Academic research is notoriously niche and often opaque, but Dr. Ella Hawkins has found a crowd-pleasing way to share her studies. The Birmingham-based artist and design historian translates her interests in Shakespeare performance, costume, and matieral culture into edible replicas.

Hawkins bakes batches of cookies that she tops with royal icing. Decorating takes a scholarly turn, as she uses tiny paintbrushes and a mini projector to help trace imagery of William Morris’ ornate floral motifs or coastal scenes from English delftware. Rendering a design on a single cookie can take anywhere between two and four hours, depending on the complexity. Unsurprisingly, minuscule calligraphy and portraits are most demanding.

Hawkins first merged baking and her research about a decade ago while studying undergraduate costume design at the University of Warwick. She decided to bake cupcakes based on Shakespeare productions that her class examined. “It felt like a fun way to look back at all the different design styles we’d covered through the year,” she tells Colossal, adding:

I carried on decorating cakes and cookies based on costume design through my PhD (mainly as goodies to give out during talks, or as gifts for designers that I interviewed), then branched out and spent lots of time doing cookie versions of other artefacts to keep busy during the pandemic.

She has since published an academic book on the topic and is a senior lecturer at Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama. But she also continues to translate artifacts and prized objects held within museum collections into delicious canvases.

There’s a set made in collaboration with Milton’s Cottage, a museum in the country house where John Milton finished his epic Paradise Lost. Anchored by a delicately crosshatched portrait evoking that of the frontispiece, the collection contains typographic titles and signs that appear straight from a 17th-century book.

Hawkins ventures farther back in history to ancient Greece with a collection of pottery sherds inspired by objects within the Ashmolean Museum. With a bowed surface to mimic a vessel’s curvature, the irregular shapes feature fragments of various motifs and figures to which she applied a sgraffito technique, a Renaissance method of scratching a surface to reveal the layer below.

The weathered appearance is the result of blotting a base of pale brown-grey before using a scribe tool to scratch and crack the royal icing coating the surface. She then lined these etchings with a mix of vodka and black food coloring to mimic dirt and wear. (It’s worth taking a look at this process video.)

Other than a select few preserved for talks and events, Hawkins assures us that the rest of her cookies are eaten. Find more of her work on her website and Instagram.

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“We believe in the power of stories to tickle senses and shift perceptions,” says Marshmallow Laser Feast, an experiential artist collective merging art, extended reality (XR), and film into large-scale, immersive exhibitions.

MLF’s latest work, Of the Oak, situates a monumental, six-meter-tall, double-sided video of the titular tree in London’s Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew. The piece focuses on the garden’s Lucombe oak, portraying a “digital double” using real-world data.

MLF collaborated with researchers from Kew to create a vibrant, scientific rendering, blending advanced technologies with artistic imagery. The team stitched together thousands of images, used LiDAR to map the tree’s form with laser pulses, CT-scanned soil samples, employed ground-penetrating radar to trace the root system, and recorded a series of 24-hour soundtracks.

“Of the Oak is a celebration for the oak tree as a living monument of vital ecological relationships and species interdependence,” MLF says. “It is an invitation to witness the oak as a keystone in the web of life, majestic and unassuming, stretching its branches skyward and its roots deep into the soil, embodying both quiet strength and boundless generosity.”

Visitors can access a stunning digital field guide on their phones or via desktop from anywhere, featuring a series of meditations that “tune into the invisible bond between humans and trees.” The app also includes an interactive species guide highlighting the diverse range of birds, insects, fungi, and other inhabitants that rely on oak trees for survival.

Of the Oak continues at Kew through September 28. Marshmallow Laser Feast is also currently presenting an immersive, seven-room exhibition titled YOU:MATTER at the National Science and Media Museum as part of Bradford 2025 U.K. City of Culture. See more projects on the collective’s website.

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Around the same time as Firebelly’s partnership with Colossal, the Chicago design studio was also developing a brand identity for Good Chaos, an impact organization committed to creating opportunities for artists. As part of its initial launch, Good Chaos was seeking a trio of local artists to design distinct logos for the organization and create interactive and joy-filled digital experiences on the Good Chaos website.

