Tag Archives: sculpture

LA’s 60-Foot Light Sculpture Actually Makes Music Visible

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An orchestra can fill a room with sound, yet the experience of that sound is mostly invisible. For someone curious about live classical music, a screen might seem like the obvious way to make a performance feel more immediate. But projected images can also pull attention away from the musicians. Grimanesa Amorós’s Radiance offers a more interesting answer: let the room itself help tell the story.

Commissioned by the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the light sculpture was created for performances of Alexander Scriabin’s Prometheus: The Poem of Fire at Walt Disney Concert Hall. It hung above the orchestra while a programmed sequence of colors unfolded with the music. Amorós also coordinated the hall’s existing lights with the sculpture, so the effect reached beyond the stage and into the audience’s surroundings.

Designer: Grimanesa Amorós

At 60 feet long and 35 feet wide, Radiance has the scale to command a room. It is made with reflective material and rope-like LED tubing that changes color. Those practical details matter because this is not a video pretending to be a physical object. The light occupies real space above real musicians, and its shifting glow can change how the hall feels without replacing the performance at its center.

The sequence was planned second by second around the orchestra, with six major synchronized moments. I like that distinction. A lighting effect that reacts to every beat could easily become a demonstration of clever technology. Here, the programming is closer to staging: deliberate enough to give a musical passage a visual shape, but not so busy that it asks the audience to watch for the next trick.

Fire is the work’s starting point, which makes sense beside a piece called Prometheus. Amorós draws on both the Greek figure who gave fire to humanity and Viracocha, an Incan creator deity. That could have led to a very literal display of flames. Instead, Radiance treats fire as an idea that can move through color, intensity and space. Its subject is transformation, not an illustration of a myth.

That choice gives the installation room to breathe. A red glow above the orchestra can feel urgent; amber spreading across the sculpture, stage and seating can feel warmer and more expansive. Neither color needs to tell viewers precisely what the music means. The visual experience can accompany the sound while leaving people free to make their own connections, which is more generous than spelling out every emotion for them.

Walt Disney Concert Hall is hardly a blank canvas. Its interior already gives a performance a strong visual setting. Rather than treating that architecture as a backdrop, Amorós made the house lighting part of the same sequence as the sculpture. That feels like the smartest design move here. If the room changes with the music, the audience is included in the experience instead of simply looking up at an object.

It is tempting to describe a project like this as a concert crossed with a light show, but that sells both halves short. The appeal is not that classical music has been dressed up to compete with a pop spectacle. It is that visual design can make an existing performance feel more accessible without demanding a new set of habits from the listener. You can follow the colors closely or let them register at the edges of your attention.

There is a risk with any large-scale installation that the photographs become the main event. Radiance certainly photographs well, especially when its strands glow against the hall’s interior. But its real purpose depended on timing, sound and the shared experience of sitting in the room. Presented across three performances, it was made for a particular encounter rather than an endlessly repeatable display.

That is why Radiance stays with me as a design idea. It does not try to explain Scriabin’s music or promise that light can replace listening. It addresses a smaller, more human problem: how to help an audience feel connected to something they cannot see. By giving the music a presence overhead and around the seats, Amorós made the concert hall feel less like a container for a performance and more like part of it.

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These Glass Vases Look Better Empty, and Nobody Questions It

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A vase usually gets its moment when the flowers arrive. Once the bouquet is gone, even an expensive one can become background scenery. That is the small, familiar problem Maxim Velčovský takes on in Photosynthesis, his new exhibition of glass vases. These pieces don’t wait for a florist to give them a reason to exist. Their rounded forms, pools of color, and shifting reflections turn the empty vase into the main event.

I think that’s a more interesting proposition than another object described as a “statement piece.” Most of us already own things we liked enough to bring home and then somehow stopped noticing. Velčovský’s vases rely on something a room can’t hold still: light. As it moves across their surfaces, different curves emerge, colors deepen, and reflections interrupt the glass. Looking at the photographs, I can imagine finding a new detail each time I walk past one.

Designer: Maxim Velčovský

The silhouettes are strange in the best way. Bulbous shapes cluster around a central vessel, swelling outward like droplets caught just before they fall. Several are topped with a broad, nearly flat rim that gives all that restless volume an unexpectedly calm finish. In one piece, translucent lavender folds around dark, mirrored surfaces. In another, amber, purple, and smoky tones appear to press against one another, as if they are still deciding where to settle.

