Memories are imperfect and are not carbon copies of moments past. Instead, they present us with kaleidoscopic and distorted scenes that we try to sew back together every time we recall them, resulting in a patchwork of events.
Traces examines how our perceptions — both those we've established for ourselves and those we've adopted from others — inform how we lead our lives. Focusing on how family, culture, tradition, and routine form the backbone of this cycle, the show highlights three important mediums: woodwork, textile, and video.
"I see my series as a chance to archive the archive before it is ultimately updated with current imagery — memory as a stain, memory as layers. Some lighter, and some more opaque."
View works & essay →"Mis Añoranzas maps the traces and cartographies of memory through material processes, archival fragmentation, and textile-based methods. In a digital world obsessed with documentation, memories tied to my family's migration remain unstable."
View works & essay →"Behind my set of eyes that can be seen, another set exists. They have always been seeing, their eyelids peeled back all the way and never shut. Unlike the first pair, the second possesses the ability to see threads."
View works & essay →Installed in the Sotheby's Institute of Art lobby — a space defined by passage and return — Traces mirrors the way recollection functions in daily life: surfacing briefly, interrupting routine, and then receding.
In Your Brain on Art, Susan Magsamen and Ivy Ross gather the research and data they have acquired through several exhibitions and experiments, pre and post-pandemic, around the topic of how our aesthetic surroundings affect each of us differently. The authors illustrate that "where we come from, how we are raised, and our unique experiences all contribute to what we perceive as beautiful."
They consider our brains "sponges," and explain that we obtain memories and become our unique selves due, in large part, to saliency. The saliency of an experience is described as the strength and memorability of the experience. It starts as a synaptic connection, triggered in the brain. Then, the intensity of the sensory stimuli determines the likelihood of a memory forming from that connection and becoming long lasting.
According to Magsamen and Ross, "arts and aesthetic experiences emerge as major conduits for greater saliency."
Some memories come and some go; some are strengthened, while some are overwritten by new ones. This is the cornerstone of neuroplasticity, or the brain's ability to rewire itself. The authors liken this process to the pruning of dead branches in a garden — and without it, saliency would be meaningless.
But as a result, our recollections of the past are, at times, undermined. When we reflect on our memories — the moments that shape our identities the most — we view them through a fundamentally compromised lens. When we hear our elders tell familial stories, ones of commitment and sacrifice, and of our origins, we find those stories to be compromised as well.
Memories are imperfect
and are not carbon copies
of moments past. — Curatorial Team
Instead, they often present us with kaleidoscopic and distorted scenes that we try to sew back together every time we recall them, resulting in a patchwork of events.
Traces is a group exhibition at Sotheby's Institute of Art that examines how our perceptions, both those we've established for ourselves and those we've adopted from others, inform how we lead our lives. Focusing on how family, culture, tradition, and routine form the backbone of this cycle, the show highlights three important mediums.
Woodwork becomes an inherited craft through the use of large panels that are stained and re-stained from which scenes of life slowly emerge. Textiles made from old scraps accompany newly painted elements that call back to the notion of disjointedness. And, lastly, conceptual video work shown on CRT monitors explores the distortion of image and sound, showing that no memory, however sacred, can be preserved perfectly.
Installed in the entryway of Sotheby's Institute of Art — a space defined by passage and return — Traces mirrors the way recollection functions in daily life: surfacing briefly, interrupting routine, and then receding. The exhibition destabilizes the assumption that identity is rooted in stable origin stories. Instead, it proposes memory as a living structure — revised through retelling, reshaped by distance, and altered by political and geographic displacement.
In some works, symbols and settings are obscured or abstracted, referencing fragmented recollection, warping as a result of uncharted heritage, and resilience in politicized climates. In others, personal, familial, or marginalized histories surface through materials and routines that carry geographic or emotional resonance.
Across the exhibition, memory operates not as evidence but as interpretation: a reconstruction shaped by loss, inheritance, and survival. If identity is built from memory, and memory is built from revision, then who are we becoming each time we remember?
Reconstructing a city that has been destroyed and rebuilt over ten times is a pointless task. Her people will clean the streets, repair the holes, and rebuild homes from the rubble. But rather than reconstruct Damascus with my panels and brush, I am (re)constructing a fragmented memory of a ground my toes have never touched.
A ground that thousands of Damascene people have never seen or have not seen in ten years. A collective nostalgia, or lack thereof.