In his research, Firebelly’s Senior Director of Design Will Miller came across Liz Flores’s work on Colossal and felt she fit the criteria perfectly for Good Chaos’ launch initiative. She was added to the artist shortlist and was ultimately selected by the Good Chaos team to participate. Read more about how her work came to goodchaos.com on Firebelly.

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With scenic vistas for faces, blossoms for eyes, or nothing but coral above the shoulders, Rafael Silveira’s surreal portraits summon aspects of human consciousness that span the spectrum of the wonderful and the weird. The Brazilian artist describes his work as “a profound dive into the human mind,” merging flowers, landscapes, and uncanny hybrid features into visages that channel humor with a slightly sinister undertone.

Silveira’s forthcoming solo exhibition, Agricultura Cósmica at DCG Contemporary, traverses “the fertile terrain of the subconscious,” the gallery says. “With a nod to pop surrealism and the uncanny, his work imagines the mind as a garden where thoughts are seeds and images (are) the wildflowers that sprout.”

Silveira works predominantly in oil, using panel or canvas as a surface and occasionally surrounding his works with ornate, hand-carved wooden frames. The sculptural details of the frames, like an anatomical heart in “Eyeconic Couple” or an all-seeing eye topping “A Crocância do Tempo” — “the crunchiness of time” in Portuguese — read like talismans.

Many of Silveira’s compositions begin with a traditional head-and-shoulders portrait composition as a starting point, but instead of skin we see a distant horizon, like in “Magnetic,” or a figure’s head supplanted by a stalk of coral or a column of fire. Other pieces omit the human outline altogether in amusing arrangements of vivid flowers, which suggest wide eyes and addled expressions. While human forms shed their emotional autonomy as they converge with their surroundings, the flora in works like “OMG” and “PLEEESE” are a profusion of awe and desire.

Agricultura Cósmica opens in London on June 12 and continues through July 10. The show runs concurrently alongside an exhibition titled Plural by embroidery artist Flavia Itiberê. See more on the artist’s website and Instagram.

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From lengths of black cord, thread, and fine metals, Jeanne Vicerial summons the ageless, transformative power of armor and protective garments in a new series of sculptures. Drawing on her body of work titled Armors, the artist continues to create enigmatic sculptures that question the nature of presence, consciousness, and change.

In the artist’s current solo exhibition, Nymphose, at TEMPLON, darkly mysterious figures stand in silent, contemplative observation. Some works, like “Persephone n°3” or “Présence, Amnios,” portray semblances of human faces, while others like “Mue n°9, Nymphose” may be inhabited by something more like a spirit or an otherworldly deity than a physical person.

Vicerial has recently introduced metals like copper and gold into bodily cavities in her works, emphasizing feminine power and internal energy, which the gallery describes as “objects-as-offerings.” For the artist, these works center around the nature of metamorphosis, both in the process of translating a single length of rope into a fully-formed sculpture and in the biological and emotional ways that women transform over time.

Like her Armors, the figures in Nymphose possess individual strength that heightens when gathered together. Vicerial employs words like “Gardienne” in her titles, French for “guardian,” to imply protection. “Mue” translates to “molt,” like the way an animal might shed its feathers or skin to make room for new growth.

Delicate and soft, Vicerial’s figures are simultaneously tall, elegant, timeless sages. The artist positions their vulnerabilities as strengths, tapping into the societal taboo of women aging and the inevitable cycle of life.

Nymphose continues in Paris through July 19. Explore more on Vicerial’s website and Instagram.

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From delicate, single leaves, Lito conjures meticulously detailed and playful compositions. The Japanese artist began applying paper-cutting techniques to leaves in 2020 as a way to navigate his ADHD and concentrate on something constructive and uplifting. His work quickly went viral on social media, and he has been creating tiny, often humorous narratives that focus on animals and cartoonish characters ever since.

