Julian’s Experience
Getting to New York was an adventure. By my third day in the city, plans had shifted. I originally intended to spend the day exploring Central Park, checking out some restaurants, and finishing up at the Guggenheim during that fourth week in the Big Apple. But things changed. An artist convinced me—well, pressured is the more accurate word—to hit up the Whitney Biennial first and save the Guggenheim for later. I’m not usually one to be easily swayed, but in this case, I had a feeling it was worth it. So, I swapped my Saturday plans with Friday’s, making the switch almost seamlessly.
On top of the art shift, I decided to meet up with my good friend, artist and chef Brian Vargas, who was also in town. We hadn’t seen each other in two years, so we texted back and forth, eventually planning to check out the Affordable Art Fair later that same day.
The day started with brisk weather—40 degrees, a slight improvement from the bone-chilling 30 degrees I experienced while walking the Brooklyn Bridge the day before. Wrapped up in my oversized, heavy jacket, I caught the A train and searched for a cozy spot to grab breakfast. I landed at Café Luna on Hudson Street, where Brian and his partner met me by surprise. We spent an hour catching up over French toast and coffee, a meal so good I didn’t even bother sharing it on social media. After breakfast, we made our way to the Whitney Museum.
We arrived at the Whitney about 30 minutes after it opened. Despite the line, it moved quickly, and two thoughts crossed my mind: first, it was a good thing I came today and not on Saturday, and second, what was the deal with that odd billboard across from the museum? It read, “La tartamudez nos ofrece tiempo,” which, translated into English, said “Stuttering can create time,” a rough translation that should have been “Stuttering offers us time.” Brian and I shared a laugh, puzzled by the error.
Once inside the Whitney, we made a rookie mistake at the 2024 Biennial. We skipped the elevator and took the stairs, only to realize much later that we’d been going through the exhibit backward—from the bottom up. It wasn’t mentioned anywhere in the guide, and no one warned us. Whitney organizers, a “start here” sign would have been helpful! Nevertheless, here’s a recap of the works that stood out to me in no particular order—because, well, we started from the wrong end—and why they caught my attention
1. Pippa Gardner, Immaculate Misconceptions
The first piece we encountered in our backward tour of the Biennial was Immaculate Misconceptions by Pippa Gardner. As someone with an industrial design background, this work immediately resonated with me. It transported me back to my college days, standing in front of walls covered in sketches—not just my own but those of my classmates, including Brian, who started his academic career in design alongside me.
Gardner’s piece presented a chaotic mix of sketches, evoking the atmosphere of a brainstorming session, but with a playful twist. These weren’t practical designs aimed at solving real-world problems. Instead, they were the kinds of absurd inventions you might stumble upon in a late-night infomercial—those products you never knew you needed until you saw them. And maybe, under the right circumstances, you’d even buy them by accident.
What struck me was the way these products seemed to create trivial problems just for the sake of solving them in the most impractical ways. It wasn’t about efficiency; it was about whimsy. The piece featured hundreds of sketches, each more ridiculous than the last, drawing you in and inviting you to imagine the absurdity of these inventions in real life. It was incredibly easy to get lost in the details, and I found myself spending 20 minutes poring over each sheet, uncovering new layers of humor and creativity with every glance.
The only thing that could have made it better? A few prototypes of these wild creations. Seeing them brought to life would’ve been the perfect cherry on top of Gardner’s playful critique of consumer culture.
2. Takako Yamaguchi, Issue (2023)
While abstract and surrealist art typically falls outside my preferences, I found myself completely captivated by Takako Yamaguchi’s multiple works at this Biennial, particularly Issue (2023). What immediately drew me in was her mastery of saturated color and the delicate balance of sharp compositional elements with a sense of visual fluidity. Each piece seemed to offer a rich exploration of color and form, creating an emotional and sensory experience that went beyond the abstract.
In Issue, Yamaguchi establishes a recognizable visual framework that repeats across several of her works. The background is dominated by a serene, glass-like body of water, with a horizon line that rests just above the midpoint of the canvas. This horizon gives a sense of calm and balance, grounding the viewer in an otherwise surreal setting. Above this tranquil water, the sky bursts with vibrant, saturated hues, creating a stark contrast to the calmness below. These skies—alive with intense, almost electric color—imbue the scene with an otherworldly energy.
In the foreground, abstract white forms take center stage, guiding the viewer’s gaze across the canvas. These elements are striking in their design, evoking the flowing, organic lines of Art Nouveau architecture. The arches and column-like shapes recall the era’s graceful, ornamental structures, blending past and present into a futuristic interpretation. These forms don’t merely sit on top of the water; they interact with it, suggesting movement and rhythm, transforming the static body of water into something that feels alive and dynamic.