While interrogating nostalgia, stark nationalistic projection becomes clear in what images depict a "secular, apolitical" Syria. Instagram pages, Facebook accounts, and the Assad Regime's propaganda cast one neighborhood as the soul of the city — the Old City of Damascus. Filled with buildings thousands of years old, families older than the buildings, and a spirit encompassing the Syrian people, this neighborhood presents itself beyond its aesthetic magnitude, but serves simultaneously as a political tool.
For all, but Shamis especially, nostalgia is a dangerous mindset. Stuck in the intoxication of displaced memory, nostalgia causes us to yearn for a home that was typically far from ideal, depicting a paradoxical stagnant, yet forever evolving culture. Diasporas yearn for a time when media censorship, massacres, and poverty were an unavoidable reality.
Google Earth imaging stands as the double-edged sword of image reference, taking in moments of real time — no edits, no plans, and daily life. It captured the moments of pre-war suppression and continues to document current realities. But these realities are biased. Only wealthy, Sunni, and ancient neighborhoods find themselves the subject of Google Imaging. Therefore diasporic nostalgia will forever remain an imperialist indulgence.
The Umayyad Mosque quickly became the subject of my body of work as it is a signifier of a disjointed, ancient, and forever-shifting national identity that is not immune to being the subject of propaganda. The architecture and scenes of life with clear photographic fragmentation facilitate a sense of longing and a fear to establish itself at the forefront of the work.
Wood found its way into my investigation, due as both the material basis of construction and the medium of the Damascene marquetry tradition. If I cannot find a national identity or an equal space in an image, maybe I can find one in craft. Woodworking finds itself in the homes of every Damascene family and stands as a secular, non-regional, non-ethnic, nationalistic identity marker.
Wood stain is my paint, emphasizing the wood grain and creating texture as well as the illusion of veneering. The skies are painted with blue ink, staining the wood and establishing the landscape with natural wood grain. The blue acts as the ocean, sky, and light. It is the Aegean Sea, an escape and demise for thousands of Syrians; it is the sky, an examination of the only constant within any space; and it is the only implication of light — a reference to both God's gift of light and God's failures to bring light.
I offer no solutions, no guidance, and no clear political stance on Damascus. I offer a subtle interrogation of nostalgia and the dangers of romanticizing a recovering post-war nation with no clear future. I offer the broken heart of a Syrian, who desires a Syria for all Syrians.
My body of work, titled Mis Añoranzas, maps the traces and cartographies of memory through material processes, archival fragmentation, and textile-based methods.
Drawing from conversations with my mother and a photographic archive documenting my family's migration from Costa Rica to the United States in the 1990s, the work deconstructs and reinterprets the meaning of home through the careful layering of images, textiles, and archival fragments.
This work examines how snapshots, material objects, and personal histories can generate new dialogues and alternative understandings of home, informed by both a physical scrapbook of images and cartographic documents that chart journeys across time and space.
With a deep commitment to advocating for marginalized communities, I merge my work as a visual artist and graphic designer with social media strategy and creative storytelling — exploring collage, painting, and textiles as mediums for translating memory and migration, often drawing from personal and collective histories to build emotionally resonant narratives.
Behind my set of eyes that can be seen,
the set that is a part of my body that exists in the physical world,
another set exists.
They have always been seeing,
their eyelids peeled back all the way and never shut,
though their ability to visualize clearly has fluctuated over the years.
· · ·
Like my eyes that can be seen, they take in all of the imagery that is in front of me, in my waking life, in the most literal and direct sense. But unlike those set of eyes, the second one that lays behind possesses the ability to see threads.
They often present themselves bright and bold, loose and lengthy, dragging on the floor and waiting for me to eventually pick them up and take them into my own hands, to tie them to other threads that have also presented themselves as loose.
· · ·
I find that these threads can hang from anything and everything — from hair, rice, and confetti, to stop lights, vacuum cleaners, and pillows. From mirrors, white paint, and the smearing of red lipstick, to teeth, loose Poly-fil, and a layout of a deck of cards that depict a game of solitaire.
Threads can also hang from non-material things — memories, fears, and traumas; feelings, old and new; relationships, events, and places; theories, conversations, and disciplines. From the most simple words and phrases, to sounds, verbs, space and time.
· · ·
There have been moments where I've tried to pull the threads that hang from these and they didn't budge, reluctant to give me more and refusing to be tied just yet. I now realize that what the threads ask of me in that moment is to spend time with the bundle that it hangs from, to try and understand why it has come to be — to confront it and dissect.
