artists

Before I moved to L.A., I’d spent pretty much my entire professional life working for New York-based publications. One of the primary reasons I decided to take this job and transfer my life to the West Coast was because it seemed to me that California was at both the spear point of climate risk and the cutting edge of climate adaptation.

I didn’t expect the peril of climate change to rear its heads as quickly, and as close to my new home, as it did when the January fires became one of the biggest stories in the nation just a month after I started at The Times. I was less surprised to see how widespread a sophisticated understanding of climate issues was at the publication — an expertise borne out by the exemplary coverage of the fires and their aftermath.

The same, I think, can be said for most of the people I know or have recently met who live in L.A.: There is very little sanguinity about what’s happening here, climate-wise, among Angelenos, regardless of where they work or come from.

So maybe I should have expected that an exhibit of recent work by L.A. artists would be similarly, logically, oriented toward these same (largely home-grown) anxieties around our place in a world increasingly shaped by the developing climate crisis.

Nevertheless, it struck me how many of the artists centered the interface between the built and “natural” environments at the Hammer Museum’s biennial “Made in L.A.” exhibition when I visited last weekend.

Many of the artists seemed to be grappling with how we situate ourselves in a climate-changed world.

From Alake Shilling’s uncanny cartoon bears driving buggies and mowing down weeping, humanoid sunflowers to Kelly Wall’s installation of glass swatches painted the color of toxic L.A. sunsets displayed, for tourist consumption, on an erstwhile pharmacy rack, the exhibition communicates Los Angeles as a place of largely unresolved conflict between human beings and whatever we define as “nature.”

Part of Kelly Wall’s installation, “Something to Write Home About.”

(Elijah Wolfson / Los Angeles Times)

I thought that as a climate journalist, I might just be primed to see such things, but Essence Harden, who co-curated the biennial, noted that “concerns around the environment are historical, they’re rooted. They’re not ahistorical. They don’t come from nothing or nowhere. I think art produced in Los Angeles has a relationship to the site specificity and the dynamic of architecture and history which grounds it.”

Harden said that she and her co-curator, Paulina Pobocha, didn’t seek out artists grappling with climate specifically for the seventh edition of Made in L.A. But after scouring dozens of local galleries, they found that climate and environmental anxieties permeated the scene.

Much of this Anthropocene-angst is “rooted in a sort of longer history of capital,” Harden said. Indeed, as a relative outsider, I have always sort of felt that L.A. wears its supposed climate excellence a little too loudly on its sleeves — or maybe, on its postcards and souvenir T-shirts. The iconic palm trees, for example, are transplants, forced to live in neighborhoods that don’t want them.

“The idyllic palm trees sight line of Los Angeles comes from these neighborhoods that were historically Black and Japanese and Latinx,” Harden said. “They are rooted in these places that people who are buying the product of Los Angeles don’t want to go.”

There are no palm trees in the Hammer biennial. At least, none that I remember. What there are instead are painted cinder blocks and hunks of glass, graffiti and rutted acrylic paint, twisted tubes of neon and roughly formed clay.

Anthropocene Landscape 3 by Carl Cheng

(Hammer Museum)

It was refreshing to see a show that grappled with the environment but was not didactic. Describing her curatorial process, Harden said she is mostly attracted to “people who are more ethereal and capture dreams and sensation.” If they also happen to be engaging with climate change, all the better.

More recent news and ideas on climate and culture

Writing for The Guardian, Beth Mead — a star forward on England‘s national soccer team for nearly a decade, with the all-time most assists in the history of the Women’s Super League — shared how climate change has changed the game she loves over the last decade. For professionals on her level, yes, but more importantly, for the many kids around the world who are now less likely to be able to regularly play what she calls “the world’s most accessible sport” thanks to extreme heat, droughts and flooding.

A “milk apocalypse” is coming for your burrata, reports Motoko Rich for the New York Times. Cheesemakers and dairy farmers in Italy, which produces and exports some of the most popular cheeses in the world, report a declining supply of milk, thanks to rising temperatures.

And if you wanted to pair your favorite Oregon pinot with that cheese … well, better do it now. The Willamette Valley has long had a nearly perfect climate for growing pinot noir — to the point where “Oregon wine” is often shorthand for the varietal. But as Branden Andersen reports for the local outlet Newsberg, thanks to changes in temperature and humidity, the region may need to rethink what’s been practically a vineyard monoculture.

