Fusing elements of Persian architecture with Christian altarpieces, Arghavan Khosravi grapples with the structures and ideological strictures that shape our lives. The Iranian artist has long reckoned with women’s fight for equality, particularly amid censorship and religious dogma in her native country. Through vibrant gradients that radiate across her sculptural paintings, Khosravi entices the viewer into urgent, ongoing conversations about resistance and control.

Opening today at Uffner & Liu, What Remains presents a dynamic new body of work that captures moments of tension and strife. Figures, in Khosravi’s works, are often restricted and tethered to domestic objects and space, and critically, physically separated from one another. Complete with hinged shutters, suspended cords, and tiny visages tucked into unassuming openings, these new pieces incorporate women obscured by their surroundings, leaving only fragments of a limb or face visible.

While altarpieces have historically been utilized to share stories of the divine through visual depictions, Khosravi instead turns inward. She lives and works in Stamford, Connecticut, and her homesickness and longing for a changed Iran are strong. Large-scale works like “Bearing” portray a seated woman buttressing a Persian building, thick, black, oil-like liquid seeping from its foundation.

What Remains was already in progress before the U.S. war against Iran, the gallery shares. The works are therefore not in response to this particular conflict but rather a timely acknowledgment of what it means to live in a region continually in crisis. As always, Khosravi reminds us that even amid chaos, destruction, and government overreach that outlasts any singular emergency, beauty and self-empowerment can still trigger a new paradigm.

What Remains runs through July 2 in New York. Explore more of the artist’s politically attuned works on Instagram.

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Typically gravitating toward dreamy palettes of soft blues, grays, and oranges, Scottish artist Andrew McIntosh opts for a sanguine red in a new body of work. The crimson paintings continue McIntosh’s otherworldly landscapes that cast familiar forms like mountains and valleys in a strange, uncanny light. Glowing orbs float among the craggy terrain and veil the scenes in mystery.

“These works sit somewhere between memory and invention—familiar landscapes interrupted by something I don’t fully understand,” the artist says.

On view at School Gallery, these bold pieces comprise the artist’s solo exhibition, I Hope This Transmission Finds You Soon. Evoking alien communication and the unknowns that surround us, even in recognizable spaces, the show draws on Cormac McCarthy’s 1985 novel Blood Meridian, a Gothic Western rife with violence and an unyielding desire for dominance.

The gallery offers insight into the exhibition with an apt quote from the book:

The truth about the world … is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance be populate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tent show whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.

I Hope This Transmission Finds You Soon is on view through May 30 in Folkestone, U.K. Find more from McIntosh on Instagram.

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In Love Letters, Hilary Pecis captures the mundane moments and under-appreciated views of daily life. The Los Angeles-based artist presents a suite of new acrylic paintings in her signature saturated style, focusing on snippets of a backyard pool, the corner of a studio worktop, and a friendly picnic complete with a radiant strawberry cake.

Pecis prefers to work from photos and translates singular moments onto linen. Utilizing a uniform opacity in her paints, she incorporates both comparable and exaggerated colors and affords particular attention to texture and pattern. Frilly fronds on a plant, light radiating off the water’s surface, and the rough texture of a woven tablecloth each evidence the artist’s meticulous process.

Love Letters opens at David Kordansky Gallery in Los Angeles on May 16 and runs through June 20. Until then, explore more of Pecis’ work on Instagram.

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Despite its name, the Canadian Tuxedo is a distinctly American look. The denim-on-denim getup dates back to the 1950s, when Bing Crosby sported a full Levi’s ensemble while in Vancouver, setting a sartorial trend that continues today.

The national mythology woven into this utilitarian material is also the focus of Brooklyn-based Nick Doyle, who layers denim atop denim into large wall sculptures. From a pair of aviators reflecting puffy clouds to a vast Rocky Mountain landscape framed by brick, the works evoke a sort of nostalgic road trip west, as if chasing a big break, and ultimately, realizing the American dream.