It isn't particularly easy having to do this, and it's very important to note that it takes time. There is no way of forcing these threads out. But when I am intentional about devoting my time to confronting the massive bundles that they hang from, I am slowly but surely given more thread.
· · ·
When I am able to successfully tie threads together, an immense amount of pressure becomes released from within, and I simultaneously feel relieved and fulfilled. In doing so, I arrive at answers to my questions. This relief and fulfillment is only ever temporary though, as I know that more threads will continue to appear and wait to be tied.
I suppose this is why I must continue to make —
to give myself hope and relief in reaching answers.
Traces is curated collectively by five graduate students and practitioners whose own relationships with memory, inheritance, and place shape the lens of the exhibition.
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[ Bio to be added. ]
A New Jersey–based graduate student pursuing an M.A. in Art Business at Sotheby's Institute of Art. Prior to his graduate studies, he earned his B.A. in Art History from Rutgers University, where his honors thesis examined the relationship between Baroque painting and contemporary fashion photography. Goodson has gained experience across both gallery and museum spaces, including work with Marian Goodman Gallery and Rutgers University's Zimmerli Art Museum, where he developed a strong interest in exhibition-making and public engagement.
A New York–based painter whose practice engages with the intersection of artistic production and systems of value. Working between Tbilisi and New York, she explores how meaning, authorship, and prestige are constructed within the global art ecosystem. Her work has been presented by international exhibitions and major auction houses including Bonhams, Freeman's, and Shapiro. Meladze holds a BA in business and management from the University of Essex, UK, and an MA from Sotheby's Institute of Art, New York.
Founder of Xenni, a platform focused on the contemporary translation of traditional culture. Working between Beijing and New York, her practice explores how intangible cultural heritage can be reinterpreted through exhibitions and public programming. Her work centers on cultural translation, authorship, and the relationship between artistic practice and systems of value, with an emphasis on cross-cultural dialogue and lived experience. Lin studied political economy and has pursued curatorial training in Beijing and New York, including at Sotheby's Institute of Art.
Installed in the lobby of Sotheby's Institute of Art — a space defined by passage and return — Traces mirrors the way recollection functions in daily life: surfacing briefly, interrupting routine, and then receding.
Upon entering the lobby, Call Me When You Get There by Marie Salud is placed at the center of the two wide columns, where there is typically a seating area. Two pedestals showcase two CRT televisions, drawing the visitor into a quiet, cryptic gesture of brushing hair.
Behind Salud's video, on the far wall, Muna Alfadel's two google earth panels hang — creating depth in the space. Wood stain as paint. GPS coordinates as titles. An archive of an archive.
To the left, along the wall of the Lex-C classroom, Pamela Lopez's three smaller works hang side by side — functioning as a triptych. Plano del Terreno, Tierra Fértil, and Su Vestido map a family's migration through cartography, archival photograph, and textile.
To the right, along the wall beside the kitchen, Salud's second work RICE/GLUE plays on another pair of CRT televisions with a projector. Warm lighting emphasizes the textures of Alfadel and Lopez's work; cold, reduced lighting draws the eye to the video.
On opening night, speakers will play Salud's films at a respectful volume so each guest can enjoy them. Then, following the show, when visitors are less frequent — and in respect of the lobby space — we will switch to two pairs of headphones paired alongside each video work.
A wide, horizontal composition built from street-level captures of Damascus. The figures carrying cups and standards emerge from the wood grain itself — the painted scene pulled from an image that may have been taken as far back as twenty years ago, before the fall of the Assad regime.
Muna Alfadel's google earth series explores Syria through the distorted lens of street-view technology. Having not visited the country of her family's origins, she pieces together her painted landscapes using Google Street View — which she views as an unbiased, yet also hyper-biased visual representation of Syria.
The coordinates in the title refuse the viewer the comfort of recognition. Where is this, exactly? The answer is a set of numbers.
An interior scene — a room layered with patterned textile and shadowed figures, rendered on a long horizontal panel. The red floral fabric dominates the foreground, pulling the eye away from the architectural recession behind it.
Often using wood stains instead of traditional paint, on inherited panels of wood, Alfadel ascribes to the concept of memory. Memory as a stain. Memory as layers. Some lighter, and some more opaque.
These digital scenes are seldom perfect. They are often wrought with gaps and inconsistencies — as is Alfadel's own perception of the land her family comes from.
