Black LGBTQIA+ communities – those who are often ignored or misrepresented by dominant narratives. Their most recognised series include Faces and Phases (portraits of Black lesbians in South Africa), Brave Beauties (featuring trans women and nonbinary people in empowered, fashion-editorial poses), and the ongoing Somnyama Ngonyama (Zulu for “Hail the Dark Lioness”), a haunting collection of self-portraits in which Muholi reclaims the Black body through performative, stylised and often fantastical setups. These images, which are frequently staged with everyday materials like scouring pads, clothespins and rubber gloves, are visually majestic and interrogate colonial histories. Currently, Muholi’s work is on view at the SCAD Museum of Art in Savannah, Georgia, as part of the 2025 deFINE ART programme. The exhibition, which closes this Sunday (July 6), spans several of the artist’s most impactful series, including Faces and Phases, Brave Beauties, and a newly presented group of self-portraits from Somnyama Ngonyama shown in lightbox format. 

Zanele Muholi : Bester I, New York, 2019. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi
Zanele Muholi: Le Sishi, Parktown, Johannesburg, 2014. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi

Among the works on show is Bester I, New York (2019), a striking self-portrait in which Muholi appears adorned with coiled wire and crown-like loops, standing tall and statuesque against a neutral backdrop. Like much of Somnyama Ngonyama, the image amplifies contrast to deepen the darkness of the artist’s skin, confronting racialised perceptions of beauty, power and identity. In Le Sishi, Parktown, Johannesburg (2014), the subject stands in a confident, fashion-forward pose – shirtless and in trousers, with arms flexed – challenging expectations of gender presentation and queer embodiment. Another work, KaQso Kgope, Daveyton, Johannesburg (2017), captures a softer moment: the sitter reclines on a patterned floor, one hand resting gently against the cheek, exuding both resilience and grace. Each portrait in the exhibition is deliberate and dignified, honouring and archiving the lived experiences of Black queer communities. 

Courtesy of SCAD

As Muholi states: “My work is intended for every person – they could be a teacher, or they could be a mother whose child is Queer, trans or gender non-conforming and who wants to have a reference point to show their kids they are not alone, or it could be for LGBTQI people themselves, to understand their own worth. It is about the need for documenting the realities of people who deserve to be heard, who deserve to be seen, and whose lives are often excluded from mainstream media and the art canon. This makes it political. We are claiming space for ourselves in a conscious way in instances where these tend to be ignored by those who are in positions of power.”

In addition to their artistic accolades – including solo shows at Tate Modern, the Brooklyn Museum and SFMOMA – Muholi is the founder of the Muholi Art Institute (MAI), which supports queer youth and promotes arts education in South Africa. Their activism includes running workshops through initiatives like PhotoXP and creating platforms such as Inkanyiso, an online forum for queer visual media. Whether through the camera lens or through grassroots community work, Muholi’s ethos lies within amplifying the voices and stories of those too often left in the shadows.

Zanele Muholi is on view at SCAD Museum of Art until 6 July, find out more here

Zanele Muholi: KaQso Kgope, Daveyton, Joahnnesburg, 2017. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi
Zanele Muholi: Fika I, Highpoint I, London, 2024. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi
Zanele Muholi: Progress Selota II, Pretoria, 2017. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi
Zanele Muholi: Somizy Sincwala, Parktown, Johannesburg, 2014. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi
Zanele Muholi: Xiniwe at Cassilhaus, North Carolina, 2016. Courtesy Zanele Muholi; Southern Guild, Cape Town/Los Angeles; and Yancey Richardson, New York. © Zanele Muholi

 

Rally Points

In Frescobol by Design, photographer Gabriele Rosati and architect Alberto Simoni reinterpret Brazil’s beach sport through a series of sculptural works and photography

A skirt made of bats. A stacked column of curved wooden paddles. Wall-mounted arrangements that appear like oversized brooches. In one room, a floating ring of polished forms hangs mid-air, each one identical yet slightly off-beat in rhythm. Elsewhere, a portrait of a figure is dressed in what looks like a garment, but is in fact an assembly of repurposed equipment. The material across all these works is the same: layers of smooth, striped wood, destined for the beach. This is Frescobol by Design, an exhibition and project from Brazilian menswear and lifestyle brand Frescobol Carioca, made in collaboration with Gabriele Rosati and Alberto Simoni, who have pulled apart, reassembled and reimagined the famed Brazilian beach sport.

