Oficina Marques: A Cool Collaboration in Lisbon

The playful atelier in the Bairro Alto neighborhood turns recycled materials, folklore and everyday objects into irresistible art.

When planning a trip, we always start big, with days packed with places we want to see. But once we arrive, reality (and time and exhaustion) usually means scaling back and shifting things around a bit.

One destination that didn’t get cut from our Lisbon list: Oficina Marques, a gallery and shop in Bairro Alto, one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods and, remarkably, one left relatively untouched by the 1755 earthquake. 

“The shop feels like a cabinet of curiosities — brimming with original art and objects crafted in the adjacent workshop. ”

I first came across their atelier through a feature in Surface’s Design Dispatch newsletter about Lisbon Design Week. I was instantly drawn to their playful aesthetic, and when I showed my husband, Wally, their Instagram, he was sold, too. 

The Creative Duo Behind Oficina Marques

The studio is led by the creative duo Gezo Marques and José Aparício Gonçalves, whose distinctive style draws inspiration from the natural world and embodies the motto “tusa de viver” — the irrepressible desire to live. Their work explores several themes including: Mar (Sea), Mato (Forest), Corpo (Body), Fé (Faith), and Lisboa (Lisbon), each offering a window into how they see life, place and the materials they transform into art.

Oficina means “workshop” in Portuguese, a nod to the handmade nature of their work, while Marques comes from the surname of one of its founders, Gezo, grounding the studio’s name in both craft and personal identity. Their atelier is located in the Interpress building, a former printing and distribution center for newspapers and magazines that was gradually transformed into a vibrant creative hub filled with studios, workshops and galleries. 

A Visit to Oficina Marques

When we arrived, the gallery space held a few assemblages made from recycled materials and a couple of framed tile panels. As we looked around, José, one of the founders, popped in and explained that the embossed white and green tile panels were developed in collaboration with Viúva Lamego to celebrate the factory’s 175th anniversary. The partnership resulted in Arcádia, a collection of geometric forms inspired by the mythical Greek utopia, where dryads, nymphs and shepherds lived in harmony with nature. He went on to mention that a temple-like installation of those tiles by Spacegram Studio had been on display in the gallery during Design Week. 

While the gallery itself was filled with a few larger pieces, the adjoining shop felt like a cabinet of curiosities — brimming with original art and objects crafted in the adjacent workshop. Bundles of dried amaranthus, eucalyptus and hydrangea hung from the ceiling, perfuming the air with a faint, earthy sweetness. 

The shelves held an eclectic mix of items: ceramic face vessels and glass cloches filled with curious scenes — the Virgin Mary surrounded by seahorses, starfish and coral; a saint on horseback slaying a dragon-like creature, with a troop of toy soldiers poised for battle at his feet. Hand-painted plates of varying sizes were set among a plaster cast of a classical male nude, along with primitive carved wooden crocodiles, African tribal statuettes, and glinting tin ex-voto hearts — all arranged with a discerning curatorial eye.

We were debating between a small blue-and-white plate with an open hand and another featuring a bare-chested minotaur when I noticed a pair of weathered wooden pieces hanging on the wall, each shaped like a raised hand with symbols etched into the fingers. One was inscribed with the words “Love You,” and the other “Fuck You.” It was at that moment I “went rogue,” as Wally would later say. Without consulting my husband, I looked over at José and said, “We’ll take these.”

José smiled and explained that he and Gezo had found the pieces while out on the beach, scavenging for materials to use in their work. The two boards, he told us, fit together perfectly — a reflection of life’s many dualities. 

After José carefully wrapped our purchase, he invited us to step into his and Gezo’s workshop. We were honored to catch a glimpse of their imaginative world — a place shaped by creations that invite you to think, to feel, to wonder and to imagine. 

And honestly, in a world that can feel heavy with pessimism, a little more levity is just what we all need. –Duke

Oficina Marques

Rua Luz Soriano 71
1200-246 Lisbon
Portugal

 

Savannah’s Telfair Academy: Classical Casts, Impressionism and the Bird Girl

Housed in an 1818 Regency-style mansion, the Telfair Academy is the oldest art museum in the South. A can’t-miss stop in Savannah for art lovers, history buffs and fans of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

The Telfair Academy sits on the east side of Telfair Square, and is a short walk from West Broughton Street.

There’s just something about Savannah, Georgia: the moss-draped live oaks, the historic squares, and the beautiful architecture always draw us back. It’s a living, breathing city that honors its past while still looking toward the future.

Wally and I had visited Savannah many times before — wandering through the artsy, emerging Starland District, strolling up and down Broughton, and popping into the SCAD gift shop more than once. This time though, we decided to visit the Telfair Museums, which included the Telfair Academy and the Owens-Thomas House & Slave Quarters. 

When we arrived at the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences, we were greeted by the towering sculptures of Phidias, Michelangelo, Raphael, Rembrandt, and Rubens. Hewn from limestone by Austrian sculptor Viktor Tilgner, each figure stands seven feet, six inches tall. Their commanding presence at the entrance to the stately edifice set the perfect tone for what awaited us inside.

We ascended the steps of the central porch and purchased our tickets at the museum gift shop, which included admission to all three museums: the Telfair Academy, the Jepson Center & Telfair Children’s Art Museum , and the Owens-Thomas House.

Portrait of Dr. George Jones by Rembrandt Peale, 1834

The History of the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences

The story of the South’s oldest public art museum begins with the death of Mary Telfair, the last surviving member of one of Savannah’s most prominent antebellum families. When she passed away on June 2, 1875, at the age of 84, she entrusted her Regency-style residence and its contents, along with a generous portion of her personal fortune, to the Georgia Historical Society. Her will stipulated that the home be converted into an institution dedicated to introducing art and culture to the public.  

Fun fact: Mary Telfair’s bequest establishing the Telfair Academy preceded the idea for New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art by just one month, which was conceived by a group of men in Paris on July 4, 1866.

But instead of opening its doors, the house stood silent, caught in legal limbo for nearly a decade. Distant relatives challenged her will, alleging that she was not of sound mind. The dispute dragged on until it reached the U.S. Supreme Court, which ultimately upheld her wishes in Jones v. Habersham in 1883.

With the legal hurdles cleared, the Society’s board appointed the academically trained Carl Ludwig Brandt as the museum’s first director. A German-born painter who had crossed the Atlantic in 1852, Brandt was a trusted friend of Mary’s younger sister, Margaret Telfair Hodgson. In 1874, she commissioned him to paint a portrait of her late husband, William Brown Hodgson. That painting was unveiled at the 1876 dedication ceremony for Hodgson Hall, which Margaret had built in her husband’s memory to house the Society’s collections and library.  

Perhaps it was this connection that convinced the board, and Brandt found himself tasked with the daunting job of converting the home into a cultural institution. He was given $20,000 (about $640,000 today) and passage across the Atlantic to procure works that would shape the museum’s permanent collection: engravings, oil paintings, full-scale plaster replicas of classical statuary, and casts of the Parthenon frieze and east pediment.

When Brandt returned, the board brought on architect Detlef Lienau to enlarge and adapt the home for its new purpose. Lienau removed the original staircase, raised the roofline, expanded the skylight, and effectively doubled the building’s size. Where the garden and former slave quarters once stood, he added a sculpture gallery at street level, topped by a rotunda to showcase the works Brandt had acquired in Europe.

On May 3, 1886, the former family residence officially reopened as the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences, marking a bold new chapter in Southern cultural history as the first museum in the United States to be founded by a woman.

Entrance Hall and Octagon Reception Room

The entrance hall of the Academy bears little resemblance to the original house. Lienau replaced the pine floors with marble and widened the passage to allow guests to move freely through what had once been a private residence. Today, the central corridor displays a range of works — from Harriet Hyatt Mayor’s 1915 bronze sculpture Art and Science to notable examples of 20th century American and French Impressionism and beyond.  

Three Shack Landscape by Hughie Lee-Smith, 1947

Hughie Lee-Smith’s haunting surrealistic painting Three Shack Landscape depicts three weathered shacks — one dark brown, one red and one green — standing along a desolate, rocky shoreline beneath heavy blue and gray clouds. A burst of light cuts through, illuminating the dunes and stones around them, while in the foreground a lone pole with a twisted wire juts toward the sky, heightening the sense of isolation.

Lee-Smith was born in Eustis, Florida in 1915 and spent part of his youth in Atlanta before moving to Ohio, where he graduated from the Cleveland School of Art in 1938. After a brief stint in the Navy stationed on the Great Lakes Naval Training Center during World War II, he briefly taught art in South Carolina before settling in Detroit, where economic opportunities for African Americans were more abundant. 

Lee-Smith moved to New York City in 1958, where he taught at the Art Students League. In 1967, he reached a milestone as the second Black artist to be elected to full membership in the National Academy of Design.

Le port de la Rochelle by Gaston Balande, 1949

French impressionist painter Gaston Balande’s Le port de la Rochelle captures a lively view of the harbor in La Rochelle, a historic seaport on France’s Atlantic coast. Painted around 1949, the piece reflects the influence of Paul Cézanne, particularly in his exploration of color, line, and form. Rather than relying on traditional perspective and chiaroscuro, light and shade techniques that defined Western art since the Renaissance, Balande used these elements to create depth and solidity. 

Marketing by Robert Gwathmey, 1943

Robert Gwathmey was an American social realist painter known for his depictions of rural life in the American South, particularly the plight of African American sharecroppers. Born in Richmond, Virginia, in 1903, Gwathmey was deeply influenced by his experiences and observations of the South. In 1944, he spent time working alongside sharecroppers in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, to better understand their lives and challenges. 

Like his contemporaries Jacob Lawrence and Ben Shahn, Gwathmey developed an abstracted figurative style. He utilized bold geometric shapes, flat planes of vibrant color, and minimal shading to convey his social commentary. This approach emphasized form and composition over naturalistic detail, giving his works a powerful and visually striking impact. 

Jerry by Emma Cheves Wilkins, 1944

Octagon Reception Room

At the front of the Academy is the Octagon Reception Room. Once a traditional period room, it’s been reimagined to host the exhibition One Museum, Many Facades: Telfair Through the Ages. The walls still feature a rare, surviving example of early 19th century trompe-l'œil wood graining, a highly realistic, illusionistic painting technique that was popular when the mansion was built in 1818. 

The room’s sparse décor makes the portrait of Jerry Dickerson above the fireplace mantle all the more special. Savannah artist Emma Cheves Wilkins painted it around 1942, shortly before Dickerson’s retirement after more than 25 years as a janitor at the Academy. This work captures him in his recognizable work attire: a collared shirt, tie, pin, apron and feather duster in hand. He lived in the basement offices, the former slave quarters and carriage house for the mansion.

After leaving the Octagon Reception Room, we passed the former Dining Room, which was undergoing restoration. Continuing down the hall, we came upon a set of staircases with ornate iron railings.

The view of the Sculpture Gallery from the top of the stairs reveals a subtle distinction in the flooring. The lighter-colored area on the marble floor marks the spot once occupied by a fountain installed in 1966 and removed in 1973. 

The Sculpture Gallery

One set of stairs leads to the upper level, while the other descends into the Sculpture Gallery. We took the latter, and the moment we entered, my eyes were drawn to the dramatic plaster cast of Laocoön and His Sons — a copy of the famous Hellenistic masterpiece, which dominates the center of the gallery. Discovered in Rome in 1506 and now housed in the Vatican Museums, the sculpture depicts the Trojan priest Laocoön and his sons, Antiphantes and Thymbraeus, locked in a desperate struggle against deadly sea serpents.

When it first opened, the gallery displayed more than 70 plaster cast reproductions of classical sculptures, including the colossal Toro Farnese, which depicts the myth of Dirce, a cruel queen who was tied to a wild bull and dragged to her death by Amphion and Zethus for their mistreatment of their mother, Antiope.

There’s an unverified rumor that sometime in the 1970s, an Academy curator hosted a “sledgehammer party,” where guests were invited to destroy several of the institution’s large plaster casts. While it makes for a colorful story, there’s no proof to support it.

What almost certainly did happen is less dramatic: artistic tastes changed, and as the museum acquired more original works, the collection was gradually reduced, and in some cases destroyed, due to the high cost of maintaining them.

Pudicita, 1st century BCE (cast made before 1893)

Many of the works now displayed on the walls of the Sculpture Gallery were acquired through the efforts of Julius Garibaldi “Gari” Melchers, an American artist who served as the Academy’s fine arts advisor after Brandt. During his tenure, he acquired more than 70 works for the permanent collection, including many of the museum’s most treasured American Impressionist and Ashcan School paintings.

Stuyvesant Square in Winter, by Ernest Lawson, 1907

Brooklyn Bridge in Winter by Childe Hassam, 1904

After returning from Paris in 1889, American Impressionist painter Childe Hassam frequently turned his attention to New York City as a subject of his art. The city’s dynamic urban life provided ample inspiration for his work. In Brooklyn Bridge in Winter, Hassam employs pastel colors, a high vantage point, and broken brushstrokes — formal elements characteristic of Impressionism. This style, which he adopted during his time studying in Paris, emphasizes capturing the fleeting effects of light and atmosphere. Like the French Impressionists, Hassam was committed to portraying contemporary subjects drawn from daily life, and New York’s vibrant streets offered him endless material.

Vespers by Gari Melchers, 1892

Vespers contains all the hallmarks of  Melchers’s early work: rural Dutch subject matter, a vibrant and colorful palette, and a keen interest in decorative pattern and texture. In this painting Melchers portrays Dutch villagers as hardworking, strong, and devout, tapping into a nostalgic yearning for traditional rural life during a time of rapid industrialization. The painting was originally owned by Walther Rathenau, an industrialist, writer and politician from Berlin who helped found the German Democratic Party.

Landscape grouping, with Shaghead by George Wesley Bellows and By the River by István Boznay, 1913 

Lingering Snows by Willard Leroy Metcalf, 1924

In this panoramic view of mountains and a stream, Willard Leroy Metcalf captures the serene beauty of a New England spring. The painting showcases his signature Impressionist style, characterized by subtle harmonies of green and purple tones that evoke the gentle light of the season. This relatively large canvas was likely painted on site in Woodstock, Vermont, on the Ottauquechee River. Metcalf employs quick, textured brushstrokes, allowing the canvas to show through, to define the trees and left shore. Thicker paint applied with a palette knife in a blend of salmon and lime represents the sky, while soft, lightly mottled colors depict the river, the right shore, and the deep blue mountain shadow. Most striking is the irregular patch of snow resting in the upper right mountain dale, its whiteness matched only by the reflected white clouds in the river.

