1. You were raised by prominent activist parents. How does that radical upbringing echo in your work today?
My upbringing had a huge impact on me—not just in shaping my values, but in how I move through the world. I was raised in a household where activism wasn’t abstract; it was embodied daily. My parents lived their convictions, and that sense of purpose—of aligning one’s life with deeper ethical commitments—has stayed with me. It taught me to question dominant narratives, to do my best to be attuned to injustice, and to believe that creative work can be vocational on some level.
2. Your art straddles theology and myth. What anchors these influences together for you?
At its core, I think my work is about dissection and reconfiguration—breaking apart the narratives, symbols, and structures that shaped my upbringing and piecing them back together in new forms. Theology and myth were foundational to how I understood the world as a child. What ties it all together is an impulse to examine the machinery of belief—how stories, rituals, and images create meaning and power—to unmake and remake those forms and symbols with care, pressure, and an openness to what might emerge.
3. You often build immersive worlds—are these imagined rituals for others, or deeply personal ones made visible?
I think of them as memory-structures—part personal, part collective, part imagined. Like memories, they’re fragmented, semi-legible, and constantly shifting. Some elements are rooted in my lived experience; others are reassembled from myth, theology, or dreams. I’m not necessarily trying to prescribe a ritual for others, but rather to construct a space where something can be felt or recognized—however abstractly.
4. Religious iconography is central in your practice. How do you see yourself in relation to Catholicism today—challenger, inheritor, or alchemist?
I don’t fully identify with any of those labels—if anything, I see myself more as an excavator.
I don’t come to the work with an agenda. If there’s a pattern in what I make, it’s because I keep circling certain themes—story, memory, theatricality, power structures. I think I’m also trying to understand what’s worth salvaging, and why we operate the way we do. It’s a kind of metaphysical excavation. But I don’t sit down with a thesis in mind. These are just the places I find myself returning to. I’m suspicious of over-intellectualizing because, for me, that’s the point of making art: it lets me wrestle with these things in a way language often can’t.
5. What comes first in your process—the concept, the object, or the ritual?
Often, I begin by writing. It’s not always polished or even intended for anyone to read, but it helps me access the atmosphere or logic of a world before I start building it. Writing opens up possibilities—it gives form to instincts that haven’t yet materialized visually. My father was a writer, so I suppose that impulse runs deep, even if I don’t consider myself particularly skilled at it. I enjoy the narrative space it creates. That said, I’m not rigid. Sometimes an object or a material will lead the way, and I’ll follow. Other times, a performative gesture or ritual instinct surfaces first. I try to stay responsive to whatever wants to emerge.
6. Your textile figures feel like mythic avatars. Are they extensions of self, or stand-ins for something larger?
I’m not sure there’s a clear distinction between the two. In my eyes, the personal and the mythic are deeply entangled. The figures I make might emerge from some interior place, but they also carry archetypal weight—they tap into something larger than me. I think of them as vessels or projections—part self, part story, part collective residue. They hold contradictions, just like people do. So yes, they’re extensions of me, but they’re also reaching beyond me, shaped by forces and lineages I’m still trying to understand.
7. What draws you to materials like bungee cords, pews, or ecclesiastical garments?
I’m drawn to materials that feel both sacred and industrial—objects that carry symbolic weight but also point to survival, crisis, and lived experience. Bungee cords, for instance, are synthetic and utilitarian, while pews or ecclesiastical garments carry heavy spiritual and historical resonance. Combining them creates tension—something uncanny. They become mash-ups of the sacred and profane. I like when materials feel familiar but slightly off—dislocated from their original purpose and reassembled into something charged and strange.
