If you’ve been around the art world long enough, you’ll realize that it’s not always as consistent as it seems. After the second glass of wine, many people are eager to name blue-chip artists they dislike. But Uman (b. 1980) is universally praised. She is as at home at Hauser & Wirth as she is at the International Center for the Arts in Santa Fe, beloved by the toughest critics and the most passionate collectors. Last month she opened her first solo exhibition, After All…, at the Aldrich Museum in Connecticut, USA, and we took the opportunity to learn more about this important exhibition.
The pieces are wonderful and creative. How did you come up with these pieces?
i met [chief curator] Amy Smith Stewart about three years ago. She offered me the show. I always felt like I didn’t want to put myself in the institutional world – not against the institution, but it just felt like that wasn’t my place. This is the first time a museum is willing to do an exhibition with me. It felt comfortable because it was from Amy and was located in Connecticut, two hours away from my studio. I first thought of doing a set of paintings in the main room…maybe a sculpture. I don’t know what I would do. It came together at the beginning of this year.
You say you have concerns about institutions. Why?
When I started to have commercial success, I felt like that was the path for me – to be a commercial artist. I’m not an academic. I was an outsider, but I never felt like an outsider or an insider. I don’t want to force my work into this context. But that’s part of the game; the artist will eventually have a show in a museum. I could have waited years, but this felt easier and less stressful. Amy is a wonderful person – lovely, kind – a pleasure to work with. This makes everything easier. I had the courage to do whatever I wanted: large paintings, videos. She said yes to everything. A great partnership was developed with Aldridge and especially Amy.
When preparations for this exhibition began earlier this year, was there a moment of inspiration that told you what the work would be?
I live in the north and I always talk about loving country life and loving nature. So the idea is landscape. But I don’t want to put myself in a box. I’m always trying to redefine my work. So they are landscapes that can be made interesting through grids, through certain colors – landscapes that become abstract. It’s also a love story about my life in New York and upstate New York. That’s why I included videos – videos I shot on my iPhone every time it snowed outside my studio. I’ve been recording them every year since 2012.
I worked on Richard Mayhew’s recent performance of Venus Over Manhattan, and in press materials you referenced his concept of “mindscapes.” Can you talk about how that applies here?
This is an inner world. I feel the work while doing the work. These pieces contain marks that I have used over the years. I didn’t touch them for a few months while I was making them, and then I came back this summer and in the months leading up to the exhibition. This reflects my experience this year – clarity, inner peace. It’s hard for me to describe anything I do. When someone asks me what I’m thinking about, I always get the feeling that I’m there. A lot happened this year, and I put it all into work.
When you say “a lot of things,” do you mean things in the world or things in your personal life?
Both. I live in a bubble, but you can’t ignore what’s going on. Lots of confusion. Personally, I’ve had a very inspiring year – a year of change and clarity. I’ve lost people and I’ve won people. These experiences are all part of the show. The show has become very clear thanks to the past few months.
What world events are filtered?
We have this new president. I’m scared. I have residency in the UK and don’t want to go before May. I almost canceled. When I finally went, I realized how different it felt to be an American in Europe now. When I got back to JFK, I immediately felt anxious—like the country was in chaos. I internalized this. I’m an immigrant; I worry all the time. It’s not part of my narrative as an artist, but it’s there. This has nothing to do with the content of the paintings – they are paintings of color, movement and stillness. But I can’t help but feel the shift in energy in this country from last year to this year.
When I look at these paintings, I see soft colors, calmness – but hearing you talk about the year, the stronger traces feels different. In the situation you describe, maybe it’s like an exorcism.
I love the word “exorcism.” Yes. This is how I channel my work. My paintings are very physical. I put a lot, removed, placed, removed. I use a lot of pressure. Painting large paintings is very physically demanding. I didn’t want anxiety to appear in the painting, but it showed. Still, they seemed to me to be quite contemplative. A less meditative painting is the lamp in the back room, as well as small works on paper. That lamp painting started out simple—spray paint on black plaster—but is now full of texture.
Press materials say you are “obsessed” with street lights. Can you talk about that?
I wasn’t obsessed, but for a while I was. I live on a very rural farm outside of Cooperstown. I then moved to Albany in 2020, which was my first urban environment in years. There is a light outside my building. It shows up in drawings – I’ve made dozens of them. It becomes a beautiful sculptural form, a metaphor for a flash of inspiration or an idea. A deeper meaning than the lamp itself. To create this sculpture, I found metal in a scrapyard in Alameda County, just outside of San Francisco. The glass came from a shop in Auckland. I want something like the lights outside my building.
Conceptually, is the attraction a sense of liminality—an industrial object becoming this serendipitous moment of grace?
Yes. Also, I grew up in Mombasa, Kenya. When walking on the street, the first thing you see is the street lights. In London, there are also old street lamps. There’s something about making people feel welcome – a certain sense of security. I love seeing lights or houses lit up at night. It’s very warm and feels like home. Maybe it’s also returning to urban areas after spending a decade in the countryside. I came to the north in 2010. There wasn’t even a street light in my driveway.
When you talk about the north, it sounds like you don’t like being completely remote or completely urban – one foot in and one foot out. is that so?
Exactly. I’ve finished reading that chapter. This show is a love letter to my life in the North. Now living in Albany, I’m thinking about where I want to live. I would love to go back to New York City. But I have a visa and I’m leaving the country next year. I will live in France. I wanted to see what it looked like in other places and what work I could create. Although I still maintained my city life and friends, I was constantly in isolation. But I’ve had enough of the snow and cold.
Are you going to the South of France?
Yes, just outside Avignon. A nice little town. The cost of living is lower. A place to work. I can take the train to Paris whenever I want. I try to come back to New York as often as I can. I still love New York State. I will always come back.
Final question: How do you want visitors to feel when they leave the show – something that’s not in the press materials?
Very inspired. I don’t want people to take away a message. I never had news. Some respond, some don’t. I keep working. I hope people find meditation. Sit back, watch the show, and reflect. I love painters whose work brings joy. I want people to be happy. I like drawing. I like to give people a feel for my work without any information. There is no need to prove yourself or anything.