In Belém, Brazil, COP30 is coming to a close. I’ve always been drawn to the art and performance at past COPs, and was glad to see some examples from this year’s climate conference. But what was even more interesting to me was Spanish artist Josep Piñol’s performance piece, in which he was commissioned to produce a large-scale sculpture in Belém and then canceled, saving what he said would have been the emissions equivalent of 57,765 metric tons of carbon dioxide.

The past week in broader climate news

Melody Gutierrez has been in Belém reporting on COP30 for The Times, and this week, she wrote about an image that has come to represent the socio-economics of this year’s events: two gigantic diesel-powered cruise ships, used as temporary housing for the global elite that comprise much of the COP delegations, docked at the mouth of the Amazon River, whose rainforests and people have felt much of the brunt of fossil fuel-driven climate change.

Meanwhile, the California Air Resources Board is expected to vote today on new measures to address methane leaks and underground fires at landfills which — unsurprisingly — are more likely to impact poorer Californians. As my colleague Tony Briscoe reports, landfills are a climate change and environmental health menace, and updates to the rules governing California’s are long overdue.

Earlier this week, a U.S. appeals court put a hold on a California law set to go into effect in January that would require any company that makes more than $500 million annually and does business in the state to report, every two years, the financial impact of climate change.

Finally, there was a lot of talk this week about how the build-out of data centers is driving up energy costs across the U.S. I found this Pew Research article to be a useful one-sheet to get a feel for what we know to be real when it comes to AI’s impact on the energy sector, what is hyperbole and what we still don’t fully understand.

This is the latest edition of Boiling Point, a newsletter about climate change and the environment in the American West. Sign up here to get it in your inbox. And listen to our Boiling Point podcast here.

A 1940 self-portrait by Frida Kahlo has sold for $54.7m and made auction history at Sotheby’s in New York.

A haunting 1940 self-portrait by famed Mexican artist Frida Kahlo has sold for $54.7m, making it the most expensive work by a female artist to sell at auction.

The painting of Kahlo asleep in a bed, titled El sueno (La cama) – or in English, The Dream (The Bed) – surpassed the record held by Georgia O’Keeffe’s Jimson Weed/White Flower No 1, which sold for $44.4m in 2014.

The sale at Sotheby’s in New York on Thursday evening also topped Kahlo’s own auction record for a work by a Latin American artist.

The 1949 painting, Diego and I, depicting the artist and her husband, muralist Diego Rivera, went for $34.9m in 2021.

Her paintings are reported to have sold privately for even more.

The self-portrait that broke records on Thursday is among the few Kahlo pieces that have remained in private hands outside Mexico, where her body of work has been declared an artistic monument.

Kahlo’s works in both public and private collections within Mexico cannot be sold abroad or destroyed. Because the painting sold on Thursday comes from a private collection, it is legally eligible for international sale. Sotheby’s said the owner who put the painting up for auction – and whose identity has not been disclosed – “astutely” purchased the piece also at auction in New York in 1980.

The buyer’s identity was also not disclosed.

‘El sueño (La cama)’ by Frida Kahlo soars to $54.7 million, becoming the most valuable work by a woman artist ever sold at auction.

Painted in 1940 during a pivotal decade in her career, marked by her turbulent relationship with Diego Rivera. pic.twitter.com/t6Sni7fIKT

— Sotheby’s (@Sothebys) November 21, 2025

Some art historians had scrutinised the sale for cultural reasons, while others had raised concerns that the painting, which was last exhibited publicly in the late 1990s, could again disappear from public view after the auction.

It has already been requested for upcoming exhibitions in cities including New York, London and Brussels.

The piece depicts Kahlo asleep in a wooden, colonial-style bed that floats in the clouds. She is draped in a golden blanket and entangled in crawling vines and leaves. Above the bed lies a skeleton figure wrapped in dynamite.

Kahlo vibrantly and unsparingly depicted herself and events from her life, which was altered by a bus accident at 18.

She started to paint while bedridden, underwent a series of painful surgeries on her damaged spine and pelvis, and then wore casts until her death in 1954 at age 47.

During the years Kahlo was confined to her bed, she came to view painting as a bridge between worlds as she explored her mortality.