If you’re in Fukushima, you can stop by a entire museum dedicated to Lito’s unique pieces. Explore more work on his website and Instagram.

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Shoelaces, zippers, chairs, and other domestic items adopt unexpected personalities in the uncanny sculptures of Tobias Izsó. Incorporating a wide range of materials, from various woods and paper to leather and textiles, the artist investigates the emotional terrain of private spaces. Izsó depicts sweaters, shoelaces, shirt cuffs, and piles of laundry merging with their surroundings or seemingly possessing minds of their own.

Christine König Galerie, which represents the artist, exhibited Izsó’s series off the cuff last year in its project space, KOENIG2. The works explore relationships between home, self, and the emotional influence of stuff. Izsó’s work will be on view at Kunstverein Dresden in October, and you can find more on the artist’s Instagram.

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One of Amarie Gipson’s many gifts is an unyielding desire to ask questions. Having worked at institutions like The Contemporary Austin, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the Studio Museum in Harlem, Gipson has cultivated a practice of examining structures and pushing beyond their limitations. Her inquiries are incisive and rooted in a profound respect for people of all backgrounds, with a central goal of expanding art’s potential beyond museum walls.

A true polymath, Gipson is a writer, curator, DJ, and founder of The Reading Room, an independent reference library with more than 700 books devoted to Black art, culture, politics, and history. Titles like the century-spanning African Artists sit alongside Toni Morrison’s novel Sula and Angela Davis’ provocative Freedom is a Constant Struggle, which connects oppression and state violence around the world. The simultaneous breadth of genres and the collection’s focus on Black life allow Gipson and other patrons to very literally exist alongside those who’ve inspired the library.

One afternoon in late April 2025, I spoke with Gipson via video about her love for the South, her commitment to meeting people where they’re at, and her hopes for The Reading Room.

This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity.

Grace: I’d like to start at the beginning. Why start a project of this nature in Houston?

Amarie: I am a student of so many incredible Black women writers, artists, curators, thinkers, and theorists, and I really take seriously the advice that I’ve gotten through reading their work. If something doesn’t exist, you should start it. I’ve moved and migrated through these great United States for some time, and when I moved back to Houston seven and a half years ago, The Reading Room didn’t exist. I needed it to happen. I wanted to experience my books somewhere outside of my apartment, and I also wanted to create a destination for folks when they came to town, so that my friends know that they have a cool place to land. Those are the two main reasons: it didn’t exist, and I wanted somewhere to go.

Grace: There’s a thing that happens in Chicago all the time–I think it happens anywhere that is not New York or Los Angeles–and the ways artists think about their careers and what it takes to be successful. There’s often this perception that to reach a certain level, they need to go to one of those two cities. And I would imagine Houston has a similar feeling.

Amarie: Absolutely. I think it’s important that everyone leaves home at some point. But don’t leave because you don’t think that anything exists here. Leave because you want to see what else there is and bring it back. Come back home and create the things that you want to see here.

I don’t think I could have The Reading Room in New York. I don’t think I could have The Reading Room in Chicago. It’s not my home. I feel more empowered here. I feel safer to have created something like this, especially in a state that is so extremely suppressed, politically, socially. But culturally, we stand firm, especially in Houston. So, it felt natural.

Grace: What area of Houston are you currently in?

Amarie: The Reading Room is currently located in north downtown, right across the way from the University of Houston’s downtown campus. Downtown is not the most exciting place in the city, but it is a meeting point for all different types of cultures. The Reading Room lives inside a hybrid art studio called Sanman Studios. There are two units. They function as an event space and production studio. There’s an art gallery, an artist residency work space, and The Reading Room. This is Houston’s creative hotspot.

Grace: I’m wondering how your institutional training has influenced The Reading Room. How have those experiences pushed you to make something that is decidedly not institutional?