Then there’s the gold-toned vase, which looks almost liquid despite its solid form. Its polished surface pulls in the room around it, while the rounded glass protrusions make its outline difficult to pin down. The blue pieces have a cooler, more aquatic character, with curves that resemble a wave folding into itself. None of these objects needs an elaborate setting to make an impression. They seem more likely to change the mood of a space than to match it.

The exhibition’s title gives those visual effects a larger idea to orbit. Photosynthesis turns light, water, and carbon dioxide into the material that sustains plant life. Velčovský’s glass doesn’t perform that process, of course. Instead, it makes light feel active. It passes through clear areas, catches on colored ones, and returns from reflective surfaces looking altered. The vase becomes less of a container for something living and more of a way to watch transformation happen.

The exhibition text takes that idea further, describing the vases as bodies at the edge of creation. Art and design theorist Dr. Stephan Hamel reads a kind of gender-neutral sensuality in their forms. That language may be more intense than most people expect from a vase, and you don’t have to share the interpretation to enjoy the work. Still, it gets at why these shapes are so compelling. They swell, overlap, and cling to one another rather than sitting politely in perfect symmetry.

Up close, at least in the images, some of the forms look almost digitally impossible. That makes their material origin especially appealing. The pieces were made at the AJETO glassworks and the new Edo Studio glassworks in Svojkov, grounding those otherworldly shapes in glassmaking rather than a render. Velčovský has long worked across design and conceptual art, and he is also the artistic director of Lasvit. Here, the craft and the idea seem to need each other.

Photosynthesis will be on view October 7 through 11 at the Riding Hall of Prague Castle as part of Designblok 2026. It’s a grand setting for objects that reward a closer look, though the photographs suggest they could be just as absorbing beside an ordinary window. That contrast is part of their appeal to me. They’re ambitious enough to carry an exhibition concept, yet familiar enough to make me reconsider the vase sitting on my own shelf.

I don’t need a vase to explain the origins of life every time I look at it. I do like one that reminds me how much can happen between an object and the light falling on it. Velčovský’s vases make a convincing case that decorative objects can ask for attention without demanding a special occasion. Flowers would look lovely in them, I’m sure. But for once, I’d be tempted to leave the vase empty.

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The Park Sculpture Nobody Expected to Double as a Basketball Hoop

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Most public sculpture asks you to look and keep walking. You admire the bronze figure, read the little plaque, maybe snap a photo, and move along to wherever you were actually headed. The art stays over there, behind an invisible line, and you stay over here. That gap between viewer and object is the quiet problem a lot of city parks have never solved: they install expensive, meaningful work, and then wonder why nobody lingers.

Alexandre Arrechea’s answer, installed this year at Biidaasige Park as part of Toronto’s new Lassonde Art Trail, is to remove the line entirely. Orange Functional is a twenty-foot steel tree with basketball hoops sprouting off its branches, and you’re invited to bring your own ball and start shooting. No velvet rope, no “please do not touch” energy. Just a big red tree standing at the park entrance, daring you to play.

Designer: Alexandre Arrechea

I like that the idea took over a decade to get here. Arrechea’s archive traces the concept back to 2010, when the hoop-covered tree existed purely as sculpture, something you’d circle and photograph but never actually use. It wasn’t until a 2022 commission from Art Omi in upstate New York that he reengineered the branches so real basketballs could drop through the nets. That’s a meaningful shift for an artist. Turning a static object into a functional one means giving up some control. Once people can touch the work, they also get to misuse it, argue about it, get bored of it. Arrechea made that trade anyway, and the piece is better for it.

What sells me on the design is how little it explains itself. A basketball hoop is one of the most recognizable objects in American and Canadian public life, sitting outside driveways, gyms, and rec centers everywhere. Arrechea doesn’t reinvent it so much as multiply it until it stops making sense as sport equipment and starts reading as something closer to a fruit tree. Art Omi’s own description leans into that: as people throw the ball and it falls from hoop to grass, it evokes oranges dropping from a branch. The title does double duty, too, pairing the color with the idea of something actually working the way it looks like it shouldn’t.

