Practicing mindfulness with Billy Al Bengtson’s Punta Tintotera Dracula.

In which I defend the iconic and controversial 1999 artwork by Tracey Emin - and what I discover about the power of art, and beds, along the way.

Listen to this episode of The Great Women Artists. Katy Hessel interviews Siri Hustvedt.

The field of mindfulness in museums combines the science of mindfulness with the visually rich world of art to offer people a way to cultivate wellbeing in their everyday lives.

What happens when edges disappear, when the essence of something is revealed?

In recent months I’ve enjoyed writing a few features for American Fine Art Magazine. The magazine is only available by subscription so I can’t provide links to my articles here. But I thought I’d share a few snippets in case you are in the vicinity of these exhibitions.

Quilts convey comfort, warmth, tradition, and handmade craft. I love the juxtaposition of the quilt’s rustic look and feel with the modern graphics. It makes the piece timeless. Though it stems from a moment in time, the message is not attached to any particulars. The clearing skies may reference one’s own internal weather or the power we have to stop polluting.

Following the lead of still-life master Giorgio Morandi, artists as diverse as Mitchell Johnson and Ed Lavino use visual “enjambment” to create friction between objects’ borders.

Does an artist whose subject is climate change have a responsibility to offer solutions or tools? Or is holding up a mirror enough?

Enjoy a spontaneous mini reader’s digest of art inspiration.

Making sense of our daily lives by creating a narrative – not a fictional story but a crafted vision – gives us meaning and agency.

I’m home from a trip to England, which included tramping around the Cumbrian countryside where my husband grew up. A highlight for me was a quiet amble down a country road near the small village of Casterton. It is a most unassuming locale and yet the site of an art installation by the celebrated land artist Andy Goldsworthy.

I used to have a superstition about giving away or selling pieces of art I owned. To do so felt like a taboo; like I was breaking the essential artist/collector bond. I’m not sure I expected seven years of bad luck, per se, but I feared minor cosmic punishment.

In the case of Karen LaMonte’s “Dress 3,” it’s what is not in the dress that matters.