Frescobol originated in the mid-1940s on Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro, and is credited to Lian Pontes de Carvalho. The game is cooperative rather than competitive, where players rally to keep the ball in motion, not to win points. It was first played using bats made from driftwood and repurposed tennis balls and, over time, the equipment saw heavier bats swapped with lighter, varnished wooden versions and rubber racquetballs replaced with improvised ones. It’s highly indicative of Rio’s laid-back beach culture, where the sand becomes a playground for games, relaxing, exercising, eating, flirting, napping, dancing and selling things. The sport’s collaborative spirit later inspired Frescobol Carioca’s founding in 2013, with handcrafted frescobol bats at the heart of its offering, alongside swimwear, resortwear and accessories, all rooted in the rhythm and ease of Rio’s lifestyle.

This same energy can be found in Frescobol by Design, a project developed by Frescobol Carioca in collaboration with Milan-based photographer Rosati and architect-sculptor Simoni, who were brought in by Graeme Gaughan. “Gaughan has known our work for a while and was interested in how we often bridge fashion and architecture – using objects as tools to explore narrative, materiality and space,” says Simoni. Together, the pair worked “side by side on the creative direction, approaching the project as a sculptural study more than a product campaign.” Harry Brantly, CEO of Frescobol Carioca, adds: “Frescobol Carioca was founded on a single product that embodies both craftsmanship and the spirit of collaboration. Partnering with emerging creatives for Frescobol by Design felt like a natural extension of that ethos – a way to reimagine our eponymous frescobol bat through fresh perspectives, while staying true to the values that shaped the brand. It’s a celebration of heritage, creativity, and the ongoing dialogue between tradition and innovation.”

The result is a series of sculptural and photographic works that reframe the frescobol bat as something more than a sporting object. “I developed a series of sculptural pieces and images that reinterpreted the frescobol bat as an object beyond its original use – somewhere between artefact, artwork and symbol,” explains Simoni. By altering scale, stripping back function and using raw, often reclaimed materials, the bat was transformed: “They became characters, almost totems.” Rosati’s photographs built on this approach, presenting the objects in carefully composed settings that “echoed architecture, fashion and product design”, says Rosati. As Simoni notes, “We approached the whole thing as a single system – object, image and setting all part of the same language.” 

Rather than depict the game directly, they focused on the ideas embedded within it. “It was less about representing frescobol as a sport, and more about drawing out its underlying codes like duality, rhythm, fluidity and connection,” says Rosati. Those values were mirrored across the exhibition (which took place in London earlier this month) through repetition, mirroring, spatial tension and careful abstraction, achieved through a process of detaching the bat from its function. “By isolating its silhouette, shifting its scale, or multiplying it, we allowed new meanings to emerge,” Rosati explains. Meanwhile, Simoni approached the bat “almost like a raw module”, experimenting with “cutting, mirroring, stacking” to create forms that hover between art and architecture. “In some cases, it was no longer clear if it was meant to be held, observed or inhabited,” he says. That ambiguity was key, encouraging the viewer to reconsider the bat’s shape and symbolic weight. 

Working closely with the material itself also became central to the project. “The wood isn’t just a surface or a shape; its grain, texture and natural composition carry the true meaning of the product,” says Simoni. By incorporating damaged bats and leftover materials from production, the project embraced a reuse strategy that both honoured the object’s origins and disrupted expectations with a gloriously surprising outcome – not least a beautiful collection of objects that radiate the warmth of a sizzling hot day on Copacabana.

Standing as a collection in its own right, the project also responds directly to Frescobol Carioca’s new ethos, The Art of Summering – a phrase Rosati and Simoni interpreted through space, time and intentional design. “We tried to refer to it as a spatial concept,” says Rosati, “a way of inhabiting time with ease, clarity and intention.” Drawing inspiration from the curves of Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer and the openness of Brazilian landscape architect Roberto Burle-Marx, the work sits “in that tension between stillness and movement, function and contemplation”. Rosati adds, “It wasn’t about decoration, but about shifting perception and inviting the viewer to reconsider the object’s role in space.”

Ultimately, the project reframes sport, design and material as interconnected tools for looking at the world with a fresh perspective. “While frescobol as a sport provides the foundation,” Rosati reflects, “the work invites viewers to reconsider familiar forms as sculptural and spatial experiences.” 