Amarie: I was just thinking about this a week ago. I came into the curatorial field around 2016, and that was at the height of philanthropic institutions looking for ways to diversify. One of the solutions was to introduce younger, undergraduate-aged students from underrepresented communities to the field. I did the Mellon Undergraduate Curatorial Fellowship at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston. I was a junior in college at the time, and this program really gave me a crash course on what museums are like; how the exhibitions are produced, where the art is stored, and how curators work with other departments. I spent two years at the MFAH in the Prints and Drawings department, and I was always looking for Black artists. I realized quickly that if no one’s here to advocate for this work to come out of storage, no one’s ever going to see it. I was trying to sift through the collection, find, locate, and make these works more visible.

I also recognized early in my career that people are really important to me. I started asking questions: What are the functions and responsibilities of art institutions? What are we really supposed to be doing? I know what we have done, but what is the purpose? I eventually took those questions to Chicago and New York, and I moved around to different museums to try to find the answer.

A turning point was when I got hired at the Studio Museum in Harlem, which, for any young Black person in the art world, is the pinnacle. It’s the place. It’s where a lot of careers start. Many folks’ first job in the art world is at the Studio Museum, and they’re being shaped and molded to continue in the field. However, shortly after arriving, I realized the Studio Museum was not the place.

In 2020, I looked around at all the different institutions across New York sharing statements of solidarity and pledging institutional and systemic changes. I wanted the Studio Museum to do more than say, “We’ve been doing this. We’ve been committed.” Because what are we doing and does that commitment to care only benefit Black artists, or does it show up in our consideration for all Black people? There are real Black people who are being targeted and locked up for protesting the fact that police are murdering us. What more can we do to connect to the people? How can we bridge the gap between the folks who care about Black art and those who care about Black people and the things that affect us? What about the people working in and for the museum? What are we doing to support the struggle outside of working our lofty little museum jobs? The response that I got is that the institution is going to keep doing what it’s been doing. And that just wasn’t enough for me. I worked in my whole career to get there, but I realized that it was not the place I thought it was or hoped it could be.

And so I left that job and found a way to connect my beliefs with my actions. I’ve taken all of the skills that I’ve learned—how to build relationships, how to listen, how to analyze and organize things, record keeping, data management, object management, storytelling—and do something totally different, something that prioritizes everyday Black people in a way that boosts our intellectual, cultural, and creative capacity. If it’s increased access to literature, if it’s increased access to culture, if it’s just a place that has air conditioning, a place where people can come and hang out, so be it. It’s making space for it all in a way that hopefully destroys the out-of-touch, elitist hierarchy that surrounds “the work.”

Grace: That’s one of the things that I think is so powerful about The Reading Room and the work that you’re doing. Art books are notoriously expensive, and other than sporadic free days, museums generally are not cheap either. You really do balance such a strong aesthetic perspective and a critical rigor typically associated with institutions with the accessibility of something like a public library meant for truly everyone. I wonder, on a tangible level, what goes into making a space like that?

Amarie: I didn’t have a physical space when the idea first came to life. I started working on the concept in the summer of 2021. I passed by an old American Apparel storefront in this neighborhood in Houston called Montrose. I remember going to that American Apparel as a teenager. I never could afford anything, but I was always going in there to try stuff on. I looked inside, and I was like, what would I do if I had the space? At the time, I didn’t really know how anybody could afford anything outside of paying their rent. People who had small shops, coffee shops, small businesses, kitschy little stores, I was like, what do you need to do in order to make this happen? I eventually found my way to Sanman. I met Seth Rogers, the owner. I was working for a magazine, so I started asking him questions.

I was also DJing at the time. I had been DJing for four or five years prior to moving to Houston, but my DJ career blew up when I moved back because the culture here is so rich. Nightlife is a huge part of the city. I started saving my money from my day job, gigs, and partnerships. I would be at the events that I would play, and I’d be yelling to people over the speakers, “I’m building a library. I’m building a library!”

I lost my job at the magazine in the fall of 2022, and I had come upon enough money to focus fully on The Reading Room. I built the website to anchor the concept. I scanned the front and back covers of 325 of the books that were in the collection at the time. I built a strong relationship with Sanman and hosted a two-day, in-person experience after I launched the site. There were about 130 people who came that weekend just to hang out. Someone approached me and said, “I didn’t even know this many books on Black art existed.” That was the moment everything made sense, when I realized I’m on the right path.