The largest panel in the series. A Damascene streetscape with archways, hanging lanterns, red banners, bicycles, and a line of men at the right edge. The wood grain reads as sky. The figures emerge from the stain itself.
Through her exploration of street-view technology, Alfadel has found some of the images she accesses to be taken as far back as twenty years ago, showing scenes prior to the fall of the Assad regime. She sees her series as a chance to archive the archive before it is ultimately updated with current imagery.
The courtyard is a space of community, family, and conversation — but sectarianism remains the regime's strongest weapon against its people. The mosque courtyard becomes a public and private space: interior and exterior, religious and nationalistic, gendered and genderless.
A portrait-oriented companion piece. Two men in traditional fez hats and dark vests face the viewer, one holding ornamental metalwork. A rare moment in the series where the figures occupy the full frame — where the archive looks back.
Most of Alfadel's google earth works position the viewer at a distance — wandering a courtyard, looking across a street. Here the two figures meet the gaze directly, refusing the tourist-eye of street-view technology.
Painted in oil on canvas rather than stain on wood, this work sits slightly apart from the rest of the series — a closer look, a held glance.
A large-scale textile work built from dozens of inkjet-printed family photographs, stitched together into a hanging patchwork. A family's migration from Costa Rica to the United States, rendered not as a single image but as an assembly of many — threaded together with velcro and string.
Hilos Familiares — 'family threads' — is Lopez's most ambitious work in the exhibition. Drawing from conversations with her mother and a photographic archive documenting her family's migration, Lopez deconstructs and reinterprets the meaning of home through the careful layering of images and textiles.
In a digital world obsessed with documentation, memories tied to her family's migration remain unstable — continually blurring and reshaping themselves. This work holds them in place, but only just: the velcro, the string, the stitching all suggest a patchwork that could still come apart.
A family photograph — three figures against a window — is layered over a topographic survey map of a region in Costa Rica. The painted green overgrowth and blue rivers read as both landscape and family tree.
Plano del Terreno ('plan of the land') literally overlays family onto map. The scale of the cartographic grid — 1:50,000 — refuses to match the intimacy of the photograph it holds. The viewer is asked to read both at once.
Lopez's work examines how snapshots, material objects, and personal histories can generate new dialogues and alternative understandings of home.
A family gathered around an orange pickup truck, set against a green ground with a painted border of red heliconia leaves. The painted frame pushes back against the documentary photograph — making the everyday feel ceremonial.
The title — 'fertile land' — is quiet but firm. The figures are the fertility; the land is the context; the truck carries them across both.
Lopez often overlays images of family with cultural and familial symbols, often obscuring certain elements and blurring borders with paint.
Yellow flowers and green leaves on a cream ground — a rendering of a dress, remembered as pattern. Vertical red threads run down the surface like a warp, and small red and blue squares interrupt the field. The cheesecloth is visible beneath the paint, softening every edge.
Su Vestido — 'her dress' — is the most abstract work in Lopez's selection. Instead of reproducing a photograph, Lopez reconstructs a textile from memory: the pattern of a garment that belonged to someone in the family.
Through textile and tapestry, Lopez explores identity and memory as elements of ourselves that we weave together from reference, in an attempt to flesh out a narrative — or to understand our preeminent narratives.
Marie Salud brushes the hair of her childhood neighbor, also of Filipino heritage. The gesture is filmed in close detail — hands, hair, the sound of the bristles — and played across multiple CRT monitors with a large projection cast over them.
Salud felt compelled to create a poem to accompany the video. But instead of giving the audience explicit access to it, she synthesized the text into a musical scale and composed a dreamlike audio which overlays the video — giving access to the poem as a transformed entity.
A consistent focus of Salud's video work is the exploration and excavation of the self, and the many layers of one's life that make them into who they are. As the daughter of parents who immigrated from the Philippines, Salud is often inspired by themes of family, heritage, motherhood, and caretaking.
Two channels of video — one tracing hands in rice and glue, the other a figure dissolving into whites and greys — overlaid with Tagalog subtitles: hindi pa luto (not yet cooked), ang layo natin (we are so far away), magkasama (together).
The Tagalog subtitles aren't translated into English for the viewer — they surface and recede, the way a half-remembered language does. The rice, the glue, the water: everyday substances as metaphor for binding, loss, and distance.
Salud's work is traditionally shown on CR monitors, usually with a large projection cast over them. It can often feel mysterious or cryptic — akin to the way we perceive our memories when recalling them.