Nick Cave is an artist in perpetual motion, a maker who never stops making, an artist whose practice is a call-and-response with the world around him. Born in 1959 in Fulton, Missouri, and based in Chicago, he moves fluidly across sculpture, performance, video, and sound, weaving together narratives of history, race, power, and renewal. His Soundsuits, first created in the wake of the Rodney King beating, transformed the body into both shield and spectacle, a camouflage of resilience that danced between protest and poetry.
Now, with Amalgams and Grafts, Cave opens a new chapter, one that is as monumental as it is intimate. The exhibition, which inaugurates Jack Shainman’s new Tribeca space, is nothing short of a sensation. The crowds have not stopped coming—at all hours, in all weathers. It is already the show of the season, extended due to overwhelming demand.
At the center of it all are the Amalgams, bronze sculptures that take the Soundsuits into permanence, casting figures that merge human forms with organic elements—branches, birds, blossoms—monuments not to power, but to transformation. Nearby, Grafts shifts inward, Cave’s first use of self-portraiture, stitched into vintage trays and needlepoints, a meditation on identity, labor, and class. In these works, Cave extends the lexicon he has spent decades building. Movement is now stillness. Fabric becomes metal. Protection becomes permanence.
And yet, Cave’s work never stops evolving. His Soundsuits were a response; his bronzes are a declaration. His textiles evoke intimacy; his scale demands awe. He moves between the personal and the universal, between the symbolic and the deeply material.
Following this triumph, Cave’s impact continues to expand. His retrospective Forothermore at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago and the Guggenheim affirmed his place at the forefront of contemporary art. In 2025, he will debut new work, including a performance, at the Smithsonian American Art Museum. His permanent commissions—from Times Square to Princeton—embed his presence in the fabric of public space.
For now, Amalgams and Grafts dominates the city’s imagination. It is a show that cannot be unseen, a moment that will be remembered. And yet, with Cave, the question is always: what’s next?
An Interview with Nick Cave
By Carol Real
How does it feel to inaugurate the new Tribeca location of Jack Shainman Gallery with the exhibition, Amalgams and Grafts? How does your work dialogue with the history and transformation of this iconic space?
For me, as well as for all the artists, this space allows everyone to dream in a very different way, and that is its beauty. As artists, we are always growing, expanding, moving ideas around, shifting scale, and continually asking the question: What’s next? Artists have ideas, dreams of working in certain capacities, and this space makes all those amazing possibilities achievable.
I already knew about the space. I had visited it before they started the build-out, but even before that, the concept of that large bronze Amalgam was something I had been working on for about five years. I was interested in producing it and trying to determine where it could be realized. So, the alignment of everything just fell into place perfectly.
I feel this exhibition supports the space in so many ways. It complements the architecture and speaks to the vastness of the gallery. Most importantly, as someone who comes from a background in dance, it’s a space where I also think about choreography when putting a show together.
How do we consider placement of the artwork? How do we guide the audience’s movement through the space? How do we encourage them to engage with the work? All of these things are carefully taken into account. This body of work allows you to engage not only with the architecture but also with the art and a certain kind of spirit. There’s a wholeness to the experience of the exhibition—a sense of resolution.
Amalgam (Origin) invites viewers to look upwards, almost spiritually. What do you hope this act of looking up inspires in them?
I think the location of Amalgam offers one perspective. There is this sort of grandeur that, when you’re looking up at something, it becomes like a beacon of sorts. It allows you to imagine something even beyond—there’s this sense of extension, but there’s also this feeling beyond that.
At the same time, you’ve got the bronze Soundsuit piece on the floor Amalgam (Plot), which is the opposite. So you’re looking up in one moment, but then, in another moment, you’re looking down at these two bodies on the ground.
The piece Plot is the death of the Soundsuit, as it reflects on the Black and Brown bodies that are continually being fatally violated by those who protect and serve. There are two different shifts in engagement. I love that contrast. I love that, in one moment, you’re looking up, and you can imagine space and this idea of extension and expansion. Then, there’s this other moment where you’re looking down in contemplation and sorrow.
Again, that was that sort of juxtaposition: Where are things? How do I want the room to be experienced? And how do I want my audience to engage? What are the shifts within that?
In both cases, you are sort of seduced—you’re pulled in; you are contemplating. There’s a stillness that forces you to just stop and take a minute.
That was just part of it. It’s not a show that you can just breeze through and walk out the door. It’s a show that demands your attention. It requires you to have sentiment, to be compassionate, to feel empathy. It really is asking a lot of you; asking you to stop and take some time.
Your work tackles big topics like race, class, and power. How do you think audiences from different backgrounds and cultures respond to those themes?
I think it’s the same. Humanity is beautiful, and humanity is ugly, and it’s universal.
Within all of that, we’ve got to come to a place where there’s hope, there’s optimism. So, that’s the balance. How do we balance our existence as the world continues to unravel, unfold? How do we give ourselves time to just sit and be quiet? Imagine if we lived in a world where every day we sat in silence for one hour. Just imagine how different we would be as a people. We’re so consumed with so much now that we forget there’s work to do on ourselves. Just that alone—it takes everything. It takes a lot to just be.
Self-reflection seems to play a big role here. The “Grafts” series is the first time you’ve explicitly depicted yourself. Why did this feel like the right moment to explore something so personal?
After the MCA retrospective and within my body, I knew that I could bring closure to the Soundsuit work I have been focused on up to this point, that I knew that I could turn the chapter. I did not really know. I did know what that meant, but I knew that prior to that, I had been thinking about painting, and ideas of painting. I was not really sure what that even meant. I knew that it wasn’t oil or acrylic. I found myself doing research and just really allowing it. It’ll eventually come. We have to understand that the moment we start thinking about an idea, we just have to let it percolate and just sort of morph. We’ve got to not rush it. We’ve got to be patient. We’ve got to allow it to sort of merge when it does.
I was thinking about painting. What does this mean? Oh my God. Then one day, needlepoint just came to mind. In my practice, every time that I shift media, the most important thing is that as long as I can transfer the assets of that, then I’m going to be okay. The moment that I realized it was needlepoint, everything started to click because I’m a maker. I make with my hands. The needle part was the factor that it’s done by hand.
The whole sensibility was so prevalent to be able to secure and anchor that down. The next question was, What am I needle pointing? All of a sudden, giving myself time knowing that I could sort of turn the chapter, I decided that it’s time to reveal myself. This is a coming out of the Soundsuit—who is behind the Soundsuit? This marks the beginning of my exploration of both myself and gender identity. Using something else that is very important to me is style. How does dress represent an idea of masculinity, femininity—just sort of blurring those lines where it’s not this or that. It’s about standing in your truth.
I am extremely interested in style, not fashion. I look at fashion. I’m a professor who’s head of a fashion graduate program, but I’m interested in style. From the perspective of my upbringing, I grew up thrifting—thrifting was a big part of it. In my closet today, three-quarters is thrift and a quarter is designer. I’ve been one for mixing and blurring the lines there. It’s about how you identify, how you want to feel, and how you view dress as a form of power. Let’s go thrifting.
You’ve described needlepoint as therapeutic. Did it offer you a sense of healing?
Oh my God. Needlepoint. I’m telling you, these methods and ways of conditioning and nurturing need solitude. Needlepoint is a place to contemplate. Needlepoint allows you to get centered. It’s therapeutic. This repetitive method allows you to get quiet, and you can gain a lot of clarity through these practices.
I started looking at needlepoint in terms of class. Within Black culture, one couldn’t afford to needlepoint. We could quilt, and we did that by recycling existing clothing and blankets. We could do piecework or crochet because we could afford the acrylic yarns. However, needlepoint was associated with a certain class. I became highly interested in the properties around class, the status it conveyed, and how even within crafts, there were hierarchies. I wanted to explore that, play with it, address it, and bring it forward. Yes, we can needlepoint.
I was also intrigued by this idea of needlepoint being perceived as a frivolous activity, a waste of time, or even laziness. Then I thought about how people of color have been historically perceived as lazy. I wanted to take those ideas and turn them on their heads.
Again, this idea of elevation comes into play. Elevation is really a central core of the entire exhibition. I’m bringing everything up. It’s the same concept applied to the serving tray.
Vintage serving trays play a big role in Grafts. They carry such deep cultural and hierarchical meanings. What do you hope people will see differently about these everyday objects through your work?
It’s sort of questioning how we know these objects to be in terms of a service of some kind. I’m also interested in how the painting on the serving tray came about, particularly during the 1920s, the Golden Era. That was the moment when a blemish, imperfection, or a sign of rust on the surface led to the practice of applying paint to the trays.
When that happened, I started thinking about the idea of history being covered up. As I began cutting away the rim of the tray, another layer of history seemed to be pushed down.
I was reflecting on how history—particularly Black and Brown history—continues to be demolished, covered up, dismissed, or discarded. There’s also this idea of renewal—so many different ways in which we can engage with this work.
I was inspired by 19th-century floral still lifes while I introduced this metal tool onto these crafts. To me, that metal tool is a still life.
So, the question becomes: Are we in an interior space? Am I inviting you for tea?
I think there are ideas of invitation here—how we perceive occasions, whether they’re special events, formal gatherings, or casual get-togethers. How am I hosting you in this work?
With Amalgams symbolizing growth and resistance, what led you to incorporate natural forms like flowers and birds into these bronze sculptures?
I’m thinking about Mother Earth. I’m thinking about Father Earth. Ultimately, I believe it comes down to resilience.
There’s this continuous recycling; a persistent questioning. As a person of color, I’m always struck by how our identities are perpetually questioned or described in a particular way.
I often find myself looking in the mirror, constantly re-evaluating who I am because I’ve been told I’m something different, something “other,” or placed into a category.
That’s really where it all stems from—this idea of resilience and constant regrowth. I reflect on what’s happening with diversity and inclusion, and the push to eliminate the barriers that have existed. It’s all tied to what’s been said and done before.
It’s about forgiveness. It’s an offering of sorts—an expression of compassion and empathy.
You’ve mentioned feeling a civic responsibility as an artist. What do you think public art can do to create real societal change?
When I’m lecturing at an institution or engaging in conversation there, I still look at the audience and rarely see myself reflected. Or, the representation is very minimal. So, I’m always asking myself, What can I do to change that dynamic?
When I think about my work, particularly with Amalgam, it’s not something I create to be confined within an institution or gallery. It’s meant to exist in public spaces, where it’s more accessible. A significant part of my practice has always involved working within civic and social spaces—often through collaboration, performance, or other forms of engagement.
I’m deeply interested in how I can take responsibility for extending my work’s reach and impact. How can I bring it into environments and create projects that foster unity and encourage intersections that bring people together? The ultimate goal is inclusion—creating spaces and experiences that collectively embrace everyone.
This approach is something I’ve always embodied. It’s simply how I’m built and how I view my responsibility as an artist.
Integrating your works into public spaces, such as the Times Square – 42nd Street Station, reflects your commitment to accessibility. How do you navigate the tension between exclusivity and inclusivity in your art?
For this current exhibition, I plan to invite musicians, particularly musicians of color, as well as vocalists, to visit the show. I want them to engage in a call-and-response with the work. I’m also working with young people, encouraging them to bring their friends and families to be part of this experience.
We have created platforms, so why not open them up to allow people to imagine what it feels like? For me, bringing in young musicians for an afternoon of art and music and inviting their families and friends is part of setting this sort of natural algorithm in place. There are so many ways we can inform, serve, and be proactive, using our platforms to extend an invitation to the next generation.
Currently, I’m in the beginning phases of this process, but I’m particularly interested in the idea of call-and-response. If I’m working with a string quartet, I’d invite them to the show and then ask them to respond to it. After experiencing the exhibition, how might they incorporate music? How will music respond to the work? Will they create a score? Will they move about the space, performing here for one piece and then moving to another spot for the next? Will the audience move around the space with them, or will the performers remain stationary? These are all possibilities to explore.
I’ve always approached my projects as open invitations. For instance, I’ll invite poets to come in and respond to the work, perhaps writing a piece about Plot. What’s interesting to me is that it’s carte blanche—I don’t mind what they choose to do or how they approach it. Along with everyone else, I will take it all in as a participant. This openness allows the work to evolve and invites multiple interpretations.
Your work often transforms trauma into symbols of hope and renewal. What personal experiences drive this consistent thread in your art?
As a person of color, to think that you have existed in a world where you deal with systemic racism, injustice, and inequality—that’s just part of your upbringing. You don’t even have a choice. To know that the trauma of all of that, the trauma of Michael Brown, the trauma of George Floyd, and Breonna Taylor. You never heal because there’s always the next. The exploitation of that, put in your face and into the public realm to share and sort of be on display, ensures you never heal.
Somewhere within all of that, you’ve got to figure out how to carry on. Because it’s designed to break you down. Just in trying to find forgiveness in that, I’ve got to ask: What can I do to put it in perspective? I’m lucky. I’m one of the lucky ones because I have art. You are lucky too; you can write about it.
We have a lot of our people who don’t have any outlets. They don’t know where to put this. To think that we all are seconds away from exploding from the constant beatdown, the constant despair—and we do all we can to grapple and try to hold it together. We’ve got to go to work in the morning, in spaces and places that are insensitive and don’t understand. You become paralyzed, you become withdrawn, and yet you’ve got to pick up your kids after school. You’ve got to get on with your life. You’ve got to somehow create joy. We’ve got to constantly create joy as opposed to living in joy. We’ve got to create it.
For me, although some of the work is hard to absorb, at the same time, you feel that there is this renewal. There is something that is so extraordinary and so much bigger than you can possibly imagine. That comes through faith.
What conversations do you hope to spark about the intersection of identity, beauty, and systemic structures?
I don’t think anyone can walk through that show without addressing everything we’ve talked about. There’s no way possible.
For me, as an artist, we’re extremely vulnerable. We put it all out there, and once it’s out of our hands, it takes on a life of its own. So again, I’ve done my work—I’ve put it out into the world to be experienced, to be shared, to be with. And now what I’m doing is sitting back, watching people like you write about the work, write about your experience, and share your thoughts. We all become responsible for the roles we play, like gramophones, amplifying these ideas. I set the dominoes up, I hit one, and then the effect continues to ripple on like a song’s rhythm.
For me, that’s really the beauty of it. I was talking to the gallery the other day, and they said, “Nick, we had over 1,500 people come through on Saturday.” They said, “This is unheard of.” I’m counting on the public to be the ambassadors for this exhibition.
The success has been massive. I’ve been there two more times, and it was crowded both times—even in the morning. Despite the cold, everyone is talking about this show.
Right now, I’m at a point where I can sit back and observe how it’s being received. I’m paying attention to who’s writing about it and how the school system is using it. I want this show to be used by everyone. With all my projects, that’s probably the main reason why I do what I do: to make it accessible. It’s an invitation for everyone to engage with in their everyday lives.
Your Soundsuits were created in response to the Rodney King incident. How do you think the journey from these suits to the monumental “Amalgams” reflects your growth, both personally and artistically?
I’m working in bronze now, and that can live outside. That’s it right there. I’ve been trying for probably a decade to get to this scale, to bring the Soundsuit to a scale where it can live out in the world forever. And it’s about understanding the core—the essence of where it comes from.
All images courtesy of the artist, Noreen Ahmad – Alma Communications, and Jack Shainman Gallery.
Editor: Kristen Evangelista