The Rotunda Gallery

We made our way back up the stairs and into the Rotunda Gallery: a breathtaking, spacious two-story room designed by Brandt and Lienau to emulate the grandeur of a 19th century European salon. Artworks in this style are hung close together on the walls, as opposed to being spaced out individually. 

Grouping featuring works by Adolf Lüben, Robert Seldon Duncanson, George Majewicz and Guido Von Maffei

Look up, and you’ll see four paintings by Brandt positioned at the cardinal points of the gallery. Each work depicts a master of one of the four primary art forms, according to his view: Apelles for painting (west), Iktinos for architecture (north), Praxiteles for sculpture (east), and Albrecht Dürer for printmaking (south). The inclusion of three Ancient Greek artists reflects the late 19th century reverence for classical art and culture.

The Black Prince at Crécy by Julian Russell Story, 1888

Brandt purchased the impressive The Black Prince at Crécy from the artist Julian Story in 1889. Brandt acquired the painting with his own funds and donated it to the museum upon his death. The dramatic work portrays the aftermath of the Battle of Crécy during the Hundred Years’ War, and contrasts the historic figure of the Black Prince (the Prince of Wales) with the lifeless body of the fallen King John of Bohemia, highlighting the clash of heroism and tragedy on the battlefield.

La Parabola by Cesare Laurenti, 1895

Cesare Laurenti was born near Ferrara, Italy, but spent most of his life in Venice — the setting of La Parabola. In Laurenti’s day, German artists nicknamed the work Lebensbrücke, or Bridge of Life. 

In a letter to Brandt, Laurenti explained that the painting was meant to reflect the course of human life, “the race toward pleasure, until clouds of weighty thoughts and sorrow come to disturb the serenity of the young soul.” 

The first part of the scene is a lively celebration: two young men invite a group of young women to join in songs and laughter. At a doorway, a suitor representing Love kisses a girl’s cheek as she steps inside. 

But the mood soon darkens. The same girl, now pensive, appears behind a window, her youth already fading. The scene then shifts to the entrance of a church, where “poor suffering souls seek relief.” Here, Laurenti wrote, “one can see the man, who, clad in priestly garments, represents Faith.”

Jour de régates, Menton (Regatta Day, Menton) by Alfred E. Stevens, 1894

A view of the upper gallery, with a plaster casting of part of the frieze from the Parthenon in Athens, Greece

Second Floor Galleries 

Upstairs, the rooms that once served as the Telfair family’s bedrooms were converted into galleries and feature works from the Academy’s permanent collections as well as temporary exhibitions. To make space for hanging art, original features like windows and fireplaces were covered up, leaving wide, uninterrupted walls for display.

The first two galleries held the ongoing exhibit Craft Along the Coast and included works from Telfair’s permanent collection that date from the 18th to the late 20th centuries. The first gallery presents examples of woodworking, ceramics and painting, while the second focuses on Savannah’s silversmithing traditions. Both galleries tell stories of markets and craft legacies, helping to draw lines of continuity through a dynamic history.

Old City Market by Augusta Denk Oelschig, 1950

Savannah native Augusta Denk Oelschig painted Old City Market, a lively portrayal of the City Market building that occupied Ellis Square from about 1872 to 1953. In the scene, the market pulses with life: Shoppers, vendors, produce stands and even animals are in motion across the square. 

When the building was razed in 1954, the loss galvanized the community, and helped spark the creation of the Historic Savannah Foundation the next year, which continues to protect and preserve the city’s historic architecture. 

In 1947, during a trip to Mexico, Oelschig met muralists Diego Rivera and José Clemente Orozco, whose work left a lasting impression on her. Inspired by the political and social themes in their art, she returned to Savannah with plans for a mural depicting the history of Georgia. Intended for the Savannah High School, her drafts included imagery of Ku Klux Klan members whipping African Americans and a reference to a politician later associated with the the Klan. Unsurprisingly, the school’s conservative officials rejected the proposal.

Savannah by Andrée Ruellan, 1942

In Savannah, Andrée Ruellan captures the view of the river seen between buildings and down a cobblestone ramp that leads to the wharves. The painting’s small figures (including a man with a cane and a vendor with children) evoke the quiet, everyday life of the waterfront rather than a bustling port. 

Savannah’s riverfront historically relied on ramps (Barnard, Bull, Abercorn, Lincoln, etc.) down to River Street and its wharves, which is exactly the kind of setting Ruellan sketched. The waterfront was also a center for local craft traditions; Savannah has a documented history of woodcarving and walking-stick makers.  

The iconic Bird Girl. Her outstretched arms don’t actually symbolize the weighing of good and evil — the shallow bowls in her upturned hands were intended to hold water and birdseed. 

The Bird Girl of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil Fame

I was especially intrigued by the gallery featuring Before Midnight: Bonaventure and the Bird Girl. It showcases artwork from Bonaventure Cemetery, including the famous statue. 

Created in 1936 by Sylvia Shaw Judson, a sculptor from Lake Forest, Illinois, Bird Girl was first exhibited in 1938 at the Art Institute of Chicago under the title Girl With Bowls. Judson originally cast six versions, one in lead and five in bronze, but later stated that only four bronze casts were ever made. 

One of the original bronzes was purchased by Savannah native Lucy Boyd Trosdal and installed in her family’s plot in Bonaventure Cemetery, where it was affectionately nicknamed “Little Wendy.”

For decades, the statue remained largely unnoticed — until photographer Jack Leigh captured its haunting image at dusk for the cover of John Berendt’s bestselling nonfiction novel Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, thrusting “Little Wendy” and the city into the national spotlight. Concerned about the crowds it began to attract, Trosdal removed the statue from the cemetery and loaned it to the Academy, ensuring it would be protected for future generations.

Fun fact: Jim Williams, the central figure in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, wasn’t just a successful antiques dealer and historic preservationist — he also served as president of the Telfair Academy.

An iron gate fragment from Bonaventure Cemetery hangs on the wall. 

Bonaventure by Louis Bouché, 1969

Bonaventure Cemetery by Henry Clernewerck, 1860

Plaster bust of the Academy’s first director, Carl Brandt, by John Walz, 1891

Stay Awhile: Interiors in Art 

The last gallery featured a selection of paintings from the Academy’s permanent collection that focused on interior settings. 

Rather than emphasizing a specific narrative, the labels beside each painting encouraged visitors to form their own interpretations of the works. 

The Lacemakers by Walter MacEwen, 1900

In The Lacemakers, three seated Dutch women are engaged in tatting the edges of a large piece of white fabric. Behind them, a man stands by a window, smoking a pipe and staring at the woman on the left, who seems lost in thought. The palette is dominated by muted, silvery tones, enlivened by the bright red bodices of two of the women and the tiny potted flowers on the windowsills.

A native of Chicago, Walter MacEwen had originally planned to pursue a career in business, but an unexpected event changed the course of his life.

When a destitute painter asked MacEwen for a small loan, the artist left his paint and brushes as collateral. He never returned to collect them, and MacEwen began to experiment with the abandoned materials.

By 1877 he had departed for Europe, where he studied under Frank Duveneck at the Royal Academy in Munich, and later at the Académie Julian in Paris. By the mid-1880s, MacEwen had established studios in Paris and Holland spending sixty years in Europe before returning to the United States in 1939. 

Café Fortune Teller by Mary Hoover Aiken, 1933 

The style of Café Fortune Teller evokes elements of American scene painting, characterized by its focus on everyday life and its narrative quality. The work was completed on the island of Ibiza prior to the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War and depicts the artist reading her own fortune amidst the bustle of a café. In 1936, Mary Hoover met the Savannah-born poet Conrad Aiken, whom she married in 1937. Her later works included portraits of famed author T.S. Eliot and British painter Edward Burra, and she also had solo exhibitions at the Telfair in 1964 and 1975.

Wally and I visited on a weekday and spent about 90 minutes exploring the galleries and browsing the gift shop. Admission for adults was $30, valid for seven days from the date of purchase and offers access to all three museums. –Duke

Telfair Academy Visitor Information

Hours of Operation

Open Wednesday through Monday, 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.  
Closed on Tuesdays  

Admission Fees

Tickets grant unlimited access to all three Telfair museums (Telfair Academy, Jepson Center and Owens-Thomas House) for seven days from the date of purchase. 

Adult: $30  
Senior (65+): $27  
Active military (with ID): $27  
Student (ages 13 to 25, with ID): $20  
Child (ages 6 to 12): $10  
Child (5 and under): Free  

Accessibility and Visitor Services

Wheelchair accessible: Yes. Entrance is on the south side facing President Street (with nearby accessible parking and elevator access).  

Sketching: Allowed with pencil only; sketchbooks no larger than 8½ by 11 inches. No easels or sitting on the floor.  

Photography: Non-flash photography is permitted for personal use unless otherwise posted. Tripods, selfie sticks, lights and other gear are prohibited.  

Checkroom policy: Bags larger than 11 by 14 inches must be checked. Laptops and luggage are not accepted.  

Strollers: Restricted in the historic Telfair Academy and Owens-Thomas House but welcome at the Jepson Center.  

Why You Should Visit the Telfair Academy

Historical significance: Established in 1886, it’s one of the first public art museums in the U.S. and the first in the South.  

Architectural beauty: A Regency-style mansion designed by English architect William Jay (built 1818 to 1820).  

Collections and highlights: 19th and 20th century American and European art, restored period rooms, decorative arts and the famed Bird Girl statue.  

Telfair Academy 

121 Barnard Street 
Savannah, Georgia 31401
USA

 

The First Homosexuals at Wrightwood 659: Rewriting Art History With a Queer Lens

This powerful global exhibition traces the emergence of queer identity through more than 300 artworks — at a time when LGBTQ+ visibility matters more than ever.

Peace 1 by Zhang Huan, 2001

When Wally and I heard about The First Homosexuals: The Birth of a New Identity, 1869–1939 at Wrightwood 659, we were immediately intrigued. We had missed the first iteration, which ran in 2022. This new presentation promised to be larger in scale, and suggested something truly ambitious — a visual journey recontextualizing art history by presenting a wide range of works through a queer lens. 

This exhibition is especially important because it comes at a perilous time when LGBTQ+ voices are increasingly under attack across political and cultural spheres. In the face of bans, restrictions on school curricula, and renewed efforts to limit or erase queer visibility, The First Homosexuals reclaims that space by affirming that queer identity has an enduring, complex and creative legacy. 

““The First Homosexuals” is especially important because it comes at a perilous time when LGBTQ+ voices are increasingly under attack across political and cultural spheres. ”

I was reminded of Masculin/Masculin, a provocative exhibition Wally and I saw at the Musée d’Orsay in 2013. Drawing primarily from European painting and sculpture, the show turned the traditional male gaze on its head — shifting the focus from the female form, so often idealized in art, to the male nude. By presenting works from 1800 to the early aughts, the show invited viewers to reconsider the male body, not just as a symbol of strength or virility but as an object of desire.

While Masculin/Masculin traced the idealization of the male body in European art, it didn’t place those depictions within the broader context of queer history. The First Homosexuals at Wrightwood 659 takes that next step, expanding the lens across five continents and inviting viewers to consider queerness as something shaped by history, society and culture — often coded, but always present. 

The First Homosexuals included more than 300 works by 125 queer artists from 40 countries.

Its point of departure is 1869, when Karl-Maria Kertbeny, an Austrian-Hungarian writer and activist, introduced the term “homosexual” anonymously in a German pamphlet advocating reform of Prussian sodomy laws — a linguistic turning point that shifted same-sex love from act to identity. 

You’ll definitely need to book ahead (and book early) when you see a show at Wrightwood 659.

Our Arrival at Wrightwood 659 in Lincoln Park

After breakfast at one of our favorite spots, the Bourgeois Pig, Wally and I strolled up the leafy stretch of Wrightwood Avenue in Chicago’s Lincoln Park. We were surprised to find a modest four-story red brick façade at 659. But the small group forming outside and a sign promoting the exhibition reassured us that we were in the right place.

The modern concrete building attached to the exhibit space is actually the home of one of the cofounders of Wrightwood 659.

I initially assumed the gallery’s entrance was through the modern concrete cube next door — but that was actually the private residence of media entrepreneur and philanthropist Fred Eychaner and his husband, Danny Leung. Eychaner is the founder of the Alphawood Foundation, a charitable organization, and cofounder of Wrightwood 659.

Inside, a docent greeted us in the light-filled atrium and explained that the building was constructed in the 1920s as an apartment complex. Despite its external appearance, the interiors have been stripped and radically reimagined by Japanese architect Tadao Ando.

A historic apartment building was reimagined as a striking modern art gallery.

Architect Tadao Ando transformed the interior with his minimalist design.

We stood in awe of the space’s understated tranquility. Ando preserved the outer walls, which are clad in irregular, weathered Chicago common brick, an earthy contrast to the interior’s sleek geometric simplicity. 

In the far corner, an Escher-like concrete staircase begins its ascent. More than just a functional connector between levels, it serves as a kind of contemplative path, guiding visitors upward in a calm, deliberate rhythm. It’s a signature Ando gesture: structure becoming experience, architecture becoming journey.

Dance to the Berdash by George Catlin, 1837

Before the Binary: Origins of Queerness

The exhibition unfolds gradually across three floors and eight thematic sections, beginning with “Before the Binary.” This gallery sets the stage for the installation’s sweeping journey, inviting viewers to reconsider how same-sex love and gender diversity have been expressed and celebrated throughout history, long before  queer identity emerged in the form we recognize today.

Prior to the subjugation brought by European colonization, many non-Western cultures regarded same-sex behavior as a fluid part of life rather than a fixed identity. This changed dramatically with the arrival of colonial powers, who introduced prejudices and legal systems and cultural prejudices that criminalized same-sex relationships. Along with this intolerance came a new binary: homosexual and heterosexual — categories rooted in 19th century European science and psychology. These labels spread globally reshaping how people understood desire, identity and themselves.

George Catlin’s painting, Dance to the Berdash, depicts a ceremonial dance performed by the Sac and Fox Nation honoring a “two-spirit” individual. The term berdache, used by Catlin, is an outdated and derogatory French term historically applied to two-spirit people. 