Placing the sculpture at a park entrance, next to newly planted real trees, feels like the smartest curatorial choice in the whole project. It’s not tucked into a sculpture garden where only people already looking for art will find it. It’s the first thing you see walking in, competing for attention with the skyline behind it. A parent walking past with a kid who has a basketball in their bag doesn’t need to understand Arrechea’s twenty-year interest in public gathering spaces to want to stop and shoot a few hoops. The concept sells itself in about four seconds.

There’s a version of this idea that could have felt gimmicky, a photo-op sculpture built mainly for Instagram. Arrechea avoids that trap by making the interaction the entire point rather than an afterthought bolted onto a finished artwork. He’s spent over two decades returning to the basketball court as a symbol, and this piece is where that research finally gets to be useful instead of just visible. You don’t need the artist statement to enjoy it. You need a ball and about ninety seconds of patience while you figure out which branch to aim for.

Public art has a reputation problem in a lot of cities: expensive, confusing, occasionally resented by the people who live near it. Orange Functional sidesteps all of that by refusing to be precious. It asks for nothing more than a basketball and a little curiosity, and it gives back an actual reason to stop walking. That’s a rarer trade in public space than it should be.

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The Bali Sculpture That Finally Makes Overshot Views Feel New

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Bali has a photo problem. Not a bad one, exactly, but a familiar one: the same rice terrace, the same infinity pool angle, the same swing shot dangling over the same jungle canopy, reposted by a few million travelers who all found the identical spot through the same map pin. When a landscape gets photographed enough times, it starts to flatten out in your memory before you’ve even seen it in person. You arrive, and it feels like déjà vu instead of discovery.

That’s the quiet problem Vincent Leroy’s new installation seems to answer, even if he’d probably never put it in those terms. Tucked into the hills of Munduk, “Eccentric Lenses” is a field of Fresnel lenses mounted on posts, catching the wind and spinning on axes that aren’t centered, so nothing ever settles into a repeatable frame. Point a camera at it in the morning and again at dusk and you won’t get the same picture twice, not because the location changed, but because the lenses never stop rearranging it for you.

Designer: Vincent Leroy

Fresnel lenses are the flat, ridged discs you’d recognize from old lighthouses or projector screens, built to bend light without the bulk of a curved glass lens. Leroy has been experimenting with them for years, but this piece feels like his most site-specific use of the idea. Instead of distorting a studio backdrop, he’s pointed the lenses at Bali’s actual terrain, its rice fields, its distant volcanic peaks, its low clouds, and let the wind do the editing. Every gust nudges a lens a few degrees, and the mountain behind it splits, doubles, or slides sideways for a second before reassembling.

What I appreciate here is the restraint. There’s no motor, no app, no LED strip pretending to be magic. It’s just optics and weather, working together in a way that feels almost stubbornly analog for 2026. We’ve spent the better part of a decade being told that wonder needs a screen attached to it, that a landscape only becomes interesting once it’s been filtered, looped, or turned into a Reel. Leroy’s installation goes the opposite direction. It takes the one thing every travel photo tries to eliminate, unpredictability, and makes it the entire point.

There’s a reason kinetic art tied to natural forces keeps resurfacing right now, from wind-driven sculptures to mirror installations chasing the sun across a field. People are a little exhausted by content that behaves exactly the way it’s supposed to. A piece that changes because the wind decided to pick up speed is refreshing precisely because nobody, including the artist, can fully predict what it’ll look like an hour from now. That unpredictability used to be considered a flaw in outdoor art. Here it’s the mechanism.

It also helps that Leroy didn’t ask Bali’s landscape to hold still for him. The lenses don’t compete with the rice terraces or try to outshine the mountains; they just keep reintroducing you to them. That’s a small but telling choice. So much of contemporary installation art wants to be the main event, the thing you drove out to see. This piece works because it insists the actual landscape was always worth a second look, it just needed a nudge to prove it.

I don’t think “Eccentric Lenses” is trying to solve tourism fatigue or fix anyone’s relationship with their camera roll. But it’s hard not to read it that way anyway, especially watching footage of a single mountain peak splintering into five overlapping versions of itself, then quietly reforming into one. For a moment, an overexposed view of Bali stops feeling used up. It just feels new again, which might be the most useful trick any piece of art can pull off right now.