Because this is a reference library, where the collection doesn’t circulate, we’ve got to do programs. Every single program that we do is inspired by or connected to a book that’s in the collection. That’s bringing people in, and it’s leaving them with a reading list so that they can keep coming back. That’s been the formula so far. My ambition is to garner enough support and community response so that when I break out of a shared space, the traffic is steady and the impact deepens.

Grace: When we think about meeting people where they’re at, so much of it is about creating multiple entry points into the work that you’re doing. When someone comes in, what does that process look like? How do you engage with them?

Amarie: It depends. Most folks are just like, oh my god, I love this space. Some other folks will be like, I’m working on a project about Black hair. Do you have any books about hair? And I’ll go and pull books about hair. I’ll explain the relationships between the books on the main display and point out how I’ve selected and placed things, then give a crash course on where you can find what.

So even if they don’t know what they’re looking for, pointing them in a direction, they’ll be able to wayfind. It’s a destination for discovery. You come in, and you fall down a rabbit hole.

Grace: I think of curation primarily as a way of providing context. I’m wondering how the vastness of your collection—in that there’s history, politics, and culture, and you’re not focused on only having visual art or photography—manifests as part of your commitment to accessibility. What you’re doing in making these larger connections and providing context so that people don’t need to read an artwork or image through a traditional art historical, canonical perspective, but rather can approach it through music or politics or a cultural moment, feels like an accessibility move to me.

Amarie: You said it so beautifully. Seriously, that’s it. The books that people are familiar with are what’s going to draw them in, and then they’ll see that the bulk of the collection is about visual art. Hopefully, what they know is a gateway to what they don’t know and what I want to share. If you open up Arthur Jafa’s monograph, MAGNUMB, I want you to know Hortense Spillers and Saidiya Hartman. You gotta know all these people. Their books live here because they’re in conversation with one another. The artist’s monograph lives alongside the anthologies or the novels that inspired the creation of the work. The collection focuses heavily on visual art, just because that’s what I collected. I’m thinking about visual culture at large, but also history. How do we situate these objects within a larger continuum? We live within that continuum, so it’s important to see everything in concert with one another.

To your point about accessibility, it starts to tap into that more tangible effect, tangible impact, right? We can have conversations about politics in here, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be through the lens of an artist, but because the book lives in the collection, we can sit and talk about anything, right? We can talk about democracy or the lack thereof. We can talk about the American flag. We can talk about anything because there’s something here that’s going to help us situate it. We can listen to the music. There are so many intersections, and having collection categories that expand beyond art and design allows for that.

Grace: I was reading an older interview with Martine Syms recently about her publishing practice. She talked about publishing as a way to make ideas public—and then to use that to create a public around an idea because you have shared reference points. That feels very similar to what you’re doing. The Reading Room, by bringing people together and allowing these conversations, is actually creating this collective idea and an opportunity to have this shared way of thinking about something.

Amarie: For sure. I think about that a lot. Art books, not only because of the price, are largely inaccessible to the public, but are also inaccessible to artists who deserve them. You have to go a long way in your career before somebody feels like they care enough to make a book for you. You usually have to wait for a major retrospective or survey exhibition. Or if you’re really young and hot and you’ve got gallery representation, they might make you a book.

I’m also thinking about how The Reading Room can be a source, a bridge, or a doula that finds ways to amplify artists who are being overlooked or have been working for a really long time and still don’t have books, how their work can land in the hands of the public in a way that is accessible. I’m hoping to start a publishing branch of The Reading Room in the next couple of years. I’m going to start with zines this year and see what happens.

I’m also thinking about the legacy of independent Black publishers across history, coming out of different cities, and what it means right now in the age of misinformation, to create a platform for truth. Yeah, it will be making art books. But we’ll also be making political pamphlets, recirculating ideas from the past. How many people know what the Black Panther Party’s 10-point platform really was? What if we made posters? How can we apply those things today? I’m interested in all of that. I want to do every single thing that I couldn’t do in those museums, that’s too taboo or too controversial to do in a museum.