“I’m very proud that she’s one of the most valued women, because really, what woman doesn’t identify with Frida, or what person doesn’t?” her great-niece, Mara Romeo Kahlo, told The Associated Press news agency before the auction.

“I think everyone carries a little piece of my aunt in their heart.”

Kahlo resisted being labelled a surrealist painter, a style of art that is dreamlike and centres on a fascination with the unconscious mind.

“I never painted dreams,” she once said. “I painted my own reality.”

The new record for Kahlo’s painting came hours after a Gustav Klimt portrait sold for $236.4m, setting a new record for a modern art piece.

Klimt’s Portrait of Elisabeth Lederer sold after a 20-minute bidding war, also at Sotheby’s in New York, on Tuesday.

In the quiet of his Ramallah studio in the occupied West Bank, Palestinian artist Nabil Anani works diligently on artworks deeply rooted in a movement he helped create during the political tumult of the late 1980s.

Cofounded in 1987 by Anani and fellow artists Sliman Mansour, Vera Tamari and Tayseer Barakat, the New Visions art movement focused on using local natural materials while eschewing Israeli supplies as a form of cultural resistance. The movement prioritised self-sufficiency at a time of deep political upheaval across occupied Palestine.

“[New Visions] emerged as a response to the conditions of the Intifada,” Anani said. “Ideas like boycott and self-reliance inspired a shift in our artistic practice at the time.”

Each of the founding members chose to work with a specific material, developing new artistic styles that fit the spirit of the time. The idea caught on, and many exhibitions followed locally, regionally and internationally.

Nearly four decades later, the principles of New Visions – self-sufficiency, resistance and creation despite scarcity – continue to shape a new generation of Palestinian artists for whom making art is both an expression and an act of survival.

Anani, now 82, and the other founding members are helping keep the movement’s legacy alive.

Why ‘New Visions’?

“We called it New Visions because, at its core, the movement embraced experimentation, especially through the use of local materials,” Anani said, noting how he had discovered the richness of sheepskins, their textures and tones and began integrating them into his art in evocative ways.

In 2002, Tamari, now 80, started planting ceramic olive trees for every real one an Israeli settler burned down to form a sculptural installation called Tale of a Tree. Later, she layered watercolours over ceramic pieces, mediums that usually do not mix, defying the usual limits of each material, and melded in elements of family photos, local landscapes and politics.

Sixty-six-year-old Barakat, meanwhile, created his own pigments and then began burning forms into wood, transforming surface damage into a visual language.

“Other artists began to embrace earth, leather, natural dyes – even the brokenness of materials as part of the story,” Mansour, 78, said, adding that he had personally reached a kind of “dead end” with his work before the New Visions movement emerged, spending years creating works centred around national symbols and identity that had started to feel repetitive.

“This was different. I remember being anxious at first, worried about the cracks in the clay I was using,” he said, referring to his use of mud. “But, in time, I saw the symbolism in those cracks. They carried something honest and powerful.”

In 2006, the group helped create the International Academy of Art Palestine in Ramallah, which was open for 10 years before being integrated into Birzeit University as the Faculty of Art, Music and Design. The academy’s main goal was to help artists transition from older ways of thinking to more contemporary approaches, particularly by using local and diverse materials.

“A new generation emerged from this, raised on these ideas, and went on to hold numerous exhibitions, both locally and internationally, all influenced by the New Visions movement,” Anani said.

A legacy maintained but tested

The work of Lara Salous, a 36-year-old Palestinian artist and designer based in Ramallah, echoes the founding principles of the movement.

“I am inspired by [the movement’s] collective mission. My insistence on using local materials comes from my belief that we must liberate and decolonise our economy.”

“We need to rely on our natural resources and production, go back to the land, boycott Israeli products and support our local industries,” Salous said.

Through Woolwoman, her social enterprise, Salous works with local materials and a community of shepherds, wool weavers and carpenters to create contemporary furniture, like wool and loom chairs, inspired by ancient Bedouin techniques.

But challenges like the increasing number of roadblocks and escalating settler violence against Palestinian Bedouin communities, who rely on sheep grazing as a basic source of income, have made working and living as an artist in the West Bank increasingly difficult.

“I collaborate with shepherds and women who spin wool in al-Auja and Masafer Yatta,” said Salous, referring to two rural West Bank areas facing intense pressure from occupation and settlement expansion.