“It’s less about function,” he concludes, “and more about engaging with the object as a trigger” – a prompt to observe, reflect and slow down. And maybe get yourself down to the beach.

 

Remembering Leigh Bowery

From clubland to the art world, Leigh Bowery shaped culture in ways that are still felt today. As Tate Modern stages a retrospective, his longtime friend and muse, Sue Tilley, recalls their nights out, the making of an icon and the quieter moments beyond the theatrics

 

Sue Tilley, photography Maisie Cousins

“I get myself in a muddle saying things I shouldn’t,” is among the first utterances out of artist and model Sue Tilley’s mouth. Of course, oversharing only gets you in trouble if the stories you’ve got to spill are good – and that’s certainly the case in this instance. She might now live by the seaside, but she’s a London legend. A staple of the capital’s avant-garde nightlife scene, her social circle has included notables like Stephen Jones, Boy George, Princess Julia and, of course, the late Australian multimedia artist Leigh Bowery, who I’m here to talk about today. Fittingly, for two club kids, they met on a night out at the LGBTQ+ venue Heaven, shortly after Tilley moved to London from St Albans. “I met this lovely boy with a very cheeky face and not normal clothes, but same as everyone else’s, you know,” she recalls. “I mean, he wasn’t Leigh Bowery as such, he was just a boy on the scene. We made friends straight away.”

Despite having a day job – the dancer Michael Clark, with whom she lived with in a house share, “thought I was a bit boring because I worked in the Jobcentre” – Tilley spent many evenings immersed in London’s clubs as both a punter and front-desk cashier. It was in these hedonistic, experimental environments where Bowery’s creative spirit was able to flourish. While he would go on to co-found the infamous club night Taboo, he first attracted attention for his outrageous fashion sense. “When Leigh and I would go out, at first he was just one of the crowd. Then he started inventing looks,” Tilley explains. “He put his first look on Trojan because he was too nervous to wear it. When he saw the attention Trojan got, that was it, he was wearing it. Then his whole life changed.”

Fergus Greer, Leigh Bowery Session 3 Look 14 August 1990 © Fergus Greer. Courtesy Michael Hoppen Gallery

From there, Bowery gained the confidence to embody a larger-than-life persona that would launch him from the “boy on the scene” whom Tilley first met, to nightlife phenomenon and later art world darling. His multifaceted career would see him stage surreal art performances, craft colourful, kitsch costumes that scrambled the boundaries of gender and personhood, showcase his work as far afield as New York, and perform as part of the art-pop band Minty. Tilley sees Bowery’s rebellious spirit living on in the zeitgeist – particularly in today’s shape-shifting queer culture. “I see his influence in the fashion shows, I see it everywhere. Most of the people in the music charts are non-binary, lesbian, gay… people underestimate Leigh’s position in popular culture. He made dressing weird and being gay more acceptable.”

Now, Bowery’s energetic work is the subject of a major Tate Modern retrospective, a chance to bring together the ephemera of his career. Tilley features in the shadows – through letters, a painting she did of Bowery, holiday snaps and postcards. But her influence can be felt in other ways. Tilley recalls having gone with him to meet the musician Boy George for the first time, helping her artist friend to soothe his nerves as he met 80s music royalty. She also shares that Bowery’s iconic ink drip look was informed by her own practical nature. “You know, I helped him make . He was just using ink. I said, ‘I watch Blue Peter, you should add Copydex, like a rubber solution glue. Then it’ll stay and you can rip it off at the end of the night’.”

Fergus Greer, Leigh Bowery Session 7, Look 37 June 1994 © Fergus Greer. Courtesy Michael Hoppen Gallery

Some of Bowery’s best works, in Tilley’s opinion, are his visceral birthing scenarios, which he would perform as part of Minty. In these electric, shocking performances, he would carry his future wife Nicola Bateman (positioned upside down) in a harness attached to his front. Then, in an elaborate sequence, she would slither on stage covered in lube, sausage links and fake blood – as if she was being pushed out of a cervix. During these performances in the 1990s, Bowery was already ill with HIV. Looking back, Tilley is astounded at his physical resilience. “I think about the fact that he was ill at the time and how he had the strength to do it,” she recalls. “She’s only small, but it’s still heavy to have her hanging upside down. It was just an amazing thing they did.” As she notes, the performance has proved to be a rich reference in the world of fashion. “The look was copied by Rick Owens, you can see influence in the fashion shows.”