I feel way more present and clairvoyant than ever before. I realized that for the first year of running The Reading Room, I was like, I’m not reading enough. I was focused more on the structure of this thing, filling in gaps in the collection, all of that. Last summer, I made a summer reading list for myself, and I read ten books. It felt so good to just stop and read. I feel healthier, calmer, and stronger. I’ve been transformed. I want that feeling for everybody.

The Reading Room is open from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. Wednesday to Sunday at 1109 Providence St., Houston. Explore the collection in the online archive, and follow the latest on Instagram.

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It’s not too often that a high school art project morphs into a through-line in an artist’s professional practice, but for illustrator and printmaker Michael Ezzell, that’s exactly how his ongoing series The Junior Classic was born. Tearing pages from vintage books, he experiments with a range of media, compositional elements, and narratives that then inspire further paintings and prints.

“When I was starting out, I would just paint over the text of the page and create something brand new from some mundane book I had,” Ezzell tells Colossal. “Eventually, it evolved into using the page’s illustration or ornate chapter headings as a jumping-off point for what I would create on the page.”

Among others, Ezzell especially gravitates toward illustrations in the Alice in Wonderland series, originally drawn by Sir John Tenniel and reimagined during subsequent decades by more than half a dozen other artists like Mabel Lucie Attwell, Gwynedd M. Hudson, Maria L. Kirk, and even Salvador Dalí.

“I’ve gotten my book-hunting more down to a science now,” the artist says. “I look for weird and obscure manuals or children’s books with lots of pictures or funky text formatting. Anything that could have strange connotations when taken out of context is what I’m drawn to.” He approaches each page’s inherent qualities—a printed phrase or a small drawing—like a prompt or a call-and-response, which taps into a refreshingly different kind of problem-solving than working on a large, blank canvas.

Ezzell is particularly interested in world-building and immersive stories, and his motifs and characters take cues from tarot, Surrealism, playing cards, and early-20th-century fashion. The title of the series nods to a set of 10 books titled The Junior Classics, first published in 1912, which were intended for young readers as a counterpart to the Harvard Classics series.

The Junior Classic consists of more than 400 pieces (and growing), and Ezzell is currently working on his own tarot deck, which in turn is inspiring more narrative possibilities. See more on the artist’s website and Instagram.

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Spanning a gridded background of rectangular, pink trampolines, hundreds of gymnasts mesmerizingly flip and twist, shapeshifting as they tuck and tumble. “Trampoline Color Exercise,” a monumental digital video collage installation by Chicago-based artist Yuge Zhou, takes a bird’s-eye view of athletes at peak form while abstracting their bodies and movements into undulating ripples of color.

Born in China, Zhou has long explored the emotional, psychological, and geographic distance between her chosen home in the Midwest and the country of her birth. Themes of separation, loyalty, and cultural contrasts undergird much of her multidisciplinary work. She initiated her series of Moon Drawings, for example, during the pandemic when she was unable to travel the long distance to to Beijing to visit family.

For “Trampoline Color Exercise,” Zhou interrogates colors in their role as national symbols. Pulling from archival Olympics footage, she collages gymnasts wearing primary colors in a nod to global national flags, literally and figuratively fluctuating in a reflection of our ever-evolving geopolitical reality.

“‘Trampoline Color Exercise’ was created over the past few years amid intense political and international divisions, and now it feels especially timely,” Zhou says in a statement. “At its heart, the work is a celebration of globalization and a reflection on allegiance.”

Co-presented by Times Square Arts and artnet, the monumental work will be screened across 92 electronic billboards in the legendary New York City intersection. Part of Times Square Arts’ Midnight Moment series, the city’s largest public art program, visitors will be able to see Zhou’s three-minute work every night between June 1 and 30, starting at 11:57 p.m.

Explore more on Zhou’s website.

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