For Doyle, denim is a poignant, loaded metaphor for much of American culture and history. The material has roots in chattel slavery, when people enslaved in the South were dyeing cotton with indigo. There’s also its association with the brusque masculinity of James Dean and cowboy ruggedness, itself an extension of the gold rush and Manifest Destiny. The fabric, in many ways, is a stand-in for the contradictions, hypocrisies, and unreachable desires so bound up in American life.

While researching the visual language of Americana in 2018, Doyle came upon a roll of denim discarded by a fashion designer moving out of his building. “At the time, I had no money, so I was making work out of material I found in the garbage or at my local hardware store,” he shares. “As I was pulling [the roll] out of the trash, I noticed a network of ideas connecting in my brain… I felt the material reflected the historical complexities I was seeing in my research, as well as being reflected in my own familial history.”

This encounter was one of those providential moments that set off an enduring fascination. In his solo exhibition Collective Hallucinations, on view at Perrotin, Doyle presents the latest of his denim sculptures, including stylized cacti, landscapes cordoned off by chainlink fences, and more mystical objects like tarot cards and a life-sized fortune teller’s shop.

The show contains myriad symbols of American exceptionalism and individualism, presented in the heritage fabric of the nation. Doyle shares:

Over the last few years, my conception of American mythology has only become more complex… I think in a lot of ways what we’re experiencing now is a breakdown of these mythologies. They are in direct conflict with the current political reality, yet they are summoned as if it is business as usual. The world’s image of America has changed, but our country’s nostalgia for itself is making us late to the party. There’s tragedy in vanity.

Collective Hallucinations presents these unrealized dreams and confrontations in varying shades of blue, rendering what appears to be individual moments as simply different washes of the same story.

In addition to his practice, Doyle will soon open the second iteration of a kink bar called Human Resources at Basel Social Club and is working toward a fall exhibition of paper collages and prints at Pace. If you’re in New York, Collective Hallucinations runs through May 30. Otherwise, find more on Instagram.

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A visit to Lincoln Park or the Garfield Park Conservatory is one of the outings Chicagoans rarely pass up, particularly when we need some reprieve from all the concrete and steel. Two beloved green spaces in the city, these spots boast oases blanketed in verdant foliage even in the depths of winter and house an array of specimens not native to the Midwest.

For artists Merryn Omotayo Alaka and Sam Frésquez, the immersive nature of a conservancy, with plants above and below and all around, became a central point for a collaborative project. Your Birth is My Birth presents the duo’s synthetic hair sculptures, which suspend from the ceiling of Jane Lombard Gallery and splay across the wooden floor like organic growths. Alaka and Frésquez describe the exhibition as a sort of “Kanekalon forest,” referring to the brand behind the luscious material.

Five different “species” emerge in the space, including Listening Roots, Hearing Bells, Mother & Child, Stacking Pearls, and Umbra Pods. Dark, dyed locks and domed shapes are throughlines, although each takes on a distinctive form. The series are influenced by epiphytes, non-parasitic plants that make their homes on a host specimen. Think orchids, cacti, moss, and kelp.

Surging upward from lily pad-shaped discs suctioned to the floorboards, the largest sculpture is part of Listening Roots, which tethers singular shoots to a central form. This connection between smaller pieces—like the feather-duster-shaped Stacking Pearls—and more comprehensive structures recurs throughout the exhibition, gesturing toward an intimate and intentional symbiosis.

Several works also reference genetics and what’s passed down through generations, as mirrored forms emerge within the same vertical tendril. “Similar to an epiphyte and its host tree, these sculptural works have their own life cycles evoking systems of dependence and exchange, where one form sustains from another,” says a statement.

Your Birth is My Birth is on view through June 13. Explore more from Alaka and Frésquez on Instagram.

