For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
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For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
For her first UK institutional solo exhibition, The Window Set at Charleston in Lewes, San Francisco-based artist Koak brings together a body of work that delicately unravels themes of softness, resistance, and the domestic. Drawing inspiration from Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings and the unique environment of Charleston itself, Koak’s multidisciplinary practice spans drawing, painting, sculpture, and installation, each piece imbued with emotional tension and quiet power. We spoke with the artist about the layered inspirations behind the show, the influence of place on her practice, and the evolving relationship between medium, colour, and narrative in her work.
Firstly, hello! A massive congratulations on "The Window Set", your first UK institutional solo exhibition at the Charleston in Lewes! How did the opportunity to exhibit at the Charleston come about?
Hello! Thank you. The invitation came together through a few overlapping threads, but it began when Nathaniel Hepburn, Director at Charleston, saw my work in a presentation with Union Pacific during Frieze London.
I’d been visiting Charleston since 2019, every time I was in the UK- there’s something about the intimacy of the house, the garden, the pond- the way art and life blur together in every room. Making art was simply part of how life unfolded. That kind of integration feels increasingly rare. So when they reached out, it didn’t feel new, it felt like a continuation of a conversation I’d been carrying quietly for years. I had been changed by being in that space, and this show allowed me the room to respond finally.
It must have been fascinating to use Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings as a starting point for your work in this show. How did Bell’s work influence your artistic process, from initial reference to final piece?
Vanessa Bell’s still-life paintings weren’t just reference points, they felt like a direct emotional encounter. I kept returning to them because they were less like arrangements and more like portraits, extensions of Bell, filled with tension, desire, and longing. They made the domestic feel defiant. Her flowers didn’t sit still, they pressed outward. There’s a sense of movement in the brushstrokes, a kind of breath that passes through them. That tension between softness and insistence became a through-line for how I approached this show.
The works in this exhibition reminded me of traditional Japanese paintings, particularly in your use of lines, colour, and the overall floral theme. Beyond Vanessa Bell, were there any other references or inspirations that contributed to the work in the exhibition?
Comics and the history of sequential art have also been inspirations. I often think about the line and how to give it agency- how a simple stroke can carry narrative or weight. That influence is woven into the drawings and paintings, but also into the pacing of the installation. I planned the show to move through space like a stage set- fragmented walls, veiled thresholds. I wanted the works to feel like they inhabited something closer to a domestic site, unfolded into a theatrical, dreamlike logic. Decorative arts, flower pressings, printmaking- these more domestic or intimate forms are areas I return to often in my work. The Pattern and Decoration movement influenced pieces like The Butterfly Net, while Lavender Menace took its title from the 1970s lesbian feminist activist group. Specifically for this show, I was interested in sources that explored ways of reclaiming softness, pattern, and domestic language as sites of resistance. I’m always interested in that space where something considered ‘pretty’ or ‘feminine’ can still press back.
On the topic of your style, I’d like to discuss your use of colour throughout your pieces. For example, in "Communion" (2025), you use colour subtly and gently, while "Carmine" (2024) showcases vibrant, heavy colours. In contrast, "Unbalanced" (2023) relies solely on the textured black of graphite and charcoal. I’d love to know how you determine when colour has a place in your work. How does your approach to colour change from piece to piece? Is it something you plan in advance, or is it a spontaneous decision made during the creative process?
Colour has always felt like the closest thing visual artists have to sound, something with an immediate emotional register. Choosing colours often feels like listening for a kind of dissonant harmony. I push them around in sketches until they carry the right emotional off-ness. I don’t want them to feel at ease within a single piece or across a show. That discord creates something more honest than balance. It reflects how we carry emotion, