In folklore, twilight is often interpreted as a liminal, even magical time during which spirits emerge in the transition between light and dark. It’s sometimes even seen as a period when extra caution is advised, as will-o’-the-wisps, shapeshifters, and fae may try to influence people in their path. For artist Nicholas Moegly, nightfall sets the scene for neighborhoods and quiet streets in which curious creatures roam, and lights flicker on in houses, signaling the end of the day.

Many of Moegly’s works possess a dreamy realism along the lines of photographer Todd Hido’s Houses at Night or the illustrations of children’s book author Chris Van Allsburg. There is both a timelessness and a sense that these locations could represent virtually anywhere around the U.S. Sometimes, deer and foxes meander through yards or down alleyways, glancing backward as if responding to a sound. In other compositions, lights shine from upper windows of a house or shop on a hazy street corner, although people are nowhere to be seen.

Moegly is currently in the midst of the largest oil painting he’s made thus far, experimenting with the relationship between scale and realism in a way that’s challenging his artistic direction. He’s also working toward future exhibitions, transitioning from online releases to more in-person shows. See more on his Instagram.

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The economy of Peru’s Sacred Valley has long been entwined with the seasons. Rural communities typically grow crops and raise livestock to sustain themselves and to barter with others, a process that necessitates an attunement with nature, its cycles, and how these patterns influence self-sufficiency.

This is particularly true for the Quechua communities, Indigenous peoples who have long worked for subsistence rather than state currencies. In recent years, health clinics, schools, markets, and transportation requiring residents to use cash have slowly eroded this way of life. Today, many Quechua men leave their communities to work in tourism, which offers an income and the opportunity to learn Spanish. Conversely, women often remain at home to care for children and farms, making them dependent on support from their partners and family members.

In 2009, the nonprofit Awamaki formed to aid communities around Ollantaytambo, Cusco, as they navigated this change. U.S.-based Kennedy Leavens and Miguel Galdo, of Peru, had worked together previously at a similar organization supporting 10 women weavers from Patacancha. When that project shuddered, the two decided to found Awamaki to maintain their support.

The nonprofit grew quickly, and today, it assists nine cooperatives, comprising 174 artisans and community members who work across craft and tourism. With collaboration at its core, Awamaki prides itself on sustainability and focuses on broadening its partners’ access to a diverse array of markets and economic opportunities.

In addition to financial changes, the climate crisis is rapidly transforming the ways of the Sacred Valley, which faces disproportionate impacts as glaciers melt and the water supply dwindles. “The shift towards having personal income, for our artisan partners, is not about replacing traditional livelihoods, but about widening the economic ground beneath them so they can move their families towards prosperity and build resiliency to the effects of climate change, all without leaving the community or traditional ways of life,” the nonprofit tells us.

Partnering with Awamaki allows cooperative members to focus on traditional spinning, dyeing, and weaving traditions, while the nonprofit offers structural support in selling their goods and coordinating tourism. Carving through the terrain north of Cusco, the Andean highlands were once home to the Incans and still hold traces of the ancient empire, like the historic city of Machu Picchu, which continues to attract around one million people from around the globe each year. For many years, the organization says, visitors would arrive in villages without prior notice, and the women would halt their work to meet tourists and hopefully, sell a piece.

And of course, this way of making is demanding, as women not only weave, but also raise alpacas, shear their wool, and spin and dye the soft fibers into yarn. “Before weaving, I have to wash my hands carefully so the wool doesn’t get damaged. It requires attention and care,” Ricardina, an Awamaki member from the Cusci Qoyllur cooperative, tells us. “Sometimes I can weave more, sometimes less. It depends on time, on my children, on everything else I have to do.”

Today, Awamaki helps to coordinate tourism and provide compensation for visits. This includes programs like Murmur Ring’s immersion, which will bring a group of creatives to the region this June. “Our role is to create opportunities that can be compatible with cultural continuity, if that is what communities themselves want,” they say, adding:

For women, without personal income, everyday decisions can feel distant. Paying for school supplies, buying medicine, covering transportation costs, buying food to supplement the limited traditional crops that grow at high altitude–all of these depend on uncertain flows of money and shifting household dynamics. As climate patterns grow more erratic, with harsher frosts, longer dry spells, and thinning pasture, even the agricultural base families rely on has become less predictable, deepening that sense of financial fragility.

This regular support has simultaneously buoyed many women to greater financial independence and helped retain their way of life. “When new artisans join a cooperative, they are typically mentored by other women in their own community. Cultural knowledge remains community-held and community-led,” the nonprofit shares.

“In my family, we make decisions together—about how to earn and how to move forward,” Daniela, a weaver from the Puskariy Tika cooperative, says. “Through this work, we are able to keep going and improve our lives little by little.”

Nadia, of the Rumia cooperative, echoes this sentiment. “Being part of Awamaki changed things for us. Now we have a steady income, and that allows us to keep weaving,” she says. “In our community, it’s not always easy. Some people say, ‘Why do you weave?’ But they don’t understand this work… We also teach our children to care for the environment, to grow things, to respect the land. That’s part of our work, too.”

To learn more about the women and support their work, visit Awamaki’s website.

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Building sites and agricultural areas are typically described by the utilitarian operations that shape them—rugged, harsh, and often back-breaking. They are spaces that resist softness, built quite literally around force and tension. Artist Pia Hinz flips this idea on its head as she explores the conceptual and material relationship between strength and vulnerability.

Living and working between Ardèche, Amsterdam, and Arles, France, Hinz has been working with stained glass for the past three years. She focuses much of her work on objects that one might find in environments of labor, such as construction or farming. Her sculptures take on an array of recognizable forms including hammers, screws, traffic cones, tractor doors, scythes, rope, and more.

By introducing glass, Hinz subverts the practical purpose of tools and machinery as each object emerges antithetical to its original form. “Here, fragility and invincibility intertwine,” says an exhibition statement from La Menuiserie 2, a residency the artist completed in 2024. “By replacing functional materials with fragile ones, the artist questions our relationship to objects, their use value, and their narrative potential.”

As light passes through the artist’s work, it spills across surrounding spaces and results in shifts of color. Pieces like “MON PRÉCIEUX” and “Néon sacré” are elegantly adorned with abstract, geometric patterns that are shaped by winding metal lines. For Hinz, working with the material is, as she describes, an “urge to retrace the relation between light and space.”

The artist is currently working on a permanent stained glass monument for a building in Paris. Find more on Instagram.

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When we think of “invasive species,” perhaps zebra mussels or kudzu vine spring to mind. Both have flourished in their non-native environments and continue to threaten other native organisms. Invasive species aren’t inherently bad—they’re just trying to survive—but by definition, they’re likely to disrupt local ecosystems and even cause billions of dollars worth of damage each year. So, what does one California city have to say about its burgeoning population of… peacocks?

Introduced by a businessman and land baron named Elias Lucky Baldwin more than a century ago, the avian population has long called the area home. Over the years, though, as the originally open area filled with homes and commercial strips, efforts by local residents end up at odds, as some would like to protect the birds and others would prefer to see them sent away altogether. In a short film titled “Our Neighbors, the Peacocks,” filmmaker Callie Barlow traces the unusual history of peafowl in Los Angeles County through the eyes of some of its current residents.

Arcadia, California, sits in the San Gabriel Valley about 45 minutes from downtown Los Angeles. Dozens of peacocks, which are carefully watched over by some and detested by others, meander through residents’ yards, traipse around on rooftops, peck at cars, call from trees, and of course, display their beautiful feathers—especially during mating season.

In her short documentary, Barlow invites locals to share their love—or loathing—for the vibrant birds as she highlights how Arcadia’s history of protecting the birds has perhaps led to something of an overpopulation problem. Nearby neighborhoods participate in relocation programs, while Arcadia’s birds are protected, and opinions about how to deal with growing numbers land all along the spectrum.

“‘Our Neighbors, the Peacocks’ resists the urge to resolve the tension it so clearly lays out,” says Jason Sondhi, who selected the film for Short of the Week. “Instead, it leans into a modest but resonant idea articulated by its director that living alongside these animals might require ‘putting aside your own discomforts to find a deeper meaning in nature.'”

See the film on YouTube.

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In the large-scale murals of Alex Senna, figures gather, greet one another, relax, and interact with their own shadows in bold compositions. The Brazilian artist is known for his black-and-white murals that emphasize community and emotional bonds. Togetherness, security, and positivity pervade the scenes, sometimes playful and other times more contemplative. Set against colorful backgrounds and amid urban structures, Senna’s pieces emphasize connection, support, reflection, and belonging.

At the end of May, Senna embarks on a tour across Italy, France, and Spain to participate in several festivals. Follow the artist’s Instagram for updates.

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Feline antics are notoriously chaotic. “The cat is, above all things, a dramatist,” author and Egyptologist Margaret Benson is to have said. Sacred to ancient Egyptians, domestic cats share more than 95% of their genetic makeup with tigers, and they can leap five times their height and turn into veritable spring mechanisms when startled. Also, would the Internet be the same without cat memes? For Léo Forest, these lovable, independent, wily, and territorial creatures provide an endless source of inspiration for dynamic pencil drawings.

The Paris-based artist’s playful works tap into the physical and emotional quirks of cats, from brawling pairs to individuals in the midst of grooming, scratching, or attacking. Flailing limbs and blurred motion evoke Italian Futurist painter Giacomo Balla’s seminal painting, “Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash” (1912) in which a Dachsund and its owner’s feet are fuzzily multiplied to imply very quick movement.

Forest is currently working toward a project with Moosey in London, where prints are available. Follow him on Instagram for updates.

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In a converted 18th-century chapel on the grounds of Yorkshire Sculpture Park, a strange form creeps through openings in the architecture. One can imagine its clipper- and knife-footed tendrils scurrying across the floor as it spills from an upper aperture and even slithers around part of the building’s exterior. Its otherworldly genesis is at the hands of Nicola Turner, known for her monumental, contorted textile installations that often surge from structures and public spaces.

Turner’s solo exhibition, Time’s Scythe, comprises forms made of recycled wool and horsehair, which she hand-stitches inside of mesh to create the bulging, knotted forms. “This is Turner’s first large-scale installation to use pale wool and creates a different energy to her dark sculptures, moving away from their more melancholic character,” the gallery says.

Time’s Scythe continues through September 27 in Wakefield. If you go, check out LR Vandy’s provocative exhibition, Rise, which also continues into September. See more on Turner’s Instagram, and for more twisting, creature-like forms, might also enjoy the work of Kate MccGwire.

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It’s one thing to marvel at the inner workings of a transistor radio or a timepiece, but for artist Manabu Kosaka, that curiosity reaches a whole new level. Using nothing but paper, the artist makes scale replicas of cameras, watches, gaming consoles, shoes, food, and more with a preternatural attention to detail. Not only does a 35mm film camera include a strap and a back hatch that opens, the lever used to advance the film and other gears are also built into the top, some of which are even moveable.

Around ten years ago, Kosaka faced uncertainty about the direction of his work. “During that time, I spoke with a friend who works in art direction, and they suggested that I try creating with simpler materials in a more minimal way,” he tells Colossal. “That advice stayed with me, and gradually I began focusing on paper as my primary material, eventually deciding to work exclusively with it.”

Through a meticulous process of cutting, folding, and scoring, Kosaka creates incredibly realistic depictions of everyday objects, often with a retro twist. He carefully studies the mechanics of the real objects, disassembling them in order to replicate individual components inside. He is currently working on a model of a Playstation 2 console, which was originally released in 2000.

“What I love most about paper is its incredible flexibility,” Kosaka says. “It responds to my ideas almost completely—beyond what I expect, even. It allows me to express what I want in a very direct way, while also feeling that it can become almost anything.”

See much more on the artist’s Instagram.

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Until just the past few decades, textiles were generally created with only practical applications in mind. Although fiber and cloth in its myriad forms had been produced for millennia around the globe, fabrics were woven for either domestic or industrial use, and crafts such as knitting, weaving, basket- and net-making, and more were considered purely functional. Think clothing or decor. Even ornate medieval tapestries were conceived as utilitarian objects, used in stone buildings like churches and large homes to soften sounds and insulate against the cold.

Within the canon of Western art history, in particular, the hierarchy of fine art has long been quite definite: painting and sculpture were chief among mediums. Anything else fell under categories of preparatory processes, craft, or ornament. But in the mid-20th century, that delineation began to shift. Anni Albers, who taught at the Bauhaus and later Black Mountain College, was one of the first artists to approach weaving as both a craft and an art. She laid the foundations for later artists like Sheila Hicks, Magdalena Abakanowicz, Cecelia Vicuña, Faith Ringgold, and many more. Today, artists like Bisa Butler, Do Ho Suh, Nick Cave, and countless others continue to challenge boundaries and redefine the role of textiles in art.

A new exhibition at Saatchi Gallery takes a fresh look at how fiber has become a celebrated facet of contemporary art. Textile Art Redefined is curated by Helen Adams, founder of the platform Textile Curator. Vibrant colors and patterns infuse the show with a sense of joy and optimism, while the selection highlights the broad range of approaches to different materials, such as Ian Berry’s large-scale installation titled “Secret Garden,” which mimics Delft tiles and yet is made entirely of recycled denim. And Kenny Nguyen’s large-scale wall piece, made of thousands of colorful strips of silk, appears to undulate and swirl.

For some of these artists, like Argentinian duo Chiachio & Giannone and knit designer Kaffe Fassett—who continues to work alongside his long-term partner, designer Brandon Mably—the union of art and craft lends itself to a entire lifestyle built around fiber as a form of expression, brimming with color and patterns. Colossal readers may also recognize work by Anne von Freyburg, Signe Emdal, Deniz Kurdak, and Benjamin Shine, in addition to Caroline Burgess, Sara Impey, Simone Pheulpin, Jakkai Siributr, Magda Sayeg, and Jenni Dutton. “In an increasingly digital world, creating by hand has taken on a new appreciation,” says a statement.

Textile Art Redefined continues through May 10 in London. Adams is also the author of the new book Textile Fine Art, published by Laurence King.

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Artists Christian Rebecchi and Pablo Togni, who work as NEVERCREW, have a knack for bringing the immensity of nature to developed urban spaces. Their colorful, large-scale murals take a playful tack when it comes to portraying animals, often merging them with other objects such as instant photos or, most recently, a plastic punch-out toy. “Souvenir,” completed this year in Vienna, combines motifs of a large bear with other Arctic components, such as icebergs, a seabird, and a steamship.

“The natural environment appears transformed, filtered, made artificial: it is no longer a space experienced through relationship, but a distant construction,” the artists say in a statement. The work is “almost a simulation reflecting a perception of nature progressively emptied of empathy…Nature becomes something to observe, arrange, organize, as if it were a separate object rather than a system of which we are an integral part.”

Over the past few years, NEVERCREW has completed numerous architectonic paintings that depict the fragile balance between humanity and nature—specifically wildlife. Whales, bears, and elephants are depicted inside of terrariums or bundled into fabrics.

The animals’ very presence on the side of buildings, where they are contained within the bounds of the architecture, is a reminder of the tensions between—one might even say the incongruousness of—daily human activities and city infrastructure. For Rebbechi and Togni, bringing nature into these spaces highlights the importance of sustaining the relationship between humankind and nature.

See more on the artists’ Instagram.

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