Despite the power of Bowery’s presence on the club circuit, Tilley points to his stint modelling for Lucian Freud as a major turning point in his career. “Nobody really takes club kids seriously, you have to have something more behind you,” she explains. “Lucian helped make Leigh more accepted in the art world.” It was Bowery who set up a meeting between Tilley and Freud. “Leigh thought I should work for Lucian, to be glamorous,” she laughs. “Leigh was a control freak and Lucian was a control freak. Leigh had to be the bigger control freak so he put the idea of me modelling into Lucian’s head, so that Lucian thought it was his idea.” Despite receiving advice from Bowery on how to navigate her first meeting with the celebrated portraitist, Tilley characteristically did her own thing: “I completely ignored Leigh’s instructions and did what I wanted.” Tilley would go on to become the subject of a series of arresting Freud nudes. Notably, one of the paintings – Benefits Supervisor Sleeping – broke the world record for the highest price paid for a painting by a living artist at the time of its sale in 2008 for $33.6 million.

Lucian Freud, Leigh Bowery 1991 © The Lucian Freud Archive. All Rights Reserved 2024
Sue Tilley, Me and Leigh Bowery at Wayne Shires’s club Bar Industria for the opening of S&M night Smact c.1990 © Sue Tilley

In 1994, just three years after Tilley began sitting for Freud, Bowery passed away on 31 December, aged 33. Decades later, the memory is still fresh in her mind. “We heard the news in the clubs on New Year’s Eve, such a big, strong person going like that. No one could believe it, because no one knew he was ill – he didn’t want them to,” she recalls. “I can’t believe, in 30 years, how much has changed. Even if he lived about six months longer, he’d probably still be alive now, because they found new HIV treatments.” Following Bowery’s passing, Tilley was approached by The Guardian to write his obituary, an article which would cause editors to take notice of her passion and dedication to her friend’s legacy. Shortly after, she was entrusted to write Leigh Bowery: The Life and Times of an Icon, a 1997 biography of his life which includes interviews with his social and creative circles, all of whom were eager to dedicate his effervescent talent and wit to the page.

The book gathered cult status among Bowery fans, and has been recently reissued by Thames & Hudson. This has offered Tilley a chance to revisit the book, while the Leigh Bowery! retrospective at Tate Modern has reaffirmed her friend’s importance to contemporary art history.

But the Bowery commemorated in books and art galleries is not the only Bowery who Tilley remembers. While he was powerfully, formidably creative, Tilley liked him best as a “daytime friend”. “To be honest, when he was all dressed up, I didn’t really like going out with him, it was so difficult to chat to him,” she says. “I was more of a daytime friend. People think he was really peculiar but he was perfectly normal and he was so funny, hilarious even. If you had troubles and tribulations, he’d help. He’d always be there for you.” The kind-hearted boy who would sometimes get nervous or starstruck, who was generous to a fault, and who would spend hours on the phone with her talking about nothing – that’s the Leigh Bowery which Tilley will know and hold dear forever.

Nigel Parry, Photoshoot at home © Nigel Parry

Leigh Bowery! is on view at the Tate Modern until 31 August 2025, find out more here

Leigh Bowery: The life and Times of an icon can be purchased at Thames & Hudson here

This article is taken from Port issue 36. To continue reading, buy the issue or subscribe head here

Gucci Bamboo Encounters

At Milan’s Chiostri di San Simpliciano during Salone, Gucci presents seven artist and designer commissions exploring the possibilities of bamboo

Queues of suave, sunglasses-clad people snake down the street. Gucci bags of all shapes and sizes are strapped to arms like prized accessories in a fashion safari. It’s packed, of course – it’s a Gucci event during Salone, and everyone wants a peek (or a selfie, depending on the mood).

Gucci’s Bamboo Encounters, staged within the cloisters of Milan’s Chiostri di San Simpliciano until 13 April, is a sensory shift from the surrounding frenzy. Here, bamboo shoots sprout through gravel beds; strange forms hang from ancient walls; light glows softly against decaying frescoes. It’s part serene sanctuary, part design daydream. Everything on show explores the symbolic and structural significance of bamboo – its legacy rooted in the 1947 Bamboo Bag, and its future imagined through seven very different artistic lenses. Curated by Ippolito Pestellini Laparelli of architecture and research studio 2050+, the exhibition shows the strength of bamboo as a sustainable resource and a medium through which to think about ecology, craft and collective memory.