3. Karyn Olivier, How Many Ways Can You Disappear (2021)
In stark contrast to Takako Yamaguchi’s work, Karyn Olivier’s How Many Ways Can You Disappear commands attention in a completely different way. Positioned in the center of the room, this piece is an immediate eye-catcher due to its striking shape, vibrant color, and use of materials. The installation is composed of buoys, lobster traps, and rope, suspended in a manner that evokes both the tension of their weight and the illusion of buoyancy. It feels as though these objects are floating in mid-air, freed from their usual associations with sinking and disappearing beneath the water’s surface.
There’s a compelling duality here—while the objects themselves are traditionally utilitarian, designed to be functional in the harsh environment of the sea, Olivier’s arrangement invites the viewer to imagine them in a different context. It’s as if we’re peering beneath the surface of the water, experiencing both the reality of what floats and what is submerged. For me, this sense of being both above and below the surface evokes a strange mix of attraction and unease. The vibrant colors draw me in, but the precarious suspension of these items gives a feeling of fragility and tension, as if the objects could sink at any moment.
As I stood in front of How Many Ways Can You Disappear, I couldn’t help but feel an intimacy that was tinged with discomfort. The piece suggests both the possibility of being seen and the threat of being lost, a metaphor for displacement, isolation, and the invisible struggles faced by those whose lives may go unnoticed or disregarded.
Behind How Many Ways Can You Disappear stands Olivier’s second piece, Fortified. This work presents a vertical tower made of driftwood, topped with a stack of what appear to be rectangular sheets of fabric or garments. The fabric layers look like remnants—perhaps symbolizing stories untold, histories erased, or identities that have been fragmented. It’s as though each sheet represents a piece of something or someone who once existed but is no longer fully present, unable to be reclaimed or rescued from the tide of time.
Given Olivier’s own background as an immigrant, Fortified could be interpreted as a reflection on the hardships of immigration, alienation, and the systemic racism and xenophobia that America continues to propagate. The piece feels like a poignant testament to resilience, but also a heartbreaking acknowledgment of what gets lost in the process. Together, both works are breathtaking in their boldness and heart-wrenching in their quiet commentary on the fragility of identity, belonging, and survival.
4. Julia Phillips, Nourished
When it came to color, the Whitney Biennial did not disappoint, and Julia Phillips’ Nourished was no exception, delivering a visual punch with its bold, bright orange. The intensity of the color immediately grabbed my attention, but what really drew me in was the form and the way the piece was suspended from the ceiling. The installation consists of two distinct ceramic elements: a portion of a female face that feels mask-like, and below it, a representation of a female torso, with the breasts almost fashioned as a chest plate.
The fragmented nature of these body parts is striking. Neither the head nor the torso is presented as a complete form; instead, they seem to hover in a space that is both human and mechanical. The contours of the face and torso are smooth and clinical, almost as if they were components of an animatronic being or a piece of machinery. This dehumanized quality, combined with the polished ceramic material, evokes a sense of artificiality, blurring the line between organic and mechanical forms.
In today’s world, where robotics and AI are rapidly advancing, it’s hard not to draw parallels between this artwork and the technologies being developed—such as Elon Musk’s humanoid robots or even the hyper-realistic “girlfriend” robots that have sparked so much debate. Phillips’ work feels eerily familiar, as if it’s reflecting back at us our own obsession with technological progress, particularly when it comes to replicating the human body. The fragmented female form and its mechanized aesthetic may be Phillips’ way of critiquing how society has historically objectified women, reducing their bodies to mere functions or roles, much like machines.
The title Nourished takes on a deeper meaning when you observe the clear medical PVC tubes that run through the piece—one tube connects to the mouth of the mask-like face, while others are attached to the breasts. These tubes, sterile and utilitarian, suggest a clinical interpretation of the female body as a machine—one that feeds itself, one that is self-propelling, and perhaps one that exists solely to serve a function, whether reproductive or otherwise. The tubes also hint at a kind of life support, underscoring the ways in which women’s bodies have been subjected to medicalization and control.
5. Jes Fan, Contrapposto (2023)
By this point, it’s clear that the installations were the standout stars of the Biennial, at least from my perspective. They dominated the space, demanding attention through their unique combinations of materials that you wouldn’t normally expect to see together. Jes Fan’s Contrapposto is a prime example of this creative material interplay, blending a variety of textures and forms in a way that felt both unexpected and seamless.
At first glance, Contrapposto presents as a towering structure, its imposing height immediately catching the eye. The base appears to be made of metal, but upon closer inspection, the surface has been treated with a kind of pigmented finish that gives it a distinct texture—something between industrial and organic. As I moved around the piece, I noticed these off-white elements scattered throughout. Initially, I assumed these were made of molded plaster, given their opaque, matte appearance, but their composition seemed unusual.