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“To me, being a visual activist means I only illustrate stories that resonate with me deeply, by giving voice to minorities or social situations that need to be addressed,” says Fatinha Ramos. “It is the only way I can truly connect with others.”

Based in Antwerp, the Portuguese artist and illustrator is well-known for blending analog and digital techniques to create rich, emotive compositions. Collaborating with clients like The New York Times, The Washington Post, Tate, and Scientific American, among many others, Ramos has cultivated a keen eye for storytelling through her distinctive visual language.

Recent partnerships include the Anne Frank Museum and MoMA, the latter of which commissioned the artist to illustrate an essay on her experience being compared to Frida Kahlo. Ramos was born with osteogenesis imperfecta, commonly called brittle bone disease, which spurred a childhood spent in and out of hospitals. Drawing and art-making quickly became a preferred pastime, allowing her to transport herself from such clinical settings.

This adolescent hobby stuck, and Ramos worked as an art director in advertising and publishing for 12 years before venturing out on her own. Boasting an impressive list of clients and collaborators, she considers her practice to be an antidote to stereotypical narratives, whether related to the climate crisis, sexism, racism, or the dire lack of empathy that seems rampant in today’s world.

“I want to move away from the narrative that turns artists with disabilities into symbols of resilience,” she tells MoMA. “Creativity does not happen despite limitations but through them. Art should broaden how we see the world—and that includes how we see bodies, too.”

At the moment, Ramos is only accepting select illustration clients as she focuses on her fine art practice, including a series of anatomical glass sculptures based on brittle bone disease. You can explore more of her practice on her website and Instagram.

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The shapes of Maxwell Mustardo’s ceramic works evoke ancient amphorae, kraters, and, most recently, kylix—a wide Greek cup with handles—although their surfaces feel distinctly organic. Textured growths cloak the vessels with fungal or lichen-esque forms, albeit in color palettes that are bold and otherworldly. Fluorescent oranges, pinks, and greens appear to glow in even the most mundane settings, firmly planting the pieces at the intersection of historic craft, nature, and the uncanny.

“I am always tweaking chemistry and application methods to push certain surface effects that I like, that feel organic and grown,” Mustardo tells Colossal. “More recent series of work have tried to blur the boundaries of cultural and natural forms (the amphora becomes anthropomorphic, gadrooning reduced to its fruity lineage, and so forth).”

An ornamental design with curved bands, gadrooning is typically relegated to surface decoration. As the artist mentions, though, he prefers to cast these tapered adornments as the central focus, “promptly pushing classical ornament back into their origins in the natural world, from the kingdom of fruits and vegetables.”

Mustardo is based in New Jersey, where he’s the studio manager of the former residence of artist Toshiko Takaezu (1922-2011). Find more of his work on Instagram.

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A muscular Englishman in a khaki kilt and black beret hops atop the edge of an old well clad in traditional Spanish tile, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in what can only be called an act of bravery.  High winds and rain pelt a group of visitors from all directions, and yet, this charismatic performer stands tall above the cobblestone to announce that he’s been living on this vacant island for nearly two centuries. He’s here to give us a tour.

“This has been my home for 174 years,” the man says, introducing himself as Captain Horatio Hollingwood. “I arrived in command of a well-known British merchant ship, responsible for transporting goods of every sort. But alongside grain, wool, and oil, there travelled with us certain rather unwelcome companions—terrible diseases. We stopped here for a sanitary inspection. And from here, I never left.”

As our group endures the Balearic Islands’ mercurial spring weather and shivers among towering stone walls and outbuildings, this exuberant actor introduces us to the Lazaretto of Mahón, an 18th-century fortress and infirmary that once housed merchants, shipping crews, and any travelers seeking entry to Spain. His ability to rouse a group of studio artists into the turbulent outdoors is a fitting introduction to the activities of the week ahead. Alongside nearly 80 others from Slovakia to Argentina, Washington D.C. to Melbourne, we’re here on this small, uninhabited island for Quarantine, a residency-style program conceived by artist Carles Gomila, who is determined to help artists break free from creative blocks while giving them permission to fail, discover, iterate, and hopefully, discover something new about themselves. 