Bamboo is something of a design shapeshifter. It’s fast-growing, lightweight, surprisingly strong and endlessly versatile. It’s these qualities that have made it a favourite across disciplines, from scaffolding in architecture to slatted chairs in sun-drenched courtyards. In interiors, its warm tones and natural texture lend a calming, almost meditative quality to a space. Think spa energy, but with structural integrity. In fashion, bamboo fibres are spun into fabrics prized for their softness, breathability and gentle touch on the skin. Perfect for the kinds of garments no one sees but everyone appreciates (underwear, socks, T-shirts). Its moisture-wicking, antibacterial properties even make it fit for the gym, if you’re so inclined. And with low water needs and zero pesticides, bamboo ticks all the sustainability boxes, which is even more proof that going green doesn’t have to mean going drab.

 

Gucci’s pioneering use of bamboo began in 1947 with the creation of the Bamboo Bag. During the post-war period, traditional materials were scarce, prompting Gucci’s artisans to explore alternative resources. They discovered that bamboo could be heated and bent into a durable, curved handle, leading to the birth of said Bamboo Bag. This design addressed both the material shortages and also introduced a distinctive aesthetic that became synonymous with Gucci. Over the years, the Bamboo Bag has been reimagined in various forms, maintaining its status as an emblem of Gucci’s heritage and artistry.​

So across the must-see exhibition, bamboo’s versatility is explored at length – at times poetically, elsewhere with precision-engineered resolve. Swedish-Chilean artist Anton Alvarez, known for his eccentric machines that extrude colourful furniture from string and glue, presents a bronze fountain inspired by the watery ecosystems of bamboo forests. The piece carries his signature logic of mechanical improvisation while evoking the meditative rhythms of a garden spring. It’s a play between man-made process and natural flow, and utterly meditative.

Dima Srouji, a Palestinian architect and founder of Hollow Forms Studio, contributes a quietly powerful installation combining found bamboo baskets with hand-blown glass forms made by artisans in the West Bank. Her work often dwells on archaeological traces and material histories – and here, bamboo speaks to fragile geographies and the endurance of craft in politically fractured landscapes.

Dutch collective Kite Club, comprising designers Bertjan Pot, Liesbeth Abbenes and Maurice Scheltens, brings a lighter, wind-borne reading to the material. Their handmade kites float in the wind (on a particularly cloudy and breezy day in Milan, I might add). They’re sleek, aerodynamic and colourful, celebrating bamboo’s historical use in flight, but also its role in play, resistance and communal experience. Meanwhile, Vienna-based designer Laurids Gallée, who often fuses traditional techniques with high-tech materials, presents resin furniture that references the structural elegance of bamboo without mimicking it outright. His pieces, translucent and grid-like, glow faintly under light, hovering between sculpture and utility. 

Memphis Group alum Nathalie Du Pasquier, one of Milan’s most quietly radical figures, contributes PASSAVENTO – a layered installation of bamboo and silk panels that filter light like folding screens. Du Pasquier has always worked between disciplines, from painting to textile to industrial design, and this piece is no different: its opaque white translucent, structured and soft. Korean designer Lee Sisan, whose practice spans traditional craft and parametric design, debuts a set of aluminium furniture engraved with bamboo motifs. Her work often nods to the heritage of Korean joinery while also using modern fabrication tools. Here, the cold gleam of metal is warmed by rhythmic, almost calligraphic surface patterns, drawing out a contrast that’s hard to miss. 

Finally, design duo The Back Studio – comprising Eugenio Rossi and Yaazd Contractor – offers a neon installation that outlines the silhouette of bamboo stems in acid-bright tubes, suspended like botanical blueprints in space. Known for blending pop culture references with sculptural installations, their work here speaks to the tension between nature and artifice, and how tradition might be lit anew through contemporary eyes.

Together, the seven commissions within Bamboo Encounters form a polyphonic meditation on bamboo as a material and metaphor. It also provokes a splendid dialogue between Gucci’s historical use of bamboo and those working in the contemporary design landscape. So, by inviting artists to reinterpret this material, we see themes of sustainability, innovation and cultural exchange brought to the fore. Not to mention Gucci’s ongoing efforts to explore new creative horizons while, of course, honouring its rich heritage.

So if you haven’t already, best get in line – bamboo’s having a moment, and Gucci’s not about to let it pass quietly.

Bamboo Encounters is running until 13 April. Find out more about the event here.