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Coffee Grounds and Tea Leaves Finally Become Art

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Think about how many cups of coffee or tea you go through in a week. Now multiply that by every coffee shop, office kitchen, and bubble tea counter in a single city. All those spent grounds and soggy leaves go somewhere after the last sip, and that somewhere is almost always a bin, then a landfill, where they sit doing nothing useful at all.

That’s the quiet waste problem three Taiwanese designers decided to tackle, and their answer isn’t a compost bin or a recycling app. It’s furniture, lighting, and sculpture made from the very stuff most of us scrape into the trash without a second thought. The project is called After the Last Sip, and it turns discarded tea leaves from London’s bubble tea shops and used coffee grounds from local cafés into large-scale 3D-printed objects.

Designers: Chao-Chun Kung, Ching-Yu Lin and Chen-Yang
Chang

The team behind it, Chao-Chun Kung, Ching-Yu Lin, and Chen-Yang Chang, worked out of Fab.Pub in East London, where they dried and ground the collected residues, then mixed them with PLA, a biodegradable polymer, to create a printable composite. From there, robotic 3D printers built the material into shapes designed through parametric systems, meaning the geometry itself grows out of code as much as it does out of leftover tea and coffee. The whole thing shows during the London Design Festival, running September 12 through 18.

What I like about this project is that each designer treated the same basic waste stream as a completely different kind of material. Kung’s piece, CHA, leans into Taiwan’s tea culture directly, building its form around a parametric system derived from the Chinese character for tea itself. Lin’s Undetermined Shore uses coffee-ground composites to create layered, sediment-like surfaces that echo Taiwan’s shifting coastline, which is a clever way to make a cup of coffee feel geological. Chang’s Nexus Bloom pushes the tea-waste composite into continuous, flowing parametric forms that feel closer to something grown than something printed.

None of these pieces try to hide what they’re made of. That’s the part that actually sold me on the whole idea. So much sustainable design ends up disguising its origins, smoothing away anything that might remind you it used to be trash. After the Last Sip does the opposite. The printed layers stay visible, the particles show through, the surfaces stay irregular and a little rough in places. You can see the tea leaves and coffee grounds sitting right there in the material, not hidden under a coat of paint or a clever finish.

I think that honesty is actually the point. A lot of us drink our coffee and tea on autopilot, never really registering that we’re generating a small pile of organic waste every single day, forever, without thinking twice about where it lands. Seeing that same waste reappear as a sculptural object or a light fixture forces a tiny recalibration. It’s the same material, just given a second job instead of a one-way trip to landfill.

I won’t pretend every object here looks effortless. Some of the surfaces are clearly still experimental, and you can tell the designers are working through what this composite can and can’t do at scale. But that rough edge is part of what makes the project feel real rather than staged for a trend piece. It reads like genuine material research, not a marketing stunt dressed up as sustainability.

Design festivals produce a lot of noise every year, plenty of it forgettable within a week. This one has staying power because it doesn’t ask you to buy anything or change your habits overnight. It just asks you to look at your empty coffee cup differently for a second, and that’s a small shift I can get behind.

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The Ceramic Figures Turning Ancient Mesopotamia Into a Dress

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The first time you see Maryam Yousif’s ceramic figures, you feel like you’re being introduced to someone. Not admiring an object, not reading a plaque. Actually meeting a person who has a lot to say.

That is the whole idea. Yousif, an Iraqi-American artist based in San Francisco, has spent years building a universe of glazed ceramic figures she calls the “Habibti,” Arabic for “sweetheart” or “my love.” They are not decorative in the passive sense. They stand with quiet confidence, robed in dresses made of repeating rosette patterns, eye motifs, pomegranate shapes, and even other women’s faces. They look at you. Or rather, they look past you, the way the oldest, most self-assured things tend to do.