For seven days, participants follow a rigorous schedule, arriving by boat on the island by 8:30 a.m. and leaving no earlier than 9:30 p.m. Their days are filled with talks, workshops, and meetings with invited artists who serve as mentors, the schedule of which isn’t shared in advance. Phones, laptops, and any device with an internet connection are banned, and there’s no option to retreat to a hotel bed or wander off for an afternoon. Such a demanding and purposefully opaque schedule invites artists to settle into discomfort, abandon expectations, and confront the insecurities and anxieties capable of stifling their best work. The theme of this edition is Tears in Rain, which takes its name from the iconic monologue at the end of Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner.

“What I wish now is to share with you the story of the people who lived here over the past centuries,” the actor continues. “Your quarantine, unlike theirs, is not compulsory. You have chosen to be here, to experience something meaningful in the way you live your lives and understand your creative process. This is a space and a time for transformation. Some passed here from life into death. Yours is a passage from blockage into freedom. Follow me.”

Getting to the island is no small feat—our journey from Chicago took two days and required three flights, a car trip, a 15-minute walk, and a short boat ride—and there’s no open, public access to the lazaretto. Given its remote location and secret programming, Quarantine asks interested artists to apply on a true leap of faith, one that many describe as the first moment they had to relinquish control and believe the bold claims the program boasts. Testimonials include lofty statements about the organizers “minting a legion for the revolution” and how participants feel “like my insides have been blown out.” Some people even get the program’s tally logo tattooed, and many have returned for multiple visits.

If you’re thinking this sounds like a cult, you’re not alone. When Quarantine’s organizers invited us to observe the April 2026 edition, we were skeptical, and so were the friends and colleagues with whom we shared our plans. As it turns out, many of the participants had similar reservations, which we learned when we landed in Menorca and met an artist at baggage claim. (In keeping with the spirit of Quarantine and the idea that what happens on the island stays on the island, we’re only sharing information about participants anonymously.) He was coming from Los Angeles and first encountered the program through one of the session’s mentors, Yuko Shimizu, whom he’d long admired and previously collaborated with. Lured by the opportunity to untether from daily life and connect with professional artists, he hoped to reinvigorate his practice and figure out how to take the next step, something former Quarantine participants lauded and that he hoped he could access, too. Was it a cult, though? None of us was sure.

From the 18th to 20th century, the Spanish government required all travelers, no matter their origin, to sequester on the island for 40 days or if they fell ill, longer. These groups were cordoned off by their presumed and actual illnesses, and about five percent died during their stay, succumbing to infectious diseases like the Bubonic Plague and Yellow Fever. Today, the double-walled sanatorium is mid-restoration as the local government repairs crumbling limestone halls and terracotta walkways and trims back an abundance of thistles. Along with a handful of loquacious peacocks whose eerie calls echoed across the island, just a skeleton grounds crew and the occasional tour group occupy the island with any regularity.

Quarantine is one of two recurring events held on the lazaretto, with weeklong editions each April and October that are supported by the local government and local tourism organization, Fundació Foment del Turisme de Menorca. Nearly everything needed for the program must be loaded onto boats and carried to the island for every edition, and a local caterer packs food for 80 and traverses the harbor each lunch and dinner. Enormous musical instruments like the bilas—a rare, standing contraption of flat bells conceived by Russian Alexander Zhikharev—even make their way over for live, outdoor performances.

A sort of mystical bootcamp for artists, Quarantine is both intensely communal and unabashedly introspective. Gomila designs the workshop sessions, known as the “Art Lab,” to tap into as many emotions and responses as possible, often frustration, confusion, and eventually, clarity. Many incorporate music, and almost all center on life drawing, whether through self-portraiture or enthusiastic models who embrace the spirit of the project as much as the participants. They don costumes, hold sabres as props, and accessorize to an outlandish extent. Models are invited to share in the creative process, too, and as one tells us one evening over glasses of Cava, the program allows her to reconnect with the self she doesn’t always encounter in her life as an architect.