In his journals, Catlin describes the scene as “very funny and amusing,” and expresses bewilderment where a “man dressed in woman’s clothes … driven to the most servile and degrading duties” would be celebrated and “looked upon as medicine and sacred.”

Despite his evident bias, Catlin’s work offers a rare glimpse into the deeply spiritual and cultural roles that two-spirit or third-gender individuals have historically held in many Native American communities.

Portrait of Chevalier d'Eon by Jean Condé, published by John Sewell in a 1791 issue of The European Magazine

The Chevalière or Chevalier d’Éon (1728-1810), was an early gender-nonconforming figure and a French diplomat, spy and soldier. 

In 1755, while presenting as a man, d’Éon was sent to Russia disguised as Mademoiselle Lia de Beaumont to persuade Empress Elizabeth I of Russia to ally with France against England and Prussia. From 1777 onward, d’Eon lived publicly as a woman and was officially recognized as such by King Louis XVI.

In this print, d’Éon is portrayed as a middle-aged woman wearing a dark dress with a chemisette, a lace cap and the star of the Order of St. Louis, an honor awarded for distinguished military service and espionage.

As evidence of the shifting political and cultural landscape of the era, d’Éon spent much of her adult life in London, where her gender identity was the subject of constant speculation. It was even the subject of a court trial declaring d’Éon to be a woman, though a surgeon later attested on her death certificate she had “male organs.”

Anacreon and Cupid by Bertel Thorvaldsen, 1824

Bertel Thorvaldsen’s neoclassical Anacreon and Cupid depicts the Ancient Greek poet Anacreon being struck by Cupid’s arrow, causing the older man to fall in love with the youthful god of love. The relief is inspired by Anacreon’s text, Ode III, which ends with Cupid flying away, satisfied he can still attract love with his arrows, while the poet is left alone with his longing. 

The term homosexual didn’t yet exist, and art about the classical past enabled the representation of same-sex eroticism under the guise of historical reference. 

The artist’s nearby ink and graphite sketch literalizes the erotic element of the sculpture, portraying Cupid fondling the poet’s groin. 

In Ancient Greece, the ideal same-sex relationship was seen as one between an older man and a teenage boy. This kind of relationship was tied to ideas about teaching the younger generation how to be good citizens. Same-sex desire was accepted — but only in ways that supported the male-dominated social system.

Portrait of Rosa Bonheur by Anna Klumpke, 1898

Portraits: Icons and Outlaws

“Portraits” features artists who dared to make homosexuality visible long before it was safe or legal to do so. 

American artist Anna Klumpke’s tender pastel portrait captures her partner, Rosa Bonheur, in the final years of the celebrated French painter’s life. The two met in 1895, when Klumpke was 39 and Bonheur was 73. They soon moved in together, and their relationship endured until Bonheur’s death in 1899.

Rosa Bonheur was one of the most renowned animal painters of the 19th century. An independent woman and openly lesbian, she famously obtained official permission from the Paris police to wear men’s clothing — a permit she justified by explaining that traditional women’s attire was impractical for working in stables and slaughterhouses, where she sketched animals for her work.

By the way, there’s a delightful bar, Rosa Bonheur, in Paris, named after this icon. 

Retrato de un Anticuario (Portrait of an Antiquarian) by Robert Montenegro, 1926

Roberto Montenegro’s 1926 portrait of antiques dealer Chucho Reyes is rich with visual codes that still resonate in queer iconography today — a limp wrist, a tilted chin and a wry smile. In the foreground, a silver ball subtly reflects the artist’s own face, a quiet but unmistakable act of self-insertion and queer affirmation.

An early figure in the Mexican muralist movement, Montenegro often pushed against the boundaries of revolutionary aesthetics. In a mural for the Secretaría de Educación Pública in Mexico City, his depiction of a nude, androgynous Saint Sebastian drew criticism for being out of step with official nationalist values. 

Montenegro was ultimately compelled to repaint it. In his private commissions, however, he enjoyed greater artistic freedom — freedom he fully embraced in this intimate and symbolically coded portrait.

Portrait of James Baldwin by Beauford Delaney, 1944

In this vibrant portrait, Beauford Delaney depicts the 20-year-old African American author James Baldwin before the writer’s rise to literary fame. Delaney renders Baldwin’s face in expressive strokes of green, yellow and purple, capturing not just likeness but inner light. The two men, both openly gay and trailblazing artists of color, shared a profound, formative bond. 

Baldwin regarded Delaney as a mentor and father figure. Reflecting on Delaney’s influence, he wrote, “The reality of his seeing caused me to begin to see.” 

Though Baldwin would become a powerful voice in the civil rights movement, his open sexuality often left him marginalized within the movement’s leadership.

He went on to become one of the most influential gay writers of the 20th century, penning such landmark works as Giovanni’s Room (1956).

Profile of a Man With Hibiscus Flower (Felíx) by Glyn Philpot, 1932 

This intimate portrait features Felíx, a French Caribbean model who sat for the British artist Glyn Philpot several times in 1932. The composition, with its flattened perspective and floral motif, recalls Paul Gauguin’s canvas Jeune Homme à la Fleur, evoking themes of sensuality and exoticism. While the painting echoes colonial-era visual tropes, Philpot’s broader oeuvre is distinguished by its empathetic and often dignified representations of Black subjects, challenging the stereotypes prevalent in early 20th century European art. 

Le Bal élégant, La Danse à la campagne (The Elegant Ball, The Country Dance) by Marie Laurencin, 1913

Relationships: Intimate Worlds

The section titled “Relationships” explores the personal and social dimensions of queer lives. From Marie Laurencin’s sensual and playful female imagery to Andreas Andersen’s portrait of his younger brother and his friend, their works reflect the sheer diversity and joy of queer intimacy. 

La Danse (The Dance) by Marie Laurencin, 1919

Marie Laurencin (1883-1956), a French Cubist, created an idiosyncratic body of work that excluded men and placed women at the center, something truly revolutionary considering that she worked in Paris, in an environment dominated by male artists. A member of Pablo Picasso’s gang, Laurencin’s unique take on Cubism is particularly evident in The Elegant Ball, The Country Dance, a fragmented and angular portrayal of two women dancing front and center. 

The canvas The Dance illustrates Laurencin’s departure from Cubism and marks the development of her own visual language, one that embraces a softer, more fluid style in which women’s bodies seem to merge and dissolve into one another. Laurencin’s dreamlike, ethereal compositions represent a feminist counterpoint to the stylistic tendencies of the male-dominated Cubist avant-garde.

Interior With Hendrik Andersen and John Briggs Potter in Florence by Andreas Anderson, 1894

The Norwegian painter Andreas Andersen depicts his younger brother, Hendrik and their friend, American painter John Briggs Potter, when the trio were living together in Florence in 1894. To our modern eyes, this is a stunning image of a homosexual relationship — but the reality is that men of this era didn’t think that loving or having sex with other men was abnormal or put them into a sexual category. 

Potter, who eventually married a woman, was close to Isabella Stuart Gardner of the eponymous Boston museum. The exact relationship between Hendrik and Potter isn’t known, though Potter was painted by a number of known queer painters and himself painted portraits of handsome men.

Sueño marinero (Sailor’s Dream) by Gregorio Prieto, 1932

Gregorio Prieto was a member of the influential Spanish cohort known as the Generation of ’27, alongside the poet

Federico García Lorca. While his work is well known in Spain, it hasn’t received the recognition it merits. 

Prieto’s two paintings exhibited at Wrightwood exemplify his use of the mannequin as a surrealist trope. Prieto employed mannequins as a metaphor for homoerotic love. Indeed, Sailor’s Dream seems to insinuate the act of oral sex, while Full Moon implies stimulation by hand.

Le Sommeil de Manon (Manon’s Sleep) by Madeleine-Jeanne Lemaire, 1907

Changing Bodies, Changing Definitions: Redefining Beauty 

The exhibit then pivots to “Changing Bodies, Changing Definitions, where we witness how the nude evolved in art in relation to shifting conceptions of sexuality. In the 19th century, artists often depicted ambiguously gendered adolescents — but by the early 20th century, those figures gave way to striking portraits of well-muscled men and women. Romaine Brooks’ androgynous nude of her female lover sits alongside Tamara de Lempika’s muscular female nude. 

The French novelist Marcel Proust and his lover, Reynaldo Hahn, referred to Madeleine-Jeanne Lemaire as Maman, or Mother, acknowledging her centrality to queer relationships and networks. Lemaire hosted a regular salon well attended by homosexuals, including Proust, Hahn and others such as Sarah Bernhardt, whose work is also featured in this exhibition.

The close-knit queer relationships that defined Lemaire’s social circle also come through in her painting. While many of her female contemporaries avoided overt eroticism, Lemaire’s Manon’s Sleep presents a nude figure who is neither orientalized nor classicized, her sensuality left unapologetically unframed by allegory or genre.

The recently discarded clothes in the left-hand corner appear to take the shape of a female figure lounging in a chair, perhaps watching the nude woman sleep. Lemaire’s soft color palette, decadent textiles and languid figure also seem to emulate Rococo aesthetics, perhaps in a nod to the genre’s own scenes of erotic subversion.

Nackte Schiffer (Fischer) und Knaben am grünen Gestade (Naked Boatmen [Fishermen] and Boys on the Green Shore by Ludwig von Hofmann, 1900

Ludwig von Hofmann enjoyed a prominent career as a painter in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. At the time, Germany — newly unified — looked to Ancient Greece as a cultural model, embracing public nudity as a sign of health, virtue and classical refinement. This free body culture (abbreviated as FKK in German) encouraged public nudity as a sign not of prurient interest, but of health and moral virtue.

Segregated from urban homosexual culture by questions of class and occupation, this image of nude boys and men, while undeniably homoerotic, works hard to de-emphasize its inherent suggestive qualities through a committed attention to labor.

Wrestlers by Thomas Eakins, 1899

Thomas Eakins, celebrated along with Winslow Homer as two of the finest 19th century American painters, here produced a study for an even bigger painting of a gymnasium featuring, among other scenes, two young men wrestling.

While depicting an actual wrestling move, the painting allows two men a moment of full-body contact that escapes inscription as homosexual. They are, moreover, curiously relaxed, even inert, in what is ostensibly a battle for dominance.

Nu Assis de Profil (Seated Nude in Profile) by Tamara de Lempicka, 1923

Tamara de Lempicka’s seated nude exists in a space of gender nonconformity, much like the artist herself. The figure’s heavily muscled body and tanned face suggest a masculine presence, perhaps shaped by outdoor labor, while the visible breast and porcelain skin point to a more traditionally feminine traits. The body is angled away from the viewer so as to heighten this sense of indeterminacy.

After moving from Poland to Paris in 1918, Lempicka gained recognition for her Art Deco portraits of glamorous, androgynous figures. Her style and subjects reflect her social circle, which included queer women like the writers Vita Sackville-West and Colette, and her own experiences as an openly bisexual woman.

Venus and Amor by Gerda Wegener, 1920

History: Echoes of Antiquity 

One of the most powerful sections, “History,” features works that portray an idealized classical past as an alibi to depict homoerotic imagery. Hans Von Marées’ Five Men in a Landscape feels suspended in a timeless queer utopia, while Rupert Bunny’s muscular Hercules takes on both dragons and sexual subtext. 

Venus and Amor is Gerda Wegener’s vision of lesbian Arcadia. In her uniquely Art Deco style, Wegener depicts a garden populated by the Three Graces, Cupid and Venus, the latter helping Cupid draw his bow. Cupid is represented as distinctly nonbinary, with rosy cheeks and nascent breasts. Like the figure of Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Wegener seems to suggest Cupid’s mischievous nature is connected to his gender transgression. 

When this canvas was completed, Wegener was so popular in France that the government bought three of her works for the Louvre, which are now in the Centre Pompidou collections. 

Sadly, she spent her later years in poverty and died in 1940, shortly after Nazi Germany invaded Denmark.

The Joy of Effort by Robert Tait McKenzie, 1912

Robert Tait McKenzie was a Canadian physician, educator, athlete and sculptor who became director of athletics at the University of Pennsylvania. He donated hundreds of bronze homoerotic images of athletic young men to UPenn, where many are still on display. 

He was a key figure in sports medicine and rehabilitative medicine, designing prosthetics for wounded soldiers. He extolled the value of exercise early, especially for those who worked primarily with their minds. Despite the undeniable homoeroticism in his work, he was married, as the norms of his time dictated.

Cumulonimbus by Kotaro Nagahara, 1909

Kotaro Nagahara (1864-1930) was one of the early innovators of yōga, or Western-style painting, in late 19th-century Japan. The relatively conservative style of his male nudes (note the lack of visible genitals) may reflect the impact of the “nude debate” (ratai ronso) in Japanese art circles in the 1890s. The influence of Western nude painting fueled an intense debate among Japanese artists about the nature of propriety and indecency, and some yoga painters like Kuroda Seiki caused controversy for displaying nude paintings to the public. In this cultural atmosphere, it’s not surprising that Nagahara took a more discreet approach here in obscuring the figure’s genitalia.

Slaves by Gabriel Morcillo, 1926

Colonialism and Resistance: Imported Shame, Native Pride

But art is never just about aesthetics. In “Colonialism and Resistance,” the exhibition explains how Western imperialism often coded queerness as foreign or degenerate, while simultaneously fetishizing it. A pernicious side effect of colonialism was that Western suppressive ideologies on homosexuality were imposed on conquered lands — many of which went from respecting same-sex relations to writing homophobic laws into their legal codes. 

Gabriel Morcillo’s painting Slaves is a striking example of how Orientalist aesthetics were often used to veil overt homoeroticism. Like many artists of his era, Morcillo employed the exoticized imagery of the so-called “East” to explore themes of male beauty and sensuality, subjects that were daring and even dangerous to depict in the 1920s and early ’30s. He later experienced both the favor and the fallout  of political affiliation: Between 1950 and 1955, he was commissioned by dictator Francisco Franco to paint several portraits, both standing and on horseback. With the arrival of Spain’s democratic Transition, Morcillo was classified as a Francoist, and his work largely vanished from art history books, despite its considerable artistic merit.