Designer: Maryam Yousif

What makes these figures so compelling to spend time with is the dresses. Each Habibti is draped in a pattern that functions almost like a visual archive. Rosettes borrowed from ancient Mesopotamian and Assyrian design. Repeating eye motifs that nod to protection and evil eye traditions woven throughout Middle Eastern and North African cultures. Sometimes the fabric of the dress is made entirely of other women’s faces, stacked and repeating like a tessellation of solidarity. Each pattern is distinct, but they all share the same quality of layering meaning without demanding that you decode it. Yousif renders all of it in vivid glaze, tangerine, wedgwood blue, desert yellow, green, giving what could have been scholarly reference the warmth and personality of something made with genuine affection.

The figures themselves are elegant and simplified. Black hair. Arms quietly at their sides. Some carry what looks like a structured bag, a detail lifted from ancient Assyrian carvings, where divine figures are often depicted holding a similar vessel. Yousif doesn’t footnote this for you. She trusts that the image works whether you recognize the source or not, and she is right to. The Habibti figures have a presence that operates independently of art history knowledge. You don’t need context to feel their composure.

What Yousif has built here is not a series so much as a cast of characters. Each figure has a distinct personality that comes through in color palette and patterning. Habibti in Yellow Desert Rosette Dress reads as ceremonial, almost solar. Habibti in Tangerine Rosette Dress is warmer, more intimate. Habibti in Green Rosette Dress feels grounded, earthly. The variation is intentional, and it matters. These are not multiples. They are individuals.

The Habibti concept draws from the Sumerian votive tradition, the practice of placing small clay figures in temples as stand-ins for worshippers who could not always be physically present. Those ancient figures were made to pray on behalf of the living. Yousif updates that idea with bold color, contemporary craft, and the Bay Area’s funk art sensibility, placing women at the center and naming each one after a term of endearment. The gesture reframes devotion entirely.

I keep thinking about the craft itself. Ceramics as a medium has a complicated relationship with fine art hierarchies. It has historically been positioned as craft, as decorative, as lesser than painting or sculpture. Yousif doesn’t seem particularly interested in resolving that tension. She just makes work that demands to be taken seriously on its own terms, which is arguably a more effective argument than any theoretical position could make. The glaze work is rich and precise. The forms are confident. The scale, mostly under 20 inches tall, makes the figures feel personal rather than monumental, like objects meant to share a room with you rather than be observed from a distance.

The Habibti sculptures are, at their core, about presence. The presence of women. The presence of culture across time. The presence of craft as a living, breathing carrier of memory. Maryam Yousif built an entire world out of glazed clay and ancient references, and it looks like nothing else being made right now. Not a revival. Not a tribute. Something genuinely new. That, more than anything, is the point.

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The Hidden Part of Every Book Just Became a Sculpture

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Every book you have ever held has a secret. Not a story buried between its pages, but a structural one, a quiet piece of craftsmanship stitched along the spine that most people never think to look for. A new work by Singaporean artist Adelene Koh not only knows about it. It makes it the entire point.

“Endless” (2025) is a large, ring-like sculpture built from paper, embroidery threads, and aluminum wire. It is meditative in form, circular in structure, and resembles a torus. It is also, depending on how much you know about bookbinding, either immediately legible or completely mysterious. Either way, it stops you. The scale of it, the density of color, the almost compulsive repetition of its construction, all of it registers before you even begin to understand what you are looking at.

Designer: Adelene Koh

What you are looking at is an endband. Or rather, what an endband becomes when it is freed from the book it was always meant to serve. If you have never heard that word, you are in good company. The endband is a structural and decorative element sewn along the head and tail of a book’s spine, a strip of colored thread that adds reinforcement and a quiet finishing touch. It is the part that usually disappears the moment a cover is glued on. Most readers never see it. Most of us never think to ask what is actually holding a book together. “Endless” takes that hidden element and builds an entire object around it, blowing the endband up into something that can finally be seen on its own terms.

The construction method is as considered as the concept. Koh used the front bead method, an 18th and 19th century English sewing technique, worked around a single aluminum wire core. Into that structure she integrated hand-folded and hand-cut pages formed into quires, with additional folds along the fore-edge. The result is not just visually striking but physically demanding to comprehend. The labor embedded in the piece is immense, and the closer you look, the more apparent that becomes. It is the kind of object that rewards slowness and punishes a quick glance.