8. Tell us about your upcoming film *Salvation Machine: A Mass of Abwoon Dominus.
Salvation Machine is a short film about agency and the condition of throwness—the disorienting sense of having been cast into preexisting structures of belief, authority, and meaning. It follows a priest-like figure dressed in a tuxedo and gilded mask. The film traces a procession that begins in pastoral fields and moves slowly into the woods, where congregants gather in reverent anonymity for an ambiguous rite. It also features an ambient score by the brilliant composer Thomas Hunter. I couldn’t have pulled off this project without a lot of support from him and others. It was super humbling working with such a talented group of people. Screenings are planned for Wassaic Project during Upstate Art Weekend, and Queensway Television in Singapore—an offshoot of D.D.D.D. Gallery in New York City. There will also be other screenings TBA.
9. You’re premiering your film at Roxy Cinema in New York City and showing at Wassaic Project in Hudson Valley and in Queensway Television in Singapore in the next few months. How do different spaces shift your approach?
I’m definitely responsive to space and context. Roxy will be a theatrical setting with an artist talk and Q&A. It’s a first for me so I’m super excited and grateful to be sharing my new film in that context. At Wassaic Project, I’m part of the summer group exhibition So It Goes, where I’ll have six sculptures in a dedicated room. The space is constructed with a horror-like chapel sensibility—theatrical in its presentation. In contrast, the presentation at Queensway Television in Singapore is a month-long screening of my film. It’s a more focused, time-based installation, where the environment is structured around the film itself.
10. Performance seems woven into your installations. Is your work meant to be witnessed or experienced?
I’d say it’s meant to be experienced. I think, as humans, we often can’t help but place ourselves inside the narrative frame—we project, we imagine, we insert ourselves. Think of the movies - and the sort of cinematic osmosis that occurs. Maybe that’s what I’m after with my installations—that moment of alchemy where the viewer slips into the frame, where the line between witnessing and inhabiting dissolves. It’s not about storytelling in a literal sense, but about triggering a kind of cinematic or mythic self-awareness. Hopefully the work becomes a space where something internal gets activated.The reference point is always us—our bodies, our memories, our mythologies—so I try to make work that invites that kind of internal activation.
11. Do you feel the art world is more open to hybrid practices now—or do you still operate on the fringes?
I think the art world is certainly more open to interdisciplinary and hybrid practices. At the same time, these kinds of practices often require more from institutions—more space, more production support, more curatorial investment. So while there’s interest, it can still be challenging to find structures willing to fully support the scale or complexity of the work.
12. What emotional space do you want viewers to inhabit when encountering your work?
I try not to dictate an emotional response—that’s ultimately up to the viewer. What I aim to create is a charged atmosphere, a space that nudges rather than instructs. If the work opens up a feeling—whether discomfort, curiosity, or something harder to name—then it’s doing its job. I’m more interested in creating conditions for experience than prescribing how that experience should unfold.
13. How have residencies like Vermont Studio Center impacted your work and rhythm?
Vermont Studio Center was an incredible experience. I was extremely lucky and deeply grateful to attend as the Emily Mason and Wolf Kahn Fellow, with full funding. That support made it possible for me to fully focus on the work—giving me time, space, and freedom from daily pressures, which is a rare gift. The staff—from administration to the kitchen, facilities, and art techs—were all generous and kind, and the community of artists made it a truly special environment. It was a meaningful period of growth, and I really hope to return.
14. You've been using Pixpa for your website for over a decade. What has kept you with the platform all these years, and how has it supported your evolving practice?
Pixpa has been a great platform for me over the years. What’s kept me with it is the human element—I can reach out with a question or issue and actually hear back from a real person, which is rare and incredibly appreciated. It’s also super intuitive to use, which means I can update and adapt my site easily as my work evolves. That combination of reliability, responsiveness, and simplicity has made it a steady partner in supporting my practice.
15. If someone sees your work for the first time—what do you hope stays with them?
I can’t really answer that as it’s not my business but hopefully the work leaves behind a sense of atmosphere—something charged and slightly uncanny. Not a message, but a feeling that lingers. If it prompts someone to consider their place within larger forces—however briefly—that’s great.
Interested in seeing John's stunning work? Here's a link to John's website built using Pixpa.