L’après-midi (In the Afternoon) by David Paynter, 1935

David Paynter’s In the Afternoon offers a rare and quietly radical vision of male intimacy in early 20th century South Asian art. Born in 1900 in Sri Lanka (then Ceylon), Paynter was known for merging Western classical techniques with South Asian subjects, often weaving subtle references to same-sex desire into his work.

In this painting, two young men share an intimate gaze, one delicately holding a flower — echoing the sensuality of Gauguin’s Polynesian women but recast through a defiantly queer lens. The image stands in quiet resistance to colonial-era moral codes that had, by that time, already begun to reshape attitudes toward sexuality across South Asia.

Before the British imposed Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code in 1861 — which criminalized “carnal intercourse against the order of nature” — many Asian cultures held more fluid and nuanced understandings of gender and sexuality. Paynter’s work gestures toward that precolonial cultural memory, reclaiming tenderness between men as both natural and beautiful.

La Danza (Dance) by Elisàr von Kupffer, 1918

Beyond the Binary: Gender, Reimagined

Finally, “Beyond the Binary” delivers what may be the show’s most revelatory section. Featuring more than 60 works, it draws direct connections between early queer and trans identities. 

Among the highlights is one of the first self-consciously trans representations in art: Gerda Wegener’s 1929 portrait of her spouse Lili Elbe. 

This section also includes paintings from the Elisarion, a utopian queer villa in Switzerland. One of these images is believed to depict the first same-sex wedding scene in art history.

Elisàr von Kupfer, who preferred to be called Elisarion, founded a spiritual movement he named Clarism, which rejected the gender binary as a perversion of divine will. Proud of his own feminine physical features, von Kupfer adorned his temple in Minusio, Switzerland, with paintings of similarly androgynous and nonbinary figures. While von Kupffer was a pioneer in challenging gender and sexual norms, he was also a white supremacist, and his work was influenced by Aryanism. He sought to engage Adolf Hitler in correspondence, though there is no evidence that the dictator ever replied. 

In von Kupffer’s utopia, gender was fluid and inclusive — but race, clearly, was not. His example shows how radical views in one realm did not necessarily extend to others.

Untitled (kuchi-e [frontispiece] with artist’s seal Shisen) by Tomioka Eisen, 1895

This image was made as an illustration for the novel Sute obuna, an adaptation of the mystery novel Diavola (1885) by the British author Mary Braddon. From the 1880s onward, many European mystery stories were translated into Japanese and adapted to Japanese contexts. This could have the effect of producing unique and humorous juxtapositions between the Japanese characters and their Western mannerisms, as seen in this moment of unexpected male intimacy. Tomioka Eisen was a prolific illustrator during the Meiji Period, trained in ukiyo-e methods. He also produced a small number of erotic works, which were circulated privately.

Lili med fjerkos (Lili With a Feathered Fan) by Gerda Wegener, 1920

Lili With a Feathered Fan by Gerda Wegener depicts her husband, Einar Wegener (who later became Lili Elbe), holding a green feather fan. The painting is significant as an early example of transgender representation in art, created during a period when Lili was beginning to express her gender identity more openly. 

Lili first emerged in 1904 when Gerda asked Einat to pose in women’s clothing after one of her female models failed to show up. This moment marked the beginning of a public and private transformation. In the early ’20s, Lili began living more fully as a woman, and in 1930 she underwent one of the first known gender-affirming surgeries. 

Their relationship inspired the 2015 film The Danish Girl. Tragically, Lili died in 1931 from complications following the final stages of her surgeries. 

Peter (A Young English Girl) by Romaine Brooks, 1923

Romaine Brooks’ work from this period captures early 20th century lesbian life, with portraits of friends, lovers and fixtures of the queer world she inhabited. Here, Brooks depicts the nonbinary British artist known as Gluck, who also went by the name Peter. Gluck insisted on being addressed as “Gluck, no prefix, suffix or quotes” — rejecting any gendered association with their identity.

Amazing architecture, powerful art, dedicated docents and a relaxed, uncrowded flow make Wrightwood 659 well worth a visit.

Wrightwood 659 Does It Right 

Wrightwood 659 intentionally limits the number of visitors and requires timed-entry tickets purchased in advance. This keeps exhibitions intimate and uncrowded, allowing visitors to reflect deeply without distraction.

The First Homosexuals brings together more than 300 works by 125 queer artists from 40 countries, drawn from over 100 museums and private collections around the globe. Each loaned piece contributes to a sweeping, multifaceted narrative of queer identity, resilience and creativity. 

A quiet nook with a view at Wrightwood 659

Wally and I were struck not only by the scale of the exhibition, but by the obvious care with which it was assembled. Every element — from the curation of individual works to the flow of the galleries — felt deeply considered, designed to honor the artists, their histories and the communities they reflect.

We had the added privilege of visiting on a day when docents were present, enriching the experience with personal reflections and deeper context about the artists and their work. Their stories added an intimate, human layer to an already powerful presentation. –Duke

Wrightwood 659

West Wrightwood Avenue
Chicago, Illinois 
USA 

 

What to Know Before You Go to Meow Wolf’s Radio Tave in Houston

At Radio Tave, reality takes a coffee break. Here are 10 tips to get the most of this kaleidoscopic wormhole of art, lore and immersive weirdness. 

Imagine stepping into a radio station from another dimension — one where the airwaves are alive, nothing is quite what it seems, and reality twists like a pretzel. That’s Meow Wolf’s Radio Tave, a 29,000-square-foot mind-bending, neon-drenched fever dream where the usual rules of physics, logic and personal space don’t apply. It’s like doing shrooms without actually doing shrooms — trust me, you don’t need psychedelics to feel like your brain is melting … in the best way possible.

Before heading in, prepare yourself. You might think you’re just visiting a trippy art exhibit, but Radio Tave has other plans. Here’s what you need to know before you tumble down the rabbit hole.

“ Trust me, you don’t need psychedelics to feel like your brain is melting … in the best way possible.

”

Note: This post contains spoilers of a sort, as well as images of Meow Wolf Radio Tave. 

1. Engage fully. When in doubt, touch it, open it … and question reality. 

This isn’t a museum. You’re not just here to admire at a safe distance. You’re here to get lost, touch everything, and probably question your grip on reality.

If something seems slightly off, investigate. You might discover a hidden passage, a surreal transmission or a funky relic from another dimension. If that radio sounds like it’s whispering secrets directly into your soul … it absolutely is.

2. Always look for a door (even if it’s not a door). 

In the world of Radio Tave, exits are illusions and illusions are exits. Sometimes a doorway is painted into a mural. Sometimes the handle to another world is just sitting there, waiting for you to open it.

If you find yourself in a room with no way out, take a breath. The escape route is probably hiding in plain sight — maybe inside an everyday object.

3. The mystery’s there … but don’t drive yourself crazy trying to solve it. 

There’s lore here. A lot of lore. Something about a radio station lost in time and space, a mysterious force manipulating the airwaves, and an entire reality gone sideways. You can follow the clues if you want to unravel the mystery, but spoiler alert: You’ll never get a full answer.

The designers left about 60% of the story intentionally vague, meaning you’ll pick up eerie transmissions, weird artifacts and cryptic messages that hint at something much bigger … but never quite give you the full picture.

We asked a couple of staffers if there was an official solution to the mystery, and they all sort of looked at us blankly.

So go ahead and chase the story, but don’t stress if you leave with more questions than answers. That’s half the fun.

4. Try to avoid the crowds — and don’t worry if you get separated.  

Entry is staggered, which helps keep things from feeling too crowded. Show up on time, or risk having to wait for another entry slot.

If you’re with friends, don’t panic if you get separated. This place has a way of pulling people in different directions, and honestly? That’s part of the experience. Make a loose plan, but embrace the chaos. Maybe you’ll end up meeting in the break room — or at the dimension-tearing tornado. 

5. Prioritize comfort (your feet will thank you). 

Shoes matter. If you show up in stilettos or flimsy sandals, you’re going to regret it. Stick to sneakers or other comfortable shoes — you’ll be wandering, climbing stairs, and possibly stepping into alternate dimensions.

Mobility-wise, most of the space is accessible, but there are a few places where you might have to step over low thresholds or navigate tight areas. Take the elevator at least once. It’s fun to see where you end up. 

6. Pony up for the glasses. 

Fork over the 2 bucks to get a pair of Chromadepth 3D glasses — and while you don’t have to wear them the entire time, they’re worth pulling out at the right moments.

Some of the painted walls have low-key 3D effects, but that’s just the warmup.

The real magic happens in the more mind-bending spaces, where the glasses crank up the intensity and make everything feel deeper, weirder and way more immersive.

Wear them when you want extra visual chaos, then take them off when you need a break. 

7. Savor the experience (i.e., put your phone down for a minute!)

Yes, you’re going to want photos. The colors are otherworldly, the visuals are trippy, and if you don’t take at least one deeply confused selfie, did you even go?

But also — be in the moment. Some of the most surreal parts of the experience can’t be captured in a picture or video. The way the sound shifts as you walk through a portal, the eerie sensation of a voice whispering something maybe just for you, the feeling that you’re being watched by something just outside the edge of perception…

Take some shots, sure. But also just let yourself be immersed in the bizarre.

8. Admire the work of local artists. 

Over 100 artists contributed to various aspects of Radio Tave, with more than 50 coming right from Texas.

Keep an eye out for the work of Sam Lao, Dawn Okoro, El Franco Lee II, Gonzo247, Jasmine Zelaya, Loc Huynh and Trenton Doyle Hancock — their murals and installations add another layer of brilliance, storytelling and local soul to the already surreal experience.

If you find yourself staring at a piece of art for an uncomfortably long time, congrats! You’re experiencing Meow Wolf correctly.

9. Get a drink at the Cowboix Hevvven saloon (you’ll need one). 

Inside Radio Tave, you’ll find Cowboix Hevvven, an interdimensional saloon with themed drinks and a chill, quirky vibe. If you need to process what just happened (or just want to sip something colorful in a surreal setting), this is the place. You should definitely stop by — if you’ve ever wanted to step into the Star Wars cantina, this might be the closest you’ll ever get.

10. Exit through the gift shop. 

Let’s be real: The gift shop is pricey. But if you want a souvenir from your brain-melting trip through another dimension, this is your shot.

There are weird and wonderful trinkets, exclusive artwork and surprisingly stylish clothing. My friend got a sweater and socks; I got some stickers.

Even if you don’t buy anything, it’s worth a look — just in case you need a memento of the time you accidentally slipped into another reality and lived to tell the tale.

Bonus tip: Hit Saint Arnold’s before (or after) your journey through the multiverse. 

Whether you need to fuel up before stepping into the unknown or decompress after tumbling through time and space, Saint Arnold Brewing Company is a perfect stop — and it’s right across the street. 

This Houston institution is Texas’ oldest craft brewery, serving up a stellar lineup of beers alongside a menu of hearty eats.

The vibe? A mix of laidback beer garden meets quirky art installation, complete with a funky fleet of decorated cars that feel like they could roll straight into Meow Wolf without missing a beat.

It’s the ideal place to gather your crew, sip something refreshing, and prepare (or recover) from the mind-bending experience that is Radio Tave.

Radio Tave: Tune In and Trip Out

Radio Tave is hard to describe. It’s more than an art exhibit — it’s an experience. It’s part scavenger hunt, part fever dream, part “Wait, am I actually here or did I just astral-project?”

Whether you dive headfirst into the lore, obsess over the hidden doors, or just vibe with the neon-lit absurdity of it all, you’re in for a wild ride.

So go in with an open mind, comfortable shoes, and absolutely no expectations of logic or reason — and have the time of your (possibly multidimensional) life. –Wally

Meow Wolf Houston: Radio Tave

2103 Lyons Avenue
Building 2
Houston, Texas
USA

 

Frida Kahlo in Paris

André Breton lured Frida to be in a Surrealist show, but she found herself misled, miserable and mad as hell — until Mary Reynolds stepped in.

An exhibition at the Art Institute of Chicago covers Frida’s turbulent time in Paris in 1939.

Paris was supposed to be her big moment. But when Frida Kahlo landed in the so-called City of Light in 1939, all she found was a hospital bed, missing paintings, and a bunch of filthy Surrealists who couldn’t get their act together.

Thanks to an interesting lecture by Alivé Piliado Santana, curatorial associate at the National Museum of Mexican Art (where we check out the Day of the Dead ofrendas every year) and Tamar Kharatishvili, research fellow in modern art at the Art Institute of Chicago, I’ve come away with a far deeper — and far juicier — understanding of this chapter of Frida’s life I didn’t previously know about.

“They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.”

— Frida Kahlo, writing about the Surrealists in a letter to her lover, Nikolas Muray

Wild child Frida in 1938

Here’s what I learned about the messy, maddening and frankly fascinating story of Frida’s Parisian misadventure, the forgotten women of Surrealism, and how a kindred spirit named Mary Reynolds helped turn Frida’s time in Paris into something meaningful. 

André Breton, leader of the Surrealists and organizer of the 1939 Mexique exhibition — though “organizer” might be generous, considering Frida arrived to find no gallery, no show, and her paintings stuck in customs.

Frida’s Disastrous Arrival in Paris

It all began with an invitation that felt like a breakthrough. André Breton — the self-appointed “pope of Surrealism” — had reached across the Atlantic with a tantalizing offer. Frida Kahlo’s paintings, he declared, belonged on the world stage. He wanted her to come to Paris for a major exhibition he was organizing called Mexique.

Frida was excited for a chance to showcase her work in the artistic capital of the world, among the greats. It felt like a turning point — a chance to step out from her hubby Diego Rivera’s shadow and claim her place in the international art scene.

But somewhere along the way, wires got crossed. Frida thought Mexique would be a solo show. 

It wasn’t.

Self-Portrait With Monkey, painted by Frida Kahlo, posing with one of her pets, in 1938 right before she left for Paris.

Frida prepared for the journey with cautious excitement. Before she left, photographer Nikolas Muray, with whom she was having a passionate affair, captured her in a series of now-iconic portraits: defiant, radiant and ready for her European closeup. 

She could never have predicted how quickly things would unravel.

The troubles began before she even set foot in Paris. Her paintings, packed carefully for the voyage, were held up in customs. Instead of gliding smoothly into galleries, they sat in bureaucratic limbo, tangled in red tape. But there was still hope. Surely, Breton — the grand architect of the Surrealist movement — would have everything else ready.

He didn’t.