“These communities face daily confrontations with Israeli settlers who often target their sheep, prevent grazing, cut off water sources like the al-Auja Spring, demolish wells and even steal livestock,” she added.

In July, the Reuters news agency reported an incident in the West Bank’s Jordan Valley, where settlers killed 117 sheep and stole hundreds of others in an overnight attack on one such community.

Such danger leaves Palestinian women who depend on Woolwoman for their livelihoods vulnerable. Several female weavers working with Salous and supporting her enterprise have become their families’ sole breadwinners, especially after their spouses lost jobs due to Israeli work permit bans following the Hamas-led attacks on southern Israel on October 7, 2023, and the start of the Gaza war.

Visiting the communities where these wool suppliers live has become nearly impossible for Salous, who fears attacks by Israeli settlers.

Meanwhile, her collaborators must often prioritise their own safety and the protection of their villages, which disrupts their ability to produce wool to sustain their livelihoods.

As a result, the designer has faced delays and supply chain issues, making completing and selling her works increasingly difficult.

Anani faces similar challenges in procuring hides.

“Even in cities like Ramallah or Bethlehem, where the situation might be slightly more stable, there are serious difficulties, especially in accessing materials and moving around,” he said.

“I work with sheepskin, but getting it from Hebron is extremely difficult due to roadblocks and movement restrictions.”

Creating vs surviving

In Gaza, Hussein al-Jerjawi, an 18-year-old artist from the Remal neighbourhood of Gaza City, is also inspired by the New Visions movement’s legacy and meaning, noting that Mansour’s “style in expressing the [conditions of the occupation]” has inspired him.

Due to a lack of materials like canvases, which are scarce and expensive, al-Jerjawi has repurposed flour bags distributed by the United Nations agency for Palestinian refugees (UNRWA) as canvases for creating his artwork, using wall paint or simple pens and pencils to create portraits of the world around him.

In July, however, the artist said flour bags were no longer available due to Israel’s blockade of food and aid into the Gaza Strip.

“There are no flour bags in Gaza, but I’m still considering buying empty bags to complete my drawings,” he said.

Gaza-born artist Hazem Harb, who now lives in Dubai, also credits the New Visions movement as a constant source of inspiration throughout his decades-long career.

“The New Visions movement encourages artists to push boundaries and challenge conventional forms, and I strive to embody this spirit in my work,” he said while noting that it has been challenging to source the materials from Gaza that he needs for his work.

“The ongoing occupation often disrupts supply chains, making it difficult to obtain the necessary materials for my work. I often relied on local resources and found objects, creatively repurposing materials to convey my message.”

Anani, who said the conditions in Gaza make it nearly impossible to access local material, added that many artists are struggling but still strive to make art with whatever they can.

“I believe artists [in Gaza] are using whatever’s available – burned objects, sand, basic things from their environment,” Anani said.

“Still, they are continuing to create in simple ways that reflect this harsh moment.”

If our waking hours are a canvas, the art is how one fills it: tightly packed, loosely, a little of both. At a time when they were both 40 and the art scene in ’70s New York was in thrall to street-centered youth of all stripes, real-life writer Linda Rosenkrantz asked her close friend, photographer Peter Hujar, to make a record of his activities on one day — Dec. 18, 1974 — and then narrate those details into her tape recorder the following day at her apartment.

The goal was a book about the great mundane, the stuff of life as experienced by her talented confidants. In Hujar’s case, an uncannily observant queer artist and key gay liberation figure planning his first book, what emerged was a wry narrative of phone calls (Susan Sontag), freelancing woes (is this gig going to pay?), celebrity encounters (he does an Allen Ginsberg shoot for the New York Times) and chance meetings (some guy waiting for food at the Chinese restaurant). The Hujar transcript, recovered in 2019 sans the tape, was ultimately published as “Peter Hujar’s Day.”

Now director Ira Sachs, who came across the text while filming his previous movie “Passages,” has given this quietly mesmerizing, diaristic conversation cinematic life as a filmed performance of sorts, with “Passages” star Ben Whishaw perfectly cast as Hujar and Rebecca Hall filling out the room tone as Rosenkrantz. (They also go to the roof a couple of times, which offers enough of an exterior visual to remind us that New York is the third character getting the time-capsule treatment.)