The material choice deserves its own attention. Paper is usually the fragile thing in the room, the thing that tears, yellows, and eventually dissolves. Here, it becomes the structural backbone. It holds the entire form in place. That inversion feels intentional, a kind of material optimism that refuses to accept the obvious hierarchy between what is precious and what is expendable. Thread, wire, and paper, three materials associated with impermanence, come together to produce something that feels permanent and resolved.

“Endless” was shortlisted for the 2026 Loewe Foundation Craft Prize, one of the more prestigious recognitions in contemporary craftsmanship, and the piece carries the weight of that context well. The prize consistently spotlights work that sits at the intersection of tradition and innovation, and this fits squarely in that space. It is technically rooted in centuries-old bookbinding practice while producing something that looks entirely contemporary. That balance is genuinely difficult to achieve, and rarer than it should be.

I keep thinking about what the design is actually arguing. We tend to celebrate the surface of things: the cover, the finish, the outer form. The integrity of any well-made object usually lives in the parts nobody shows you. “Endless” makes that invisible infrastructure visible, and in doing so, asks a quiet but pointed question about what we choose to hide and what we choose to show.

The 2026 prize was ultimately awarded to South Korean artist Jongjin Park for “Strata of Illusion,” selected by a jury that included architect Frida Escobedo, designer Patricia Urquiola, and curator Abraham Thomas. But the shortlist carries its own weight, and the presence of “Endless” on it feels like a signal worth paying attention to. Bookbinding rarely gets the cultural spotlight it deserves. As a design object, “Endless” makes the strongest possible case for why it should.

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This Bright Yellow Kinetic Sculpture in London Is Meant to Be Walked Through

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There are artworks you look at, and there are artworks you walk through. Jesús Rafael Soto understood the difference better than almost anyone. The Venezuelan kinetic artist spent his career dismantling the passive relationship between viewer and object, and nowhere is that ambition more fully realized than in his ‘Pénétrable’ series — sculptures built not to be observed, but to be entered. ‘Pénétrable BBL Jaune’, originally conceived in 1999, remains the purest expression of that idea.

The work is deceptively simple in form. A white steel frame suspends thousands of yellow PVC tubes — around 4,000 in total — that hang in a dense, luminous field. At a distance, it reads almost like a monolithic block of color, a solid presence that the eye cannot immediately parse. Move closer, and the illusion shifts. Step inside, and it dissolves entirely. The tubes brush against your arms, your shoulders, your face. The sculpture is no longer in front of you — you are inside it, and it is responding to you. That exchange, that collapse of separation between the work and the person experiencing it, was Soto’s lifelong obsession.

Designer: Jesús Rafael Soto

Soto was born in Ciudad Bolívar, Venezuela, in 1923, and spent much of his career in Paris, where he became central to the kinetic and Op Art movements of the 1950s and 60s. He died in 2005, but his estate relaunched ‘Pénétrable BBL Jaune’ in 2023 to mark the centenary of his birth, ensuring the work would find new audiences in new contexts. In 2026, that context became London. The Serpentine Galleries installed the piece outside Serpentine South as part of their summer art programme — the first work by Soto ever shown outdoors in the UK.

Serpentine artistic director Hans Ulrich Obrist, who helped select the work, described Soto’s ‘Pénétrable’ as a genuine invention — a shift from object to relation. “It goes from an object to a relation,” Obrist noted, “and we felt that would be amazing as part of our public art projects.” That framing feels precise. The yellow tubes are not decorative. They are a mechanism for recalibrating how a body moves through space, how a crowd becomes a participant, how color becomes atmosphere rather than surface.

What makes ‘Pénétrable BBL Jaune’ endure is its refusal to age into mere spectacle. In a cultural moment saturated with immersive experiences engineered for the camera, Soto’s work asks something different — not that you photograph it, but that you feel it. The tubes sway. The light shifts. The boundary between you and the artwork, for a moment, disappears entirely.

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The Urn With 4 Screens Showing Moving Images of the Person You Lost

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Cremation urns have existed for thousands of years, but their design language has barely moved. They tend toward the ceremonial and the generic, pottery shapes lifted from antiquity or polished boxes that draw from the visual vocabulary of caskets. The underlying assumption across nearly all of them is the same: that the vessel marks an ending. That what’s inside has arrived, not departed.

