On View
As our country turns 250, I find myself asking this question more and more.
Are we in a winter of division? A spring of possibility? A summer of abundance? An autumn of reckoning?
I have my answer. I'm interested in yours.
This work is an invitation to look more closely at our country, at one another, and at ourselves. To hold both the beauty and the suffering of our American life. And perhaps, through paying attention, to imagine what season might come next.
Colonnade Installation. You are greeted by ten 20-foot tall poems. An invitation.
Beaux-Arts Court Exhibition
Hundreds of poems, photographs, and fragments of American memory cover the floor.
Wander among them. To find something that speaks to you. To pick it up and bring it to the center of the room, where I will be sitting with other visitors at a table built for conversation.
We begin with a simple question:
Why did you bring this?
The artwork has done its first job. It has brought us to one another.
What happens next belongs to the people around that table.
Exhibition Details
What Season Is It, America?
Brooklyn Museum
Beaux-Arts Court, Third Floor
October 21–25, 2026
11:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.
On View
As our country turns 250, I find myself asking this question more and more.
Are we in a winter of division? A spring of possibility? A summer of abundance? An autumn of reckoning?
I have my answer. I'm interested in yours.
This work is an invitation to look more closely at our country, at one another, and at ourselves. To hold both the beauty and the suffering of our American life. And perhaps, through paying attention, to imagine what season might come next.
Colonnade Installation. You are greeted by ten 20-foot tall poems. An invitation.
Beaux-Arts Court Exhibition
Hundreds of poems, photographs, and fragments of American memory cover the floor.
Wander among them. To find something that speaks to you. To pick it up and bring it to the center of the room, where I will be sitting with other visitors at a table built for conversation.
We begin with a simple question:
Why did you bring this?
The artwork has done its first job. It has brought us to one another.
What happens next belongs to the people around that table.
Exhibition Details
What Season Is It, America?
Brooklyn Museum
Beaux-Arts Court, Third Floor
October 21–25, 2026
11:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.
As a child growing up in Los Angeles, I was an outsider. A gay kid whose skin color matched none of my classmates. I became good at noticing things. Small gestures. Quirky behaviors. The way humans hurt one another, and the equally surprising ways we care for one another. Maybe some of this noticing was innate. But looking back, I realize a lot of it came from learning to be safe in a world that often felt I didn't belong in it.
In my twenties, I was a writer at NeXT, working for Steve Jobs. That began a career helping leaders and organizations imagine new possibilities for themselves. Over the next three decades, I worked with leaders, companies, and institutions at moments when the world was asking them to evolve. Much of that work has been about a simple question: How might we become something we cannot yet imagine?
Today, I make poetry, photographs, and experiences that bring people together. I am interested in the beauty and suffering of our actual lives. The things we notice. The things we overlook. And the possibility that art might help us see ourselves, and one another, a little more fully. I increasingly think of art as a form of practice—not practice in becoming an artist, but practice in becoming more deeply human.
As a child growing up in Los Angeles, I was an outsider. A gay kid whose skin color matched none of my classmates. I became good at noticing things. Small gestures. Quirky behaviors. The way humans hurt one another, and the equally surprising ways we care for one another. Maybe some of this noticing was innate. But looking back, I realize a lot of it came from learning to be safe in a world that often felt I didn't belong in it.
In my twenties, I was a writer at NeXT, working for Steve Jobs. That began a career helping leaders and organizations imagine new possibilities for themselves. Over the next three decades, I worked with leaders, companies, and institutions at moments when the world was asking them to evolve. Much of that work has been about a simple question: How might we become something we cannot yet imagine?
Today, I make poetry, photographs, and experiences that bring people together. I am interested in the beauty and suffering of our actual lives. The things we notice. The things we overlook. And the possibility that art might help us see ourselves, and one another, a little more fully. I increasingly think of art as a form of practice—not practice in becoming an artist, but practice in becoming more deeply human.
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