What I didn’t notice at first were the delicate, translucent glass spheres embedded within the structure. These glass orbs, which almost seemed to melt and sink into the metal framework, added an element of fragility to the otherwise rigid and structured form. It’s possible I missed them at first because of the constant movement in the gallery, or perhaps because I was so focused on the height and surface treatment of the piece. Once I did notice them, though, they became a focal point—soft, organic forms that contrasted beautifully with the sharp, angular lines of the metal.
The juxtaposition of materials is what really drew me in—the variance in color and texture, the strange white casts, the unexpected glass forms. The more I looked, the more I became fascinated with the way the piece held itself together. Following the joints of the structure led me to discover new details, like the way the glass spheres seemed to pool into the frame as if they were slowly sinking or melting. It’s this level of detail and complexity that kept me engaged.
It wasn’t until I read the label that I realized what I had assumed were plaster molds were actually something far more innovative: polylactic acid (PLA) filament, created through 3D printing. The molds had been digitally generated and then manipulated, distorted in a way that would be impossible to achieve through traditional casting methods. This realization completely shifted my understanding of the piece. I’ve always believed that when artists use new technologies, it should be to create something that couldn’t exist without it, and Contrapposto exemplifies that philosophy. Without 3D printing, these unique forms—so precise, yet so distorted—wouldn’t be possible.
6. Lotus L. Kang, Cascades (2023)
Installations often grab your attention with their scale and materials, and Lotus L. Kang’s Cascades was no exception—though I found myself with mixed feelings about it. Upon first glance, both Brian and I immediately thought of Puerto Rican artist Ivelisse Jiménez, even though the materials were different. The connection came from the hanging sheets, reminiscent of Jiménez’s work, though here Kang’s sheets were large swaths of undeveloped film rather than plastic or other more traditional materials.
The concept behind Kang’s piece is intriguing. The undeveloped film sheets are exposed to light as part of the installation, meaning that the exposure process begins the moment the work is on display. This creates a site-specific, ever-evolving piece, as the film will develop differently depending on the light and the environment where it’s exhibited. In theory, this makes Cascades unique to every space it inhabits, with its appearance changing over time as a direct result of its surroundings. I tend to appreciate artwork that transforms, growing and morphing through exposure and interaction, but something about this installation left me feeling unsettled.
One of the first challenges I encountered was the gallery space itself. The room where Cascades was displayed felt cramped, as though the organizers hadn’t fully considered how the piece would interact with the physical space—and the people moving through it. Even with a “5-person at a time” rule in place, the space still felt constricting. I was constantly aware of the crowd waiting to get in, and the fear of accidentally bumping into the hanging film sheets kept me from fully engaging with the work. The pressure to move through quickly diminished my ability to appreciate the subtleties of the piece, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being rushed.
As I continued to observe Cascades, I found myself drawn to the warm, inviting quality of the film sheets themselves. But there was something jarring about the way they were hung. The sheets were suspended from cold, polished steel beams, which featured rounded perforations of varying sizes. This felt like an unnecessary contrast. As someone with an industrial design background, I’m naturally attentive to structural choices, and in this case, the brutal, industrial quality of the steel felt at odds with the soft, organic transformation of the film. If steel had to be used, I would have preferred an oxidized finish—something that could have complemented the evolving nature of the film rather than fighting against it. And those circular perforations? They added no value to the piece; in fact, they detracted from it. A more rectangular geometry, echoing the shape of the film, would have created a much cleaner, more cohesive visual experience.
Looking up at the installation, I suddenly realized I hadn’t looked down yet. On the floor was a box, with a few objects on top—yet another element that felt out of place. I was being met with three different ideas that didn’t seem to belong together: the film sheets, the cold steel beams, and now this random box on the floor. It felt as though Kang had too many proposals and hadn’t resolved them into a coherent whole. The various components of the installation were competing rather than collaborating, and the overall effect was confusing rather than thought-provoking.
As I exited the gallery, all I could think about was how I wished the film sheets had been presented on their own, in a larger space where they could breathe. I wanted to see a crowd moving through and between them, fully experiencing the interplay of light and shadow, allowing the film to tell its own story. The sheets had a quiet power, a potential for transformation that was lost in the clutter of unnecessary elements. Sometimes, less really is more, and in this case, I think the purity of the film sheets on their own would have been far more impactful than the competing ideas forced into this installation.
7. Constantina Zavitsanos, Call To Post (Violet) And All The Time
New York City is known for its fast pace, noise, and crowds, and the Whitney Biennial undoubtedly mirrored that energy. However, Constantina Zavitsanos’ Call To Post (Violet) And All The Time offered a moment of respite amidst the chaos, creating a space that invited visitors to slow down, reflect, and breathe.