From the whistle of a tea kettle in the daylight as Hujar amusingly feels out from Rosenkrantz what’s required of him, to twilight’s more honest self-assessments and a supine cuddle between friends who’ve spent many hours together, “Peter Hujar’s Day” captures something beautifully distilled about human experience and the comfort of others. For each of us, any given day — maybe especially a day devoid of the extraordinary — is the culmination of all we’ve been and whatever we might hope to be. That makes for a stealthy significance considering that Hujar would only live another 13 years, succumbing to AIDS-related complications in 1987. It was a loss of mentorship, aesthetic brilliance and camaraderie felt throughout the art world.

Apart from not explaining Hujar for us (nor explaining his many name drops), Sachs also doesn’t hide the meta-ness of his concept, occasionally offering glimpses of a clapperboard or the crew, or letting us hear sound blips as it appears a reel is ending. There are jump cuts too, and interludes of his actors in close-up that could be color screen tests or just a nod to Hujar’s aptitude for portraits. It’s playful but never too obtrusive, approaching an idea of how art and movies play with time and can conjure their own reality.

The simple, sparsely elegant split-level apartment creates the right authenticity for Alex Ashe’s textured 16mm cinematography. The interior play of light from day to night across Whishaw and Hall’s faces is its own dramatic arc as Hujar’s details become an intimate testimony of humor, rigor and reflection. It’s not meant to be entirely Whishaw’s show, either: As justly compelling as he is, Hall makes the act of listening (and occasionally commenting or teasing) a steady, enveloping warmth. The result is a window into the pleasures of friendship and those days when the minutiae of your loved ones seems like the stuff that true connection is built on.

Somehow in Los Angeles, everything comes back to traffic.

While making their works featured in the Hammer Museum’s Made in L.A. biennial, artists Patrick Martinez, Freddy Villalobos and Gabriela Ruiz set out to capture the essence of the city’s crammed streets through different lenses.

For over a decade, the Hammer has curated its Made in L.A. series to feature artists who grapple with the realities of living and making art here. It’s an art show that simultaneously pays homage to legacy L.A. artists like Alonzo Davis and Judy Baca, and gives a platform to newer faces such as Lauren Halsey and Jackie Amezquita.

This year’s show, which opened last month, features 28 artists. As part of that cohort, Martinez, Villalobos and Ruiz bring their lived experiences as Latinos from L.A. to the West Side art institution, drawing inspiration from the landscapes of their upbringing.

While creating their displayed works, Martinez took note of the many neon signs hanging in stores’ windows, leading him to make “Hold the Ice,” an anti-ICE sign, and incorporate bright pink lights into his outdoor cinder block mural, “Battle of the City on Fire.” With flashing lights and a shuttered gate tacked onto a painted wooden panel, Ruiz drew on her experiences exploring the city at night and the over-surveillance of select neighborhoods in the interactive piece, “Collective Scream.” Villalobos filmed Figueroa Street from a driver’s perspective, observing the street’s nighttime activity and tracing the energy that surrounds the place where soul singer Sam Cooke was shot.

This year, Made in L.A. doesn’t belong to a specific theme or a title — but as always, the selected art remains interconnected. These three artists sat down with De Los to discuss how their L.A. upbringing has influenced their artistic practice and how their exhibited works are in conversation. Made in L.A. will be on view until March 1, 2026.

The following conversation has been condensed and edited for clarity.

All three of you seem to put a spotlight on various elements of L.A.’s public spaces. How is your art affected by your surroundings?

Ruiz: I really got to explore L.A. as a whole, through partying and going out at night. I prefer seeing this city at night, because there isn’t so much traffic. That’s how I started my art practice. I would perform in queer nightlife spaces and throw parties in cheap warehouses. With my commute from the Valley, I would notice so much. I wouldn’t speed through the freeway. I’d instead take different routes, so I’d learn to navigate the whole city without a GPS and see things differently.

Martinez: That’s also how I started seeing neons. I had a studio in 2006 in downtown, off 6th and Alameda. I would wait for traffic to fade because I was staying in Montebello at the time. I would drive down Whittier Boulevard at night. And you see all the neon signs that have a super saturated color and glow bright. I thought about its messaging. None of the businesses were open that late. They were just letting people know they were there.