Frida arrived in Paris only to find chaos. There wasn’t even a gallery chosen for her show. No opening date on the calendar. No buzz of anticipation. Breton had made grand promises — but had done nothing to deliver on them.

A portrait of Frida taken by Nikolas Muray before she left for Paris

A Hospital Stay

On top of the professional humiliation, Frida’s health collapsed. She hadn’t arrived in perfect shape to begin with — just before leaving Mexico, she had undergone spinal surgery to try to ease the constant pain from an earlier accident. The long journey, the cold Paris winter, the stress of a botched exhibition, and the miserable conditions she found herself in were a brutal combination.

Part of her fury stemmed from Breton’s own visit to Mexico, where she and Diego had opened their home (now the Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum) to him and his wife — only to find that in Paris, Breton offered no such hospitality in return.

Almost as soon as she arrived, Frida developed a raging kidney infection, with a spiking fever that landed her in the hospital. She was exhausted, furious and rapidly losing faith in the promises that had brought her to Paris in the first place. 

She pinned her illness squarely on the Surrealists’ squalor, convinced that their slovenly habits had done her in.

When she was discharged, still weak and recovering, she faced the grim reality of her accommodations: a dingy hotel, damp and depressing, in a city that felt far from the glamorous art capital she had imagined.

The final page of one of Frida’s letters to Muray. She didn’t exactly fall for Paris: “to hell with everything concerning Breton and all this lousy place,” she wrote, sick of the Surrealists and ready to go home.

She didn’t hold back. In a letter to Muray, she unloaded: “They are so damn ‘intellectual’ and rotten that I can’t stand them anymore .... I [would] rather sit on the floor in the market of Toluca and sell tortillas, than have anything to do with those ‘artistic’ bitches of Paris.” She thought the Surrealists were puffed up with self-importance yet utterly useless when it came to helping her. Only Marcel Duchamp, she noted acidly, “has his feet on the earth.” The rest, in her eyes, were pompous windbags throwing parties while her paintings languished in customs and her health deteriorated. And at the center of this mess, of course, was Breton himself, whose grand promises had led her straight into disaster.

What was meant to be her grand European debut had turned into a perfect storm of illness, neglect and bitter disappointment. She was stranded in Paris, her art trapped in customs, her patience wearing thin — and the Surrealists, led by Breton, had left her to flounder.

A photo booth pic of Mary Reynolds

Enter Mary Reynolds: An Unexpected Friendship

Just when Frida might have written off Paris entirely, in stepped Mary Reynolds — artist, bookmaker and all-around lifeline.

Unlike the aloof Surrealist men swanning around Paris, Reynolds opened her doors and, more importantly, her heart. Frida, still recovering from illness and spiraling frustration, moved out of her bleak hotel and into Reynolds’ home at 14 rue Hallé.

It wasn’t just a change of address — it was a change of atmosphere. Where Breton had offered chaos, Reynolds offered comfort. Her house in the southern part of Paris was a hub of creativity, conversation and, during the darkening shadow of World War II, quiet resistance.

Mary Reynolds with her partner, Marcel Duchamp

Mary Reynolds: The Unsung Hero of Surrealism

Reynolds deserves far more credit than she usually gets. A fiercely independent artist herself, Reynolds was a master of bookbinding — her works were collected by her partner, Marcel Duchamp (the guy who turned a urinal into modern art’s most notorious statement and further shocked audiences with Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2), along with other avant-garde heavyweights of the time.

Reynolds took bookbinding to a whole new, surreal level: She used objects on the covers like kid gloves for Free Hands (Les Mains Libres), a thermometer in A Harsh Winter (Un Rude Hiver), and a teacup handle in Saint Glinglin — a nod to a scene where a character smashes plates with a golf club.

Reynolds was a genius when it came to bookbinding. Here’s the striking cover of Les mains libres (Free Hands) by Paul Éluard, with glove-like cutouts.

Her house was a living, breathing collage of Surrealist art and ideas. Duchamp, Alexander Calder and countless others had left their fingerprints — and actual works — all over her walls. 

For Frida, Reynolds’ home was proof some Surrealists weren’t all talk and no action. Here was a woman making her own art, supporting her peers, and backing it all up with real-world bravery.

A delightful drawing of Mary Reynolds and her cats by Alexander Calder, the American modern sculptor best known for his mobiles

Kahlo and Reynolds: Finding Solidarity

The connection between Frida and Reynolds was electric. Both women were navigating the male-dominated art world on their own terms, refusing to be footnotes in movements led by men.

Their bond also feels emblematic of something bigger: a reminder that amid all the philosophical posturing of Surrealism, real solidarity happened where women supported each other, shared ideas, and, frankly, kept the whole thing afloat.

In Frida’s letters, you can almost feel the tone shift once she moves into Reynolds’ home. It’s not quite relief — her Parisian experience remained fraught — but there’s a spark of light. Reynolds gave Frida what Breton could not: genuine human connection in a city that had otherwise let her down. She stayed at Reynolds from February 22 to March 25, 1939.

The Wounded Deer from 1946, painted after yet another failed surgery, this haunting self-portrait shows Frida as a deer riddled with arrows, calm-eyed in the face of relentless pain.

Frida and Surrealism: A Love-Hate Relationship

Here’s the irony: While the Surrealists were practically falling over themselves to claim Frida Kahlo as one of their own, Frida herself wanted nothing to do with the label.

Breton had famously declared her work “a ribbon around a bomb” — which, to be fair, is a great line. But Frida saw things differently. She didn’t consider herself a Surrealist at all. “I never painted dreams,” she once said. “I painted my own reality.”

Frida’s work, raw and visceral, didn’t need the Surrealist manifesto to explain it. Where the Surrealists dabbled in subconscious symbolism and found objects, Frida’s paintings were autobiographical to their core — her pain, her identity, her relationships all laid bare.

Self-Portrait With Cropped Hair from 1940. Freshly divorced, Frida depicts herself as wearing one of Diego’s suits, scissors in hand, her hair in clumps on the floor.

The Surrealists saw her as exotic, a muse from afar who fit their aesthetic fantasies. But Frida wasn’t interested in playing that role. She wasn’t a curiosity or a symbol — she was an artist, plain and simple. Her use of indigenous Mexican motifs, her explorations of physical and emotional suffering — these weren’t Surrealist exercises; they were her lived truth.

Still, despite her reluctance, Frida’s art undeniably aligned with many Surrealist themes. Dreams and reality intertwining, the use of found materials, the exploration of identity — it was all there, just coming from a much grittier, more personal place. 

And she did, after all, agree to be a part of a Surrealist show in Paris. Which, by the way, finally came together. It ran at the Galerie Renou et Colle from March 10 to 25, 1939. Frida’s take on her fellow Mexican artists that Breton chose to showcase with her work? In one of her letters to Muray, she described them as “all of this junk.”

Photographer Nikolas Muray and Frida Kahlo had a passionate affair, and he was her confidante during her bad experience in Paris.

Nikolas Muray: The Confidant Behind the Letters

Long before Paris turned into a disaster, Frida had another anchor: Nikolas Muray. Photographer, Olympic fencer (yes, really) and one of her many lovers, Muray was one of the few people Frida trusted enough to confide in during her Paris ordeal.

Her letters to him are the sharpest, funniest and most brutally honest accounts we have of her time in France. She wrote to Muray not just to update him, but to release steam — to unload her frustrations about the Surrealists, the filth of the city, her failing health, and her utter disappointment in Breton’s empty promises.

The Tree of Hope, Remain Strong, painted in 1946 after spinal surgery. This double self-portrait splits her in two: One body lies wounded on a hospital gurney, while the other sits upright, dressed and defiant, clutching a back brace.

What Happened After: A Brief, Blazing Connection

For all the depth and warmth of their connection in Paris, Frida and Reynolds’ friendship seems to have been brief. After that whirlwind winter of 1939, there’s no evidence they kept up correspondence. Aside from one endearing letter where Reynolds talks about how empty the house felt without Frida, there aren’t any further exchanges that we know of.

Life pulled the two women in different directions. Frida returned to Mexico, her health still fragile but her art beginning to gain traction. 

Reynolds, meanwhile, risked her life in the French Resistance. Her Paris home, once a haven for artists and thinkers, became a literal refuge for those fleeing Nazi persecution. She didn’t leave Paris until 1942, escaping across the Pyrenées on foot and finding a flight to New York. But she never stopped fighting for what mattered.

Their paths never formally crossed again, at least not that we can prove. But their legacies continued to intertwine, quietly and profoundly, through the art they made and the communities they helped build. 

The Frame, an oil painting on tin with a vibrant folk art border, from 1938. Frida’s Paris show wasn’t a total disaster — the Louvre bought this piece for their colletion.

A Happy Ending to Frida’s Time in Paris

In spite of it all, Frida’s Paris disaster managed to end on a high note. Against the odds, her work finally made it onto the walls of a gallery — and not just any gallery. By the end of the show, the Louvre itself (yes, the Louvre) purchased one of her paintings, The Frame, making Frida the first 20th century Mexican artist in the museum’s holdings. Today (when not loaned out to travel), this emblematic self-portrait is part of the Musée National d’Art Moderne’s collection at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. 

DID YOU KNOW? The Pompidou has a branch in Málaga, Spain?

Even more surprising, amid the wreckage of her Surrealist experience, Frida forged real friendships with a few kindred spirits. Man Ray, Duchamp and some others proved to be exceptions to the pompous crowd she had loathed. Some Surrealists were pas mal, after all. –Wally

Licking Legends: The UK’s Myths and Legends Stamps

The stories behind the UK’s magical new stamps are sure to enchant you: the Loch Ness Monster, Beowulf and Grendel, Cornish piskies, selkies and more.

Eight stamps. Eight legends. A whole world of magic compressed into miniature artwork — and honestly? I’ve never wanted to send more mail in my life.

Each one of these beautifully illustrated postage stamps from the Royal Mail is a tiny portal into the legends that have haunted the British Isles for centuries. They’re wild and eerie. I was hooked.

This 2025 Myths and Legends series was brought to life by British illustrator Adam Simpson, whose crisp, almost woodcut-like style feels like it could adorn a high-end gallery wall — or illustrate a children’s book. 

It’s perfect for a set of stamps that spans the heroic, the heartbreaking and the downright horrid. The collection draws from English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish folklore, and features not just the obvious icons (yes, Nessie makes an appearance) but some deeper, darker cuts too. Why hello, Grindylow.

Each stamp is a love letter to the past, a celebration of story, and a reminder that folklore isn’t dead — it’s just waiting for the right delivery system. Consider this your guided tour through the tales behind the stamps, complete with monsters, magic, betrayal … and brine.

Beowulf and Grendel

Hero vs. horror in the original monster story

Long before superheroes wore capes, they wore chainmail and boasted a mead hall’s worth of swagger. Beowulf is the OG epic hero — the kind of guy who crosses the sea just to fight your monsters for you. His most famous foe? A grotesque creature named Grendel, who spent his nights tearing warriors limb from limb at the hall of Heorot. The king, Hrothgar, was helpless. Enter Beowulf.

This story comes from the Old English poem Beowulf, thought to have been composed between the 8th and 11th centuries, set in Scandinavia but recorded in a single surviving manuscript from Anglo-Saxon England (now safely stored at the British Library). It’s the oldest known epic in English literature — and it doesn’t pull punches. Beowulf doesn’t just defeat Grendel; he rips his arm clean off and hangs it like a trophy. Brutal. Poetic. Metal.

Grendel himself is one of literature’s great monsters — described as a descendant of Cain, that fratricidal son of Adam and Eve, shunned by God, and tormented by the joy he hears in Hrothgar’s hall. He’s more than beast; he’s a symbol of alienation and rage, a product of exile and pain. Some later interpretations even paint him as a tragic figure. Not that Beowulf cared.

Simpson’s stamp captures the legendary fight with clean lines and mythic energy: Beowulf wrestles the monstrous figure of Grendel in a composition that feels part medieval tapestry, part comic book panel. It’s dynamic, dramatic — and faithful to the grit of the tale.

This is the legend that launched a thousand English Lit classes, inspired everything from The Lord of the Rings to The Witcher, and proved that even a millennium ago, people loved a good monster fight.

Blodeuwedd

The flower bride who became an owl

Once upon a time in the mythic heart of Wales, a woman was conjured — not born, but created. The magicians Math and Gwydion, meddling in mortal matters (as wizards are wont to do), wove her from the blossoms of oak, broom and meadowsweet. Her name was Blodeuwedd, meaning Flower Face, and she was made for one purpose: to be the wife of a man cursed never to marry a woman of earthly origin.

You can probably guess how well that turned out.

This tale comes from the Mabinogion, a collection of Welsh medieval stories first written down in the 12th and 13th centuries but based on oral traditions that are far older. It’s one of the most bewitching episodes in the Fourth Branch, a saga steeped in magic, betrayal and transformation.

Though crafted to be the perfect bride, Blodeuwedd had her own ideas. She fell in love with another man, Gronw Pebr, and together they plotted to kill her husband, Lleu Llaw Gyffes. The murder attempt failed, and the consequences were swift and strange (this is myth, after all): Gronw was killed with a spear through a standing stone, and Blodeuwedd was transformed into an owl — a creature of the night, cursed to never show her face in daylight again.

Her story is tragic and richly symbolic. Depending on your lens, Blodeuwedd is either a femme fatale born of male hubris or a wild spirit trapped by expectation who seized a sliver of freedom. Either way, she’s unforgettable.

Simpson’s stamp channels the tale’s eerie beauty with a stylized woman caught mid-transformation — petals swirling into feathers as she takes her owl form. It’s the kind of image that lingers, much like the legend itself.

The Loch Ness Monster (Nessie)

The queen of cryptids surfaces again

You can’t talk about UK folklore without invoking Nessie, the shadowy shape that launched a thousand blurry photos and conspiracy theories. She’s the most famous resident of Loch Ness, a deep, cold freshwater lake tucked into the Scottish Highlands — and she’s been allegedly living there since at least the 6th century.

The earliest written mention comes from The Life of St. Columba, penned in the 7th century by Adomnán. According to the account, the saint encountered a “water beast” in the River Ness and performed a miracle to save a man from its jaws. And just like that, Nessie swam her way into the margins of history.

But her modern fame really took off in the 1930s, after a couple driving near the loch claimed to see a massive creature cross the road and slip into the water. Headlines dubbed it a “monster,” and the tabloids never looked back. Since then, Nessie’s been spotted, debunked, photographed, hoaxed and even hunted with sonar. (Spoiler: She remains elusive.)