This installation was housed in a darkened room, spacious enough to accommodate a good number of people, though many visitors hesitated to enter. The space was softly lit by violet light illuminating a ramp that spanned the center of the room, creating an intimate yet otherworldly atmosphere. As you stepped onto the ramp, you could feel a gentle vibration beneath your feet, accompanied by a low hum emerging from the platform itself. The effect was subtle but immersive, encouraging a sensory experience that was both physical and meditative.
For some of us, the experience became more personal. We decided to sit on the carpeted ramp, placing our hands on the vibrating surface and closing our eyes to fully absorb the moment. It felt as though the installation was designed not just to be viewed, but to be felt, inviting you to engage with it in a tactile and emotional way. However, for those who, like us, sat on the ramp and placed their hands on the floor, I hope you had hand sanitizer handy afterward—after all, this is New York, and the thought of where people’s shoes had been was a sobering reminder of the city’s grit.
Despite that, the experience in Zavitsanos’ installation was uniquely calming. We spent several minutes there, quietly soaking in the vibrations and the sound, and when we finally returned to the bustle of the Biennial, I felt remarkably refreshed, as if the piece had acted as a palate cleanser amidst the sensory overload of the exhibit. The piece offered a rare opportunity to disconnect from the constant stimulation of the city and the gallery, and for those who missed it or didn’t fully engage with it, they missed out on a truly special experience—one that felt more like a moment of collective meditation than a typical art installation.
I could go on indefinitely about the various pieces that caught my attention. Among the notable artists deserving recognition are Ektor Garcia, Eddie Rodolfo Aparicio, Kiyan Williams, Sharon Hayes, Harmony Hammond, and certainly one of my favorites, Carmen Winant. However, I must move on, or this text would never end, as I also want to share my experience at the Affordable Art Fair.
After leaving the Whitney, my thirst for more art led us to the Affordable Art Fair, which Brian had eagerly anticipated. I’m not here to review the fair but rather to reflect on it. For me, it was fascinating to observe how these types of fairs operate—the organization, the presentation, the artists, the art, and, most importantly, the pricing.
Coming from Puerto Rico and currently residing in Tennessee, large art fairs like this are relatively rare for me. This experience provided a valuable opportunity to see how artists are represented and the type of art being showcased, which, unsurprisingly, leaned heavily toward the commercial. That’s not to say it was all bad; you could appreciate how some artists were presenting more toned-down versions of their work or pieces that seemed to build toward something larger. Touring these spaces was definitely interesting, but I found it odd—perhaps due to my previous experiences with smaller fairs—that many gallery booths lacked representatives or even the artists promoting their own work. I’m accustomed to smaller-town or island events where a representative or the artist themselves engages with visitors and prospective buyers. The absence of that personal touch felt somewhat impersonal. Yet, in a fast-paced city like New York, it’s understandable; the social dynamic can sometimes feel non-existent.
That said, we did have the opportunity to speak with an artist, Monica Villarroel Celsi, who was present beside her work. Upon seeing our group, she immediately greeted us, discussed her art, and we bonded over our academic backgrounds—her in architecture and ours in industrial design, fields that share a strong connection. It was a treat to engage with someone so passionate about their work.
Regarding pricing, I was surprised by the posted prices of many pieces. Without intending to undermine another artist’s work, I found that some prices did not seem to reflect the value of the pieces I saw. Having been accustomed to the more modest prices in Puerto Rico, it struck me that established artists there often price their work within the fair’s definition of “affordable,” yet they struggle to sell. Collectors sometimes take advantage of Puerto Rican artists, negotiating prices down due to the economic situation on the island, even resulting in loans that may go unpaid. I concluded that Puerto Rican artists often have to price their work higher than what they themselves would ask. As a small collector of works in smaller formats, I often find myself paying above the asking price because I recognize that their work is more valuable than they realize.
On the brighter side, as someone who appreciates color and design, I found plenty to enjoy. I was drawn to vibrant, vintage-inspired architecture—my ultimate weakness. However, like my experience at the Whitney Biennial, I regrettably failed to take note of the specific artists whose work I admired at the fair. This was a total oversight, and I apologize for this amateurish mistake. I encountered a range of amusing art, including emoji eggs, pigeons with food on their heads, and Valentine’s candy hearts adorned with some very NSFW phrases. I also saw vibrant food-themed paintings that would fit perfectly in a food shop. One piece that truly captivated me was crafted entirely from fragments of rules, cut and arranged into a stunning graphic pattern that held my attention.
With all that said, if you missed the previous Affordable Art Fair, the next one starts tomorrow. Although I won’t be able to attend this time, I can assure you it will be a treat.