Ruiz: Specifically in this piece [“Collective Scream”], there’s a blinking street lamp. It reminds me of when I would leave raves and would randomly see this flickering light. It’s this hypnotizing thing that I would observe and take note of whenever I was on the same route. There’s also a moving gate, [in my piece,] that resembles the ones you see when you’re driving late at night and everything’s gated up.

Villalobos: You do experience a lot of L.A. from your car. It’s a cliche. But f— it. It’s true. When I moved out of L.A., I felt a little odd. I missed the bubble of my car. You can have what seems to be a private moment in your car in a city that’s packed with traffic and so many people. It made me think about what that means, what kind of routes people are taking and how we cultivate community.

Patrick Martinez’s “Battle of the City on Fire,” made in 2025, was inspired by the work of the muralist collective, named the East Los Streetscapers.

(Sarah M Golonka / smg photography)

It’s interesting that you all found inspiration in the biggest complaints about L.A. Maybe there’s something to think about when it comes to the way those born here think of car culture and traffic.

Martinez: I see its effects even with the landscapes I make. I’ll work from left to right, and that’s how we all look at the world when we drive. I always think about Michael Mann movies when I’m making landscapes, especially at night. He has all those moments of quiet time of being in the car and just focusing on what’s going on.

Beyond surveying the streets, your works touch on elements of the past. There’s a common notion that L.A. tends to disregard its past, like when legacy restaurants shut down or when architectural feats get demolished. Does this idea play any role in your work?

Martinez: The idea of L.A. being ashamed of its past pushed me to work with cinder blocks [in “Battle of the City on Fire”]. One of the main reasons was to bring attention to the East Los Streetscapers, the muralists who painted in East L.A. [in the 1960s and ‘70s as a part of the Chicano Mural Movement]. There was this one mural in Boyle Heights that was painted at a Shell gas station. It was later knocked down and in the demolition pictures, the way the cinder blocks were on the floor looked like a sculptural painting. It prompted me to use cinder blocks as a form of sculpture and think about what kind of modern-day ruins we pass by.

Villalobos: Speaking about L.A. as a whole feels almost too grand for me. But if I think about my specific neighborhood, in South Central, what comes to my mind is Black Radical Tradition. It’s where people are able to make something out of what other people might perceive as nothing. There’s always something that’s being created and mixed and mashed together to make something that, to me, is beautiful. It’s maybe not as beautiful to other people, but it’s still a new and creative way to see things and understand what comes before us.

Ruiz: Seeing my parents, who migrated to this country, come from nothing and start from scratch ties into that idea too. Seeing what they’ve been able to attain, and understanding how immigrants can start up businesses and restaurants here, speaks so much to what L.A. is really about. It’s about providing an opportunity that everybody has.

So it’s less about disregarding the past and more about making something out of nothing?

Martinez: It ties back to necessity, for me. Across this city, people come together by doing what they need to do to pay rent. It’s a crazy amount of money to be here. People need to regularly adjust what they do to survive. Recently, I’ve been seeing that more rapidly. There are more food vendors and scrolling LED signs, advertising different things. Once you understand how expensive this backdrop can be, that stuff sits with me.

Freddy Villalobos’ “waiting for the stone to speak, for I know nothing of aventure,” is an immersive work in which viewers can feel loud vibrations pass as they, figuratively, travel down Figueroa Street.

(Sarah M Golonka / smg photography)

We’ve talked a lot about how the past affects L.A. and the role it plays in your art. Does a future L.A. ever cross your mind?

Villalobos: I feel very self-conscious about what I’m gonna say. But as much as I love L.A. and as much as it helped me become who I am, I wouldn’t be too mad with it falling apart. A lot of people from my neighborhood have already been moving to Lancaster, Palmdale and the Inland Empire. When I go to the IE, it feels a little like L.A. and I’m not necessarily mad at that.

Ruiz: It’s really difficult to see what the future holds for anybody. Even with art, what’s going to happen? I don’t know. It’s really challenging to see a future when there’s a constant cycle of bad news about censorship and lack of funding.

Martinez: It’s murky. It’s clouded. This whole year has been so heavy, and everyone talking about it adds to it, right? We’re facing economic despair, and it’s all kind of heavy. Who knows what the future will hold? But there are definitely moves being made by the ruling class to make it into something.