Everyone we meet at Quarantine echoes this sentiment, whether they’re full-time artists or not. There’s a young father whose work at a video game design studio is forcing him to rely more and more on A.I. A fine art educator laments the corporatization of her position as a faculty member at a for-profit university. And countless others who work in tech, finance, government, design, and illustration have ventured to the Mediterranean to reclaim focus, hone their voice, and if they’re lucky, make something that excites them.

The accomplished group of mentors doesn’t hurt either. April’s edition included Shimizu, Martin Wittfooth, Mu Pan, Phil Hale, Yulia Bas, Sean Layh, and Adam Miller, while past sessions featured Miles Johnston, Jeremy Mann, and Nicolás Uribe, to name a few. Mentors each present a morning masterclass on a wide range of topics, from Wittfooth’s concept of art as a “spirit artifact” to Shimizu’s courage in changing careers after a decade in a corporate job. Layh shares his story of picking up his paintbrush for the first time in more than a decade to re-learn his abilities over two and a half years on a single canvas (last month he won an Archibald Prize). Participants also receive one-on-one sessions with three mentors, in which no topics are off limits. They can ask for guidance in developing a particular technique, although most choose to utilize their 45-minute sessions to chat about more personal problems they’ve both faced and connect about what it means to be an artist in today’s world. 

This equalizing ethos is the foundation of Quarantine. When participants complete an exercise, all work is displayed on a central table, and if they’d like, they can share something with the group. There’s no critique, no comparison, and no need to explain why they made the decisions they did. The focus instead is on the process, on seizing moments of low-risk spontaneity. Experimentation and abandoning patterns that no longer serve their creativity are encouraged, along with developing practices to work through frustrations and insecurities. The wide range of skills is liberating: many artists have worked full-time for more than a decade, while others are painting with oils for the very first time.

“What happens here is so psychological,” shares one participant from Argentina who heard about Quarantine by following Layh. “Because it’s all so mysterious, I was worried it was going to be cheesy, but I’ve cried three times this week.”

On the final day, after participants have painted and sketched for dozens of hours, been subjected to creative exercises they hope to never encounter again and others they will gladly replicate at home, and let themselves be vulnerable in a way that rarely happens outside a therapist’s office, what seems to stand out is the camaraderie and an overwhelming sense of belonging. In comparison to the eager anxieties of the first day, the group has settled into a shared clarity, knowing not to fear mistakes and feeling a new sense of kinship among like-minded peers. They pair off to get coffee, encourage one another to try a strange technique, and make plans to meet up once they return home. We were told that WhatsApp group chats from previous editions continue to this day. A large contingent from a previous year also wants to return en masse. 

The last evening under a star-studded sky, unusually visible to us city dwellers, a fire pit appeared adjacent to the well that the Englishman jumped atop on day one. All 80 of us gathered around, and one mentor, Bas, kicked us off. In her hands were an old letter that once held significant weight in her life and a work on paper. She walked over to the fire and tossed both in, then asked everyone else to do the same. 

As the fire pit grew so full of paintings and drawings and sketches and notes that pieces spilled onto the cobblestone, the communal sense of catharsis and release was palpable. Artists danced hand in hand, cried, hugged, and stood solemnly watching their breakthroughs crumble into ash. The idea, of course, was that these material objects–these “spirit artifacts” in Wittfooth’s parlance–were just that: artifacts. Artworks made on the island were both irreplaceable and irrelevant, as the program had already built up a herd immunity to any sense of assuredness or control. What Quarantine offers instead is a shared pathology, one that focuses not on remedying the symptoms of creative blocks or failures but rather zeroes in on the underlying cause.

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