The Transcendence Urn takes a different philosophical position entirely. It belongs to a series of objects conceived as temporary dwellings for the remains of loved ones, held in anticipation of what comes next. The form it takes to express this idea is strikingly futuristic, almost sci-fi in its ambition, built on the premise that the urn theoretically facilitates the occupant’s journey toward a higher state of existence rather than simply containing what was left behind.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The structure stands 25 inches tall and 12 inches wide, built from painted wood in a form that seems to reach upward. Stepped tiers stack toward the top, followed by a gold sphere that crowns the whole structure and is removable from its own tiered plinth. The lower body radiates outward in layered chevron forms, pointing downward like fins, giving the whole piece a sense of directed energy, as if something inside it is moving rather than resting.

The four panel spaces near the top of the urn are where the personal dimension takes shape. Owners can fill them with photographs selected from a curated series of symbolically resonant images, or with their own. The possibilities run a wide emotional and metaphysical range: images of open sky and drifting clouds, a sunlit hillside, a field of orange flowers, a galaxy, fire, storm, and lightning are all part of the symbolic vocabulary this design draws from. Of course, photos of the actual person can go there, too.

That choice matters more than it might first appear. Most memorial objects leave the bereaved as passive recipients of a fixed form. This one asks them to make decisions about meaning, to assign symbols, and to decide what the person they lost should be surrounded by. It’s a quiet but real kind of agency during a period when very little feels controllable.

A digital variant of the Transcendence Urn replaces the four static panels with four screens displaying moving images and sounds, turning the object from a still memorial into something more like a living one. That version shifts the experience even further, letting the presence of the deceased linger in a more active, dynamic way rather than being fixed to a single still photograph chosen on a single day of grief.

It’s also worth noting what the object looks like on a shelf or a table. It doesn’t look like an urn. It looks like a piece of speculative design, the kind of object that invites questions before anyone knows what it holds. That unfamiliarity carries its own kind of comfort: it doesn’t announce loss the same way a traditional vessel does, and it doesn’t ask the viewer to feel a particular thing on sight.

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Art-ware Is the Dining Set That Never Has to Go in a Cabinet

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Tableware has always had a storage problem. A complete set of cups, bowls, and cutlery takes up a cabinet’s worth of space for the privilege of being used a few times a week. The rest of the time, it sits behind closed doors, out of sight and contributing nothing to the space around it. That’s a lot of material devoted to a fairly passive existence.

Michael Jantzen’s Art-ware prototype takes a different approach to the same set of objects. Rather than designing tableware that gets put away after a meal, he designed a system where the dishes, cups, and cutlery connect to each other and become something else entirely: freestanding abstract sculptures that live out in the open, doubling as décor when they’re not being used for eating and drinking.

Designer: Michael Jantzen

The key to the whole system is a set of male and female connectors molded directly into each piece. These are simple protrusions that stick out from the surfaces of the bowls, cups, and cutlery handles, allowing any component to plug into or stack onto any other. A bowl can lock onto a cup, a cup onto another cup, cutlery can stand upright in an opening or connect through a handle, and the whole assembly stays together without any separate hardware.

The configurations that result don’t look accidental. Cups stacked and plugged together form vertical columns; bowls assembled at various orientations create clusters that read as organic, almost biomorphic forms. Slide cutlery upright through the assembled pieces, and the resulting structure starts to resemble a piece of abstract art you’d find mounted in a gallery, not something you’d normally find next to a kitchen sink.

That’s precisely what Jantzen is after. The Art-ware set doesn’t need to be stored in a cabinet because the assembled form is meant to sit on a shelf or table as a decorative object, a sculpture that also happens to be a dining set. You pull it apart before a meal and reassemble it afterward in whatever configuration suits you that day. No two arrangements have to be the same.

The material is recyclable plastic, and Jantzen frames the concept in straightforward sustainability terms: one product that performs multiple functions uses fewer resources than two separate products doing the same jobs independently. There’s no dedicated storage unit needed, no extra display piece required. The dining set is the décor, and the décor is the dining set.

Art-ware is a prototype and the first in a planned series of designs that expand the idea further. The concept is broad enough to go well beyond tableware, and Jantzen has spent decades applying this kind of thinking to furniture, architecture, and public installations. The dining set is a compact version of the same logic: objects that commit fully to their function while quietly doing something else on the side.

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