While scientists say the sightings are likely otters, logs or wishful thinking, the legend endures. Nessie is more than just a maybe-dinosaur. She’s a symbol of mystery, of nature keeping secrets, of something just out of reach. And let’s face it: Everyone wants her to be real.

In Simpson’s stamp, Nessie arches out of stylized waters, distant and dreamlike, framed by curling waves and Highland mist. There’s no need to explain her. She just is.

She’s proof that sometimes, the most powerful legends are the ones we can’t quite catch.

Cornish Piskies

Mischief, mayhem and magic in miniature

If you ever find yourself turned around on a familiar path in the southwest of England, don’t blame your GPS — blame the piskies. These pint-sized pranksters from Cornish folklore are legendary for leading travelers astray, stealing shiny things, and generally causing low-level chaos with high-level charm.

Piskies (sometimes spelled pixies) have been part of Cornish oral tradition for centuries, possibly even tied to pre-Christian beliefs in nature spirits or ancestral ghosts. They’re native to the moors, tors and coastal cliffs of Cornwall, often dressed in ragged green and red, with pointy ears and a love of laughter at your expense.

But unlike fairies who might hex you or goblins who’ll rob you blind, piskies are mostly harmless. Annoying? Yes. Dangerous? Rarely. They’ve been known to braid horses’ manes, move your keys, and lure people into marshes with giggles and flickering lights. The only remedy if you’ve been “piskie-led”? Turn your coat inside out. That supposedly confuses them (and maybe earns you their grudging respect).

In Victorian times, Cornish tourism latched onto piskies as whimsical local mascots — think of them as the original chaotic neutral brand ambassadors. But in older tellings, they’re wild, weird, and deeply tied to the landscape.

Simpson’s stamp captures that dual nature perfectly. The piskies glide through a moonlit glade, wide-eyed and impish, carrying the evidence of their mischief-making: a lost key, a frayed rope. There’s joy here, but also a touch of the uncanny.

In a world that often takes itself far too seriously, the piskies remind us that a little chaos can be good for the soul.

Fionn mac Cumhaill

The Irish giant whose legend spans countries

Fionn mac Cumhaill (pronounced roughly like  “Finn mac Cool”) is Ireland’s answer to Hercules, with a bit of that trickster Hermes thrown in. A warrior, leader, poet and occasional giant, depending on who’s telling it, Fionn is the towering figure at the heart of the Fenian Cycle of Irish mythology, a body of tales passed down orally for centuries before being written in Middle Irish texts around the 12th century.

He’s best known as the leader of the Fianna, a band of noble warrior-hunters who roamed Ireland getting into gloriously poetic trouble. But the story that often gets the spotlight — especially on tourist brochures — is the one where Fionn creates the Giant’s Causeway, that eerie, hexagonal rock formation on the northern coast of Ireland. According to legend, Fionn built it as a bridge to Scotland so he could fight a rival giant, Benandonner.

The punchline? When he saw how massive Benandonner really was, Fionn panicked. His wife, Oonagh, disguised him as a baby in a cradle. When Benandonner saw the size of the baby, he assumed the father must be terrifying and fled back to Scotland, tearing up the bridge behind him. One of those mythic traditions where wit — and a good partner — wins the day.

Fionn also gained prophetic wisdom by burning his thumb on the Salmon of Knowledge, which, yes, is exactly what it sounds like. (It has a role in the tradition of Mabon, the Wiccan holiday celebrating the Autumnal Equinox.) From that day on, sucking his thumb gave Fionn bursts of insight — a sort of mythic precursor to Google, if Google required seafood and pain.

Simpson’s stamp goes bold: Fionn stands enormous against the rising Causeway, cloak billowing, face stoic. The stones stretch beneath him in their perfect geometric strangeness, while his gigantic foe stands silhouetted across the way.

Fionn mac Cumhaill is the kind of figure who straddles legend and landscape — literally — and he still looms large today.

Black Shuck

The devil dog that stalks the coast

If you ever find yourself walking alone through the misty lanes of East Anglia — especially near a windswept churchyard — and feel the prickle of something behind you … it might be Black Shuck. Described as a massive, ghostly black dog with glowing red (or sometimes green) eyes, Shuck is one of the U.K.’s most enduring pieces of spectral folklore. He’s part omen, part legend, and all menace.

The name “Shuck” is believed to come from the Old English scucca, meaning “demon” or “fiend.” Reports of this supernatural hound go back centuries, but his most infamous appearance took place on August 4, 1577, during a thunderstorm that ripped through the churches of Bungay and Blythburgh in Suffolk. According to terrified witnesses, the beast burst into the churches during the storm, killing or injuring several people before vanishing in a flash of fire. To this day, scorch marks on the church doors in Blythburgh are said to be Shuck’s claw marks.

But like many creatures of folklore, Shuck’s meaning has shifted over time. In some tales, he’s a harbinger of death, like the Grim Reaper with paws. In others, he’s a protective spirit, quietly walking beside lone travelers to keep them safe. 

Simpson’s stamp leans into the fearsome version: a shaggy, howling beast with glowing eyes, set against a backdrop of a castle in a thunderstorm. It’s the kind of image that makes you instinctively glance over your shoulder. 

Whether he’s a ghost, a guardian or something in between, Black Shuck reminds us that the line between safety and terror can be as thin as a shadow in the mist.

Grindylow

The creature in the water who waits for misbehaving children

The Grindylow isn’t interested in riddles or redemption. This creature — slimy, long-fingered and lurking just beneath the surface — is the reason your grandmother told you not to go too close to the pond. Native to the folklore of Yorkshire and Lancashire, the Grindylow is a water-dwelling bogeyman whose sole hobby appears to be grabbing children by the ankle and dragging them to a watery doom.

Pleasant, right?

The tale likely began as a cautionary myth, passed through generations in England’s misty north as a way to keep kids away from dangerous pools, marshes and millponds. But the Grindylow isn’t just a PSA in monster form; it’s a creature of genuine nightmare fuel. Often described as having green skin, long, spindly arms and razor teeth, the Grindylow hides in shallow waters, waiting for a ripple, a footstep or a foolish dare.

While it rarely ventures beyond regional lore, the Grindylow got a boost in popular imagination thanks to fantasy literature and modern media — most notably showing up as a minor monster in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, where it menaces underwater champions during the Triwizard Tournament. But the original version? Far less CGI-friendly, and far more chilling.

Simpson’s stamp leans into the fearsome. You see the Grindylow emerging from the water — alarmingly sharp claws and teeth just waiting to tear into its next victim. There’s no question what will happen next if you take one more step closer to the edge.

More obscure than Nessie and more vicious than the piskies, the Grindylow doesn’t want your attention. It wants your ankles.

Selkie

The seal who loved and left

The selkie’s story is one of yearning: for freedom, for the sea and for a life that can never fully belong to land. These shape-shifting beings come from Orkney and Shetland folklore, where the wind howls and the sea sings. Selkies are seals in the water — but when they come ashore, they shed their sleek skins and become beautiful humans, often just long enough to fall in love, or be taken.

And that’s where the heartbreak begins.

The most common version of the tale? A fisherman (or crofter, or lonely islander) spies a selkie woman dancing on the shore in her human form. He steals her seal skin so she can’t return to the sea, and convinces her — sometimes gently, sometimes not — to become his wife. They live together, raise children, and for a time, there’s a strange sort of peace. But the selkie always gazes longingly at the waves. And when she finds her hidden seal skin at last, she returns to the ocean without a backward glance.

Other versions flip the roles — selkie men seduce mortal women, especially those with “the yearning,” and disappear when the tide calls. Regardless of who leaves, the ending is rarely happy. Selkie stories are salt-soaked with longing, freedom and loss. They’re metaphors for desire, captivity and returning to one’s true self — even if it hurts.

These tales date back centuries, passed down orally in Scotland’s far northern islands and coastal fishing communities. And while they’ve inspired everything from poetry to films (The Secret of Roan Inish and Song of the Sea, for instance), the root myth remains as fluid and mysterious as the tide itself.

Simpson’s stamp is pure melancholy magic: a selkie woman caught mid-transformation, cloak of seal skin slipping from her shoulders, hair trailing like seaweed. The horizon behind her is misted, the waves beckoning. You can almost hear them whispering her name.

The selkie doesn’t roar or bite. She simply leaves — and that’s what makes her legend linger.

Stamped, Sealed, Enchanted

The Royal Mail’s Myths and Legends series doesn’t just celebrate folklore; it resurrects it. These aren’t dusty old tales tucked away in textbooks — they’re living, breathing stories full of monsters, mischief, heartbreak and heroism. And thanks to artist Adam Simpson’s stunning illustrations, they feel both timeless and vividly alive.

From the brute strength of Beowulf to the quiet sorrow of the selkie, each stamp invites you to pause and dive deeper. To trace the origins. To hear the whispers of ancient moors, haunted coastlines and flower-strewn spells. They remind us that storytelling is a kind of magic.

So yes, I’ll be collecting these. But more importantly, I’ll be sharing their stories — because folklore, like a good letter, was meant to be passed on. –Wally

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum: A Breathtaking Artistic Oasis in Boston

A Venetian-style palazzo — the scene of an infamous unsolved art heist — houses eclectic art and lush seasonal gardens. 

The courtyard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum was designed to evoke the ambiance of a 15th century Venetian palace.

I was flicking through Instagram (something I do way too often), and my finger stopped mid-scroll on a stunning palazzo. “Italy?” I thought. “Maybe India?” 

Nope. It was the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum — in Boston, of all places.

Boston?! I’d be there the next day for work. It felt like fate.

“Isabella Stewart Gardner’s will specified that nothing could be moved, ensuring her vision stayed exactly as she intended.”

Gorgeous tilework in the Spanish Cloister — nearly 2,000 tiles from 17th century Mexico, that is

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum: A Hidden Gem in the Heart of Boston

Boston has its usual suspects when it comes to tourist spots: Fenway Park, the Freedom Trail, Faneuil Hall. But have you heard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?

It’s not usually the first stop on a Boston itinerary, but it absolutely should be. Tucked into the city’s Fenway neighborhood, this museum feels like a secret treasure waiting to be discovered. And, believe me, it’s worth it — from its jaw-dropping architecture to its captivating art (and even its unsolved mystery).

The Veronese Room is named for the grand painting on its ceiling, The Coronation of Hebe, attributed to Paolo Veronese and his studio, painted in the 1580s.

The Tapestry Room features 10 Flemish tapestries.

Isabella Stewart Gardner was a rule-breaker, a collector and someone who knew how to make an impression.

Take her grand parties: She once attended a symphony in a white headband that simply said, “Oh, you Red Sox” in bold letters. She was as bold as her taste, building her museum as a Venetian-style palazzo (originally called Fenway Court) right in Boston and filling it with treasures from around the world.

“Years ago I decided that the greatest need in our country was art,” she once said. “So, I determined to make it my life’s work if I could.” 

Mission accomplished. 

In the Chinese Loggia, Stewart Gardner placed a statue of the Madonna and child opposite a Buddhist stele to spark contemplation about shared spiritual themes.

Walking through the museum feels like wandering through the home of someone fabulously wealthy and wildly eclectic. You’ll spot everything from a Rembrandt self-portrait to Japanese lacquered boxes, all lovingly placed as Isabella herself arranged them over a century ago.

A Roman mosaic floor featuring the head of Medusa that was crafted between 117 and 138 CE takes center stage in the courtyard.

The Infamous Art Heist: Mystery in 81 Minutes

The Gardner Museum holds the title for the greatest unsolved art heist in history. The story is something straight out of Hollywood.

It all began in the early hours of March 18, 1990. Two men dressed as Boston police officers buzzed at the museum’s doors, claiming they were responding to a disturbance. The night guards, unsuspecting, let them in.

Big mistake.

“The Gardner Museum holds the title for the greatest unsolved art heist in history.

On March 18, 1990, two men dressed as Boston police officers strolled out of the museum with over $500 million worth of art.”

The “officers” handcuffed the guards, duct-taped their mouths, and left them in the basement. Over the next 81 minutes, they raided the galleries, carefully cutting 13 priceless works from their frames. They strolled out with art worth over $500 million, including:

• Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee (his only seascape)

• Vermeer’s The Concert, valued at $250 million

• Manet’s Chez Tortoni

• A Chinese gu (ancient ceremonial vessel)

• A bronze eagle finial from a Napoleonic flag

When the guards were finally freed, the thieves — and the art — were long gone.

To this day, the empty frames hang in their original spots as a silent reminder of the loss. The museum still offers a $10 million reward for information, but the case remains cold.

Intrigued? Check out the Netflix docuseries This Is a Robbery, which dives deep into the mystery of the stolen masterpieces.

A portrait of Isabella Stewart Gardner by John Singer Sargeant depicts the remarkable woman as a pagan goddess.

Isabella Stewart Gardner: The Original It Girl

Born in 1840, Isabella wasn’t your typical socialite. After her son Jackie died young, followed by miscarriage in her 20s, she fell into depression — until her doctor prescribed travel. That single recommendation changed her life.

Isabella and her husband, Jack, explored the world, visiting Egypt, Italy and Japan. Along the way, she discovered a passion for art, collecting everything from tapestries to ancient manuscripts.

Back in Boston, she became known for her unconventional style. She defied the strict social norms of the time, pairing pearls with turbans at baseball games and opening her home to artists, writers and musicians.

The Blue Room at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum offers an intimate glimpse into Isabella’s personal world, showcasing her close connections with contemporary artists and intellectuals.

A lion attacking a man forms the base of a column in the North Cloister, from 12th century Tuscany.

The works in the Tapestry Room came from Brussels, Belgium and were created in the mid-16th century.

Her museum was her life’s crowning achievement, built in 1903 to house her collection and inspire the public. Even in death, she had the last word: Her will specified that nothing could be moved, ensuring her vision stayed exactly as she intended.

A view of the modern wing

The Museum Today: Tradition Meets Modernity

In 2012, the museum unveiled its sleek new Renzo Piano-designed wing, adding modern flair while preserving Isabella’s original palazzo. The various rooms include: the Dutch Room, Rafael Room, Tapestry Room, Titian Room, Veronese Room and Gothic Room. 

Wandering from room to room feels less like visiting a museum and more like stepping into Isabella’s home — because, in a way, you are. Each space is curated exactly as she intended, as if she’s just stepped out, leaving you to explore her private collection of treasures from around the world.

The new space hosts concerts, lectures and temporary exhibits, creating a dynamic blend of old and new.

The courtyard itself might be the most beautiful work of art here. This statue is believed to represent Persephone, the goddess of spring who became queen of the underworld.

And while the art is breathtaking, don’t overlook the ever-changing courtyard. Seasonal displays like orchids, hydrangeas and chrysanthemums transform the space into a living masterpiece.

Grab a bite at Café G in the new wing of the museum.

Café G

Upon arriving at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, I was famished and made a beeline for Café G, the museum’s onsite eatery. The sleek, glass-enclosed space was designed by Renzo Piano, offering serene views of the surrounding gardens — a tranquil setting to relax before delving into the museum’s treasures.

The menu features dishes that highlight seasonal, local and organic ingredients. 

The Raphael Room features Italian Renaissance art.

A Museum Like No Other  

Whether you’re an art lover, a history buff or just someone looking for a little magic in Boston, the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is a must-see. It’s a time capsule, a mystery and a testament to one woman’s indomitable spirit. –Wally

At the end of the Long Gallery in the Chapel hangs a High Gothic stained glass window titled Scenes From the Lives of Saint Nicasius and Saint Eutropia, crafted around 1205 for the Soissons Cathedral in France.

The Deets: Plan Your Visit

Hours:

• Wednesday to Monday: 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. 

• Thursdays: 11 a.m. to 9 p.m. 

• Closed: Tuesdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Day

Admission:

• Adults: $20

• Seniors (65+): $18

• Students with ID: $13

• Free: Members, children under 18, and anyone named Isabella (yes, really!)

Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum

25 Evans Way
Boston, Massachusetts
USA

The Other Art Fair: Where Emerging Artists Take the Spotlight

Forget the gallery gatekeepers. The Other Art Fair puts power back in the hands of artists. 

Chicago is no stranger to art fairs. On one end, you have the Glenwood Avenue Arts Fest, a laidback neighborhood event where amateur artists and community creatives put their work out into the world. At the other end, there’s the Old Town Art Fair, where fine artists showcase classic styles in painting and photography, all with an air of prestige.

And then, right in that sweet spot in the middle, you’ve got the Other Art Fair — a vibrant, avant-garde showcase where emerging artists take bold creative swings, and the weird and the wonderful find a home.

In addition to Chicago, the Other Art Fair shows in Los Angeles, Brooklyn, Dallas, London, and Melbourne and Sydney, Australia.  

Why Is It Called the Other Art Fair?

It’s all in the name. The Other Art Fair was designed to be, well, other — a counterpoint to the traditional art world, where established galleries and curators act as gatekeepers, deciding which artists get exposure and which ones don’t.

Founder Ryan Stanier saw this firsthand. “The concept was born from a realization of the disparity between a London audience eager to discover the next big thing and talented artists struggling to gain recognition,” he told Fad Magazine. 

Stanier wanted an alternative to a lot of conventional art fairs featuring artists represented by galleries. But the Other Art Fair removes those barriers. Here, artists apply directly, and if accepted, showcase and sell their work themselves — no gallery middleman needed.

But don’t mistake accessibility for a free-for-all.

How Do Artists Get Selected?

While the Other Art Fair prides itself on openness, not just anyone can exhibit. Every artist goes through a curated selection process to ensure that the work on display is fresh, compelling and high-quality.

A committee of art experts reviews applications, evaluating artists based on originality, technical skill and artistic voice. The goal isn’t to enforce a particular style — quite the opposite. The fair thrives on diversity, pulling together artists who push boundaries and bring something new to the table.

For emerging artists, this is a game-changer. Many traditional fairs require gallery representation, but here, artists get to engage with buyers directly, tell their own stories, and make sales on their own terms.

The Vibe of the Other Art Fair

This isn’t your standard art fest. The Other Art Fair is a true experience. Every event is curated with immersive installations, interactive elements and a venue that sets the tone.

In Chicago, that means Artifact Events, a restored industrial space in Ravenswood that screams “effortlessly cool.” The exposed brick, the high ceilings, the perfect blend of grit and polish — it all adds to the magic.

“We’re challenging convention, breaking rules and bringing everyone along for the ride,” the Other Art Fair organizers declare on their website. “Here, art is for everyone.”

Who’s Showing?

The fair features a mix of painters, sculptors, photographers and mixed-media artists, all selected through that rigorous application process.

Yes, some artists don’t make the cut. But the goal isn’t exclusivity — it’s quality. Walking through the fair, you won’t feel like you’re seeing the same rehashed styles you’ve experienced a dozen times before. The fair is about discovery, surprise and bold creative voices.

Beyond the Booths

Sure, the art is the main event, but the Other Art Fair also features live performances, interactive installations, maybe even a pop-up tattoo parlor (it’s happened before).

The courtyard at Artifact Events has food and drink stands, making it easy to grab a refreshment and process all the wild creativity around you. 

There’s also a cool bar upstairs, where you can have a booze-fueled discussion of your favorite pieces.

Planning Your Visit to the Other Art Fair

Dates and Venue: The fair is scheduled for March 27 to 30, 2025, at Artifact Events, located in the Ravenswood neighborhood at 4325 North Ravenswood Avenue. 

Tickets: Opening night tickets are $40 to $45; other dates are $20 to $25. Keep an eye on their website for updates.

Transportation: There’s quite a bit of free street parking along Ravenswood Avenue. Public transit is a great option too, with the Montrose Brown Line, Ravenswood Metra station, and bus lines including the #9 Ashland, all nearby. 

Accessibility: The venue is fully accessible, featuring wide entrance doors, elevators to every level and ADA-compliant restrooms. Service dogs are welcome, and staff at the welcome desk will be available to assist as needed.

Tips for Visitors

Plan ahead. Review the list of participating artists and special installations before you go. That way, you can prioritize what excites you most.

Don’t be shy — talk to the artists. They want to talk about their work. Ask questions, learn about their process, and maybe even take home a piece that means something to you.

Set a budget. The fair includes everything from affordable finds to higher-end collector pieces. Know your spending limit — and stay open to falling in love with something unexpected.

Respect the art. Unless an artist explicitly invites you to touch a piece, assume it’s hands-off. No one wants to be that person.

Ask before taking photos. Some artists are cool with pictures, some aren’t. Always get permission before snapping away.

Take in more than just the art. See what performances and workshops are on. And grab a cocktail at the stylish bar or a bite at the food court. 

There’s No Other Fair Like It

If you’re the kind of person who prefers an art fair with an edge, where discovery is the point, then the Other Art Fair is your scene.

I went in 2024, and I have to say: It’s probably the coolest art fair I’ve been to.

You can feel the Other Art Fair’s mission at every turn. It’s truly a showcase of edgy, unexpected and boundary-pushing creativity. 

Whether you’re a serious collector or just someone who appreciates creative expression, there’s something thrilling about stepping into a space where anything feels possible. –Wally

Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo House-Studio Museum

The studio and home of prolific artists Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo at the Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo wows as a striking example of 1930s Mexican modernist architecture. 

You definitely have to tour Casa Azul and Anahuacalli Museum — but this site is also worth visiting if you have time.

When Wally and I talk to friends about our travels in CDMX, the conversation often turns to the places we’ve seen, and the places on our list for our next trip. 

One of the places I’d been wanting to visit was the Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo, the former home and studio of two of the city’s most revered artists — though I’d argue that Frida has eclipsed Diego in fame since their deaths in the 1950s. It felt like a fitting comeuppance for how he treated her. But more on that later. 

“Whenever Frida wanted to visit Diego, she had to pull herself up an exterior floating staircase and cross a narrow footbridge.

Diego had specifically requested this to make it difficult for Frida to enter his studio (and see his adulterous dalliances). 

Their tumultuous relationship undoubtedly checked the “it’s complicated” box. ”

San Ángel: An Escape From the City

The historic house museum is located in San Ángel, an enchanting neighborhood southwest of Mexico City. Once a separate municipality, San Ángel served as a retreat for wealthy families who built grand country homes to escape the chaos of city life during the rise of the Industrial Revolution. Ancient lava flows shaped this rugged terrain, where its cobbled streets and colonial estates were eventually consumed by the ever-expanding sprawl of Mexico City.

Duke and Wally stand on the terrace by the walkway that connected Diego’s home to Frida’s.

We planned our visit to coincide with the Bazar Sábado, a weekly market held on Saturdays, where artists and artisans set up shop and sell their wares. 

Our Uber driver dropped us off at the museum’s entrance on Calle Diego Rivera. As we waited for our guide, we couldn’t help but notice valets dressed in traje de charro, the traditional attire of mariachis, running past us in pairs. They were undoubtedly heading to the entrance of the nearby San Ángel Inn to park arriving cars. Known for its restaurant, the historic inn is a favorite dining spot for both locals and tourists, especially on weekends.

O'Gorman's Mexican fence post cactus barriers (and modern aesthetic) pissed off his traditional neighbors.

Wally and I walked to the front of the property, which faces Avenida Altavista. In our opinion, the best view of the two buildings is from across the avenue. On the left is the big house, a boxy white and red structure with a distinctive sawtooth roof and water tanks, which once served as the residence and studio of the plus-sized muralist Rivera. 

It’s linked at roof level by a narrow walkway and contrasted by the little house, the vivid blue home on the right, which belonged to his unibrowed surrealist painter wife, Kahlo.

The building that now serves as the restrooms originally functioned as a darkroom for Kahlo’s father, Guillermo.

Not the Blue House: The History of Diego and Frida’s San Ángel Studio Home

When the site opened at 10 a.m., we met our guide, Fernanda, in the museum’s courtyard. She resembled a proto-punk Japanese schoolgirl, with her nose ring and dressed in a long-sleeve white shirt under a black sweater, grid-pattern miniskirt fastened with oversized buttons and shiny black loafers. Joining us were a couple from Alabama celebrating their pandemic-postponed honeymoon and a towering white-haired man on a business trip from Germany who had added a day for sightseeing. 

Before the tour began, Fernanda asked how many of us had visited Casa Azul, Kahlo’s family home in the boho Coyoacán neighborhood. She explained that a lot of visitors show up here thinking they’re about to see the Blue House.

“It’s important to understand the difference,” Fernanda explained, “because that’s the house where she was born and where she returned after divorcing Rivera in December 1939.” 

She continued, “Here, there isn’t much furniture — it’s more of a photographic history. But what makes this site significant is the architecture of these three buildings.”

Our charming tour guide, Fernanda, was an expert on O’Gorman, Rivera and Kahlo.

Kahlo only lived here for six years. The couple moved into the home in January 1934 after Rivera was essentially forced to return to Mexico following the controversy surrounding his mural at Rockefeller Center, Man at the Crossroads. The mural, which included a depiction of Vladimir Lenin, led the Rockefellers to order its destruction and terminate Rivera’s commission. Rivera later re-created the mural in Mexico City. This version, titled Man, Controller of the Universe, can be seen at the Palacio de Bellas Artes murals in Mexico City.

Kahlo and Rivera remarried in December 1940, a year after their divorce, at San Francisco City Hall in California; however, she never returned to San Ángel. Her declining health made it more practical for her to remain in the beloved house of her childhood, la Casa Azul, which now serves as a popular attraction. This house offers a comprehensive glimpse into her life, showcasing her furniture and personal belongings. Rivera, however, lived in the studio home until his death in 1957.

In 1981, the National Institute of Fine Arts (INBA) acquired the houses from Rivera’s daughter, Ruth Rivera Marín, and, after nearly 16 years of restoration, it opened to the public. And three decades later, INBA acquired the Cecil O’Gorman House and incorporated it into the museum campus.

You can imagine Juan O’Gorman’s bold modernist design didn’t go over so well with the neighbors, who lived in colonial-style homes.

Cecil O’Gorman House 

Thanks to his interest in sports, Juan O’Gorman was the first to discover that the pair of tennis courts belonging to the San Ángel Inn were for sale.

In 1929, the aspiring 24-year-old architect purchased the plot at 81 Las Palmas, now Calle Diego Rivera, using money he had earned as chief draftsman at Carlos Obregón Santacilla’s atelier. 

He then began constructing a revolutionary dwelling inspired by Swiss architect Le Corbusier, whose work he had studied at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). The design adhered to the principle that buildings should be created solely based on their purpose and function. 

Nearly a century later, the structure remains one of the earliest examples of functionalist architecture in Latin America. Its stripped-back, utilitarian design was radical for its time, standing in sharp contrast to the surrounding 18th century colonial homes.

An exposed concrete spiral staircase swirls up the side of O’Gorman’s house.

By 1930, O’Gorman had completed the Cecil O’Gorman House, which, according to his autobiography, he designed as a home and studio for his father. 

But that’s not the whole story. 

His father, the Irish painter Cecil Crawford O’Gorman, was an avid collector of colonial art and antiques. He already owned a spacious hacienda nearby and had no interest in downsizing to the modernist glass box that his son had built. In reality, it’s likely that O’Gorman designed the house to showcase his architectural ideas and intended it to serve as a prototype for low-income housing, though the project never came to fruition.

Elevated on pilotis, slender columns that raise the reinforced concrete structure off the ground, this innovative construction method eliminated the need for traditional load-bearing walls, allowing O’Gorman to incorporate an entire wall of articulated glass windows. 

Access to the second floor is provided by an external spiral staircase, but unfortunately, it was closed during our visit due to the installation of an upcoming exhibition.

We weren’t able to go upstairs in the O’Gorman House because they were setting up for a new exhibition.

Like Rivera, O’Gorman had socialist inclinations and sought to challenge the norms of his time. He wasn’t just building a home — he was making a declaration of functionalist design amid the traditional architecture that characterizes much of San Ángel.

The neighbors were said to be outraged, demanding that his architectural degree be revoked. 

The locals didn’t care for the home’s curb appeal, either. Enclosed by Pachycereus marginatus, a tall columnar cactus, also known as Mexican fence post cactus, and landscaped with agaves, it reflected the aesthetic of an indigenous Mexican village rather than the prevailing manicured European style.

Rivera, on the other hand, appreciated O’Gorman’s vision. He commissioned him to construct a similar pair of homes for himself and his wife, Kahlo, on the adjacent lot. 

A model of the property inside the O’Gorman House.

Inside, what formerly served as the dining room and kitchen now holds a glass case with a scale model of the trio of buildings as well as a series of photographs by Cristina Kahlo-Alcalá, Kahlo’s grandniece. Among the photos are images of the hospital gowns Kahlo wore during her stays at the American British Cowdray Hospital in Mexico City, on which she often used to wipe excess paint from her brushes while she painted.

These doodles became the mural Entre Filosofía y Ciencia by O’Gorman.

In 2012, the museum’s restoration team uncovered the sinopia, or preparatory sketch, for the fresco Entre Filosofía y Ciencia (Between Philosophy and Science) on a layer of lime plaster beneath where the completed mural by O’Gorman originally stood. The fresco was purchased by Banco Nacional de México in 1957 and, when it’s not traveling, can be found in the Museo Foro Valparaíso.

Recall that Frida had leg and back issues, and imagine her having to walk up and down this floating staircase onto her roof and then across the walkway to get to Diego’s house.

Frida and Diego’s Complicated Relationship 

After we exited the Cecil O’Gorman House, Fernanda directed our attention to the floating staircase perched on the exterior of Kahlo’s house. Its tubular steel handrail leads from the second floor studio windows to the rooftop terrace. We couldn’t believe anyone would have used those stairs — especially Kahlo, whose chronic health issues significantly impaired her mobility. 

As a child, Kahlo contracted polio, which left her right leg weakened and deformed. Then, as a teenager, she was in a horrific accident when the bus she was riding collided with a trolley car. The impact left her with a fractured spine, and a handrail pierced her body, entering through her back and exiting through her pelvis.

RELATED: 9 Fascinating Facts About Frida

Yet, whenever she wanted to visit Rivera, she had to pull herself up those stairs and cross the narrow footbridge. Rivera had specifically requested this particular feature from O’Gorman to make it difficult for Kahlo to enter his studio (and see his adulterous dalliances). 

Their tumultuous relationship undoubtedly checked the “it’s complicated” box. It was a marriage strained by mutual jealousy and infidelity. Rivera didn’t fit society’s standards of handsome — Kahlo nicknamed him el Sapo-Rana (Toad-Frog) — but his fame, confidence and charisma made him irresistible to many women. 

Tour groups meet in the small courtyard in front of Diego’s house.

Rivera’s House and Studio

In my opinion, the most fascinating part of the museum is Rivera’s house. It still contains some of the original furniture and artwork from when he lived there. 

The bedroom has a set of small windows high on the wall, which limited the amount of direct sunlight and helped keep the room cool. Next to the bed, there’s a pair of shoes, an enamel bedpan and a leather suitcase sitting atop the woven coverlet, awaiting its next trip. An articulated gooseneck task lamp and a small bust of Chairman Mao sit on the olive green-painted nightstand, with a watercolor landscape by Rivera hanging above it.

Diego’s bedroom

Like his bedroom, the studio was mostly left as it was at the time of Rivera’s death. The main section, with its double-height space, was perfect for large works and transportable murals. The design facilitated easy handling of the panels, allowing them to be moved in and out of the studio through the folding windows.

Our favorite pieces among the personal items were Rivera’s collection of larger-than-life cartonería (papier-mâché) figures. Known in Mexico as Judases, these brightly colored effigies, with features like oversized or abnormally small heads and stubby limbs, commanded the room with their massive presence. Originally, these figures were depictions of Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus Christ. Rivera’s collection includes devils, skeletons and other fantastical creatures, which were traditionally burned, exploded or flogged on the Saturday before Easter. 

Some of Diego’s collection of papier-mâché Judases in his studio

Many of these larger-than-life-sized effigies were created by the Mexican folk artist Carmen Caballero Sevilla. One Holy Week, Rivera visited the Mercado Abelardo Rodríguez and was impressed with Sevilla’s Judas figures and invited her to work in his studio in San Ángel. (He admired the working class, which is why he often wore overalls.)

Cool metal skeletons covered the walls.

Diego collected handicrafts like these Judases.

Brushes and trays with reserves of dried paint remain exactly as Rivera had left them, offering a glimpse into his creative process. Among them were shelves with jars of pigments that reflect his color palette — including Paris Green, a highly toxic emerald green powder made from copper and arsenic. 

Diego’s paints line the shelves of his studio but have long since dried up.

There are bookcases filled with pre-Hispanic and indigenous folk art. On one of the easels was a painting of the Latin American actress Dolores del Río, who was rumored to have slept with both Rivera and Kahlo. 

Diego painted Dolores del Rio, a beautiful Latin American actress who is said to have slept with his as well as Frida.

Fernanda pointed out a papier-mâché torito, a little bull, hanging high above us. She explained that this tradition dates back to the mid 19th century. These creations are mounted on a kind of scaffolding that rests on the wearer’s shoulders, stuffed with fireworks like roman candles and bottle rockets, which are set alight as part of the annual festival in the town of Tultepec honoring Saint John of God, the patron saint of (what else?) fireworks makers. 

Sound dangerous? It sure is — but that didn’t stop Fernanda’s brother from participating in one. And he has the burns to prove it. 

Our group followed Fernanda up the staircase to the second floor, where we could take in a full view of the studio. Fernanda explained that this was the very spot where Kahlo discovered Rivera with her younger sister Cristina — an incident that became the proverbial last straw, which led to their separation and brief divorce. It wasn’t Rivera’s or Kahlo’s numerous indiscretions that caused the rift; it was the fact that Rivera was having an affair with her closest confidant.

Just off the landing, we entered Rivera’s private office, a space with a desk and a typewriter and additional bookcases filled with pieces from his prolific collection of pre-Hispanic artifacts, an obsession that can be seen at the Anahuacalli Museum in Coyoacán. 

Diego’s typewriter and some of the pre-Columbian artifacts he loved to collect.

From Rivera’s office, a door opened onto the rooftop terrace and the narrow bridge connecting his former residence to Kahlo’s. However, Fernanda quickly dismissed any thoughts of taking the infamous floating stairs. Instead, we followed her back through Rivera’s office and down the staircase to the courtyard below.

Frida’s house leaves much to be desired — but at least O’Gorman painted it the vibrant blue of her beloved family home, Casa Azul.

Kahlo’s House

Our group paused outside Kahlo’s house as Fernanda pointed out an interesting feature: a carnelian red painted garbage chute extending from the second floor, connected to a steel drum barrel. Its purpose? To collect kitchen waste.

By this time, the site had grown much busier, with dozens of visitors streaming in and out of the buildings.

The rooms inside Kahlo’s house were noticeably smaller and compact than those in Rivera’s, in large part because there wasn’t an open studio space. Unlike her husband’s residence, Kahlo’s house was devoid of decorative objects or furniture, leaving the space feeling even more austere.

The tiny kitchen exemplified functional design, featuring a concrete countertop with a gas cooktop, a small sink, and the opening of the chute that connected to the steel barrel outside. 

A man from Germany insisted Wally pose for a picture in his bright T-shirt to contrast with the blue of Frida’s house, next to the kitchen garbage chute.

We peeked into the modest bathroom, the very space where Kahlo’s 1938 oil painting, Lo que el agua me dio (What the Water Gave Me), was conceived. Fernanda told us that there weren’t any good spaces for Frida to paint in her home, so she chose the bathroom, which had better lighting. 

Frida’s home is small and dark, so she preferred to paint in the bathroom. One of her most famous works, Lo que el agua me dio, came from this period.

Wally paused in front of a framed letter that Kahlo had written to Hungarian-born photographer Nickolas Muray, with whom she shared a decade-long, on-again, off-again relationship, and read this poignant sentence aloud: “Please forgive me for having phoned you that evening. I won’t do it anymore.”

One of the glass cases in Kahlo’s house displays an open copy of the book Complete Anatomy of Man by Martín Martínez, and included a handwritten dedication from Kahlo to Dr. Juan Farill, the surgeon who performed seven spinal surgeries on her. 

The final room we explored was her small bedroom — a fitting conclusion to our visit. The room was concealed behind thick black drapery that we had to pull aside to enter. Inside, an installation by Cristina Kahlo-Alcalá features numerous lightboxes  illuminating Kahlo’s medical records from the American British Cowdray Hospital. The air in the room felt heavy and still, with the slow rhythmic sound of a heartbeat emanating from a hidden speaker. 

We knew beforehand about Diego and Kahlo’s turbulent relationship. But standing in the dark, claustrophobic space Diego had O'Gorman design as her home was a different kind of gut punch. It was hard not to feel the weight of it — the realization that someone as fiercely powerful as Kahlo could be confined like this by a man who claimed to love her. It really shook us, and we didn’t linger.

Our group poses under the entrance to Frida’s house.

Know before you go

We purchased tickets prior to our trip through a site called Tiqets. At $30 per person it’s definitely more than the $2 price of general admission, but we felt it was worth it. 

Our guide, Fernanda, was charming and incredibly knowledgeable, offering all the insights we could have hoped for about the site. She didn’t shy away from discussing the complexities of Rivera and Kahlo’s relationship either. And even though the tour was scheduled to last an hour, she stayed with us for an hour and 45 minutes, never once making us feel rushed.

The museum is open Tuesday through Sunday from 10 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.

Admission is 40 pesos for adults, while children under 13 and seniors can enter for free. On Sundays, admission is free for everyone. –Duke

Floor-to-ceiling windows opened wide to allow transport of Rivera’s large-scale mural panels into and out of his studio. 

Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo

Diego Rivera s/n
San Ángel Inn
Álvaro Obregón
01060 CDMX
Mexico

 

Saints and Social Change: A Q&A With Artist Laurie Buman

Discover how Laurie Buman’s art, heavily influenced by her travels in Mexico, shines a light on social issues through her captivating saint and botanical series.

Saint Monarca of the Milkweed

Duke and I popped into Everybody’s Coffee in our neighborhood of Uptown in Chicago — and were instantly captivated by the striking art gracing the walls. Laurie Buman’s works are a visual feast: wide-eyed saints with a hint of steampunk flair and Day of the Dead influences, each collage exuding a powerful spirituality. Among the holy figures were unique creations like a holy canine and the butterfly-infused Saint Monarca of the Milkweed, canonized straight from Buman’s imagination. We couldn’t help but be intrigued by the stories each piece told.

We reached out to Laurie a few months ago to learn more about her artwork and process. –Wally

Artist Laurie Buman

Let’s start from the beginning. What inspired you to become an artist and develop your style?

Since I was little, I knew I was an artist. I would draw from around 4 years old and always loved coloring and drawing. My parents noticed I had a natural ability to draw realistically, so they nurtured that talent. I received an art scholarship to the Milwaukee Institute of Art & Design and later finished my degree at the University of Milwaukee. Over the years, I took continuing education courses in design and art, earning a BFA [bachelor of fine arts degree]. I spent many years working as a designer full time, which consumed a lot of my time, but I’ve gradually increased the time I spend in my studio.

Saint Cabrini of the River

How does Mexico influence your art?

I’ve been traveling to Mexico since I was 17. My first trip was for Day of the Dead, and I was captivated by the landscape’s beauty and the culture. It’s very unlike Wisconsin, where I grew up. The people in Mexico are so welcoming and inviting, and their culture is rich in history, color and ritual. It draws you in. My art was influenced by these experiences, especially my Day of the Dead photography.

What are some of your favorite places in Mexico?

Oaxaca is very dear to my heart, with its intense culture and natural beauty. I also love Mexico City and Mérida. I’m excited to visit Chiapas in spring 2025, which has a rich indigenous culture.

Can you tell us more about your saint series?

The series started with Saint Catherine of Bologna, an incorruptible saint whose body did not decompose. I channeled her and created my first saint piece, and the series grew from there. I've created pieces addressing social issues like femicide and mental illness, each piece becoming a shrine where people can put their thoughts and prayers. The process is therapeutic for me, as it allows me to bring light into the darkness.

What’s your artistic process like?

I spend months thinking about a particular saint. I do extensive research, layer images in Photoshop, and bring in original photography and found objects that add dimension and meaning. For example, I use rosaries and milagros in my pieces and top them with hand-applied gold leaf.

Saint Kateri Tekakwitha of the Indigenous

What other themes do you explore in your work?

In the past two years, I’ve been focusing on the environment and global warming, creating pieces about monarch butterflies and bees. My latest work, Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, the first Native American saint, celebrates ecology. I’ve also been working on botanicals and cyanotypes, exploring themes of nature and spontaneity.

What are some of the biggest challenges you face as an artist, and how do you overcome them?

Keeping momentum can be challenging, especially when starting. Making connections and finding venues to show my work helps. Having a studio at the Bridgeport Art Center provides a monthly audience and a supportive community. It’s vital to share your work and feel inspired by those around you.

Tell us about 3rd Fridays at the Bridgeport Art Center.

All the resident artists open their studios, and there are galleries on the third and fourth floors. We always have a show or two going on. I have a small gallery called Galería Azul, where I feature a guest artist every two months.

Daffodils + Fireflies

How has your work evolved over the years?

As I’ve aged and grown more confident, my work has become more expressive. My experiences at the University of Chicago and the Bridgeport Arts Center have elevated my work and given me the confidence to be myself and share my ideas.

Night Sky

What do you hope people take away from your art?

With my saint series, I hope people feel compassion towards the subject matter and think about social issues. With my botanical pieces, I want people to delight in spontaneous moments and appreciate the beauty of our world, realizing how precious our planet is.

A Day of the Dead ofrenda by Buman at the Chocolate Museum in Mexico City, featuring Saint Agatha of the Forgotten Daughters

Are there any upcoming projects or exhibitions you’re excited about?

Yes, I have a Day of the Dead show at the Patrician Gallery in Wilmette and a potential show in December at the Chocolate Museum in Mexico City. 

Infant Saint Ben of the Pit Bulls

Is there a particular piece that holds significant personal meaning for you?

All my pieces are special, but Saint Ben of the Pit Bulls is very dear to me. I used to do pit bull rescue, and this piece commemorates a pit bull named Ben who had a significant impact on my life.

The Black Madonna of Light

What legacy would you like to leave as an artist?

I hope to have brought attention to social issues, brought light into the world and added beauty. If people said I reminded them of Frida Kahlo, that would be a great honor.

Anything else you’d like to share?

Just that I’m grateful for this opportunity to share my story. I love connecting with others who share a passion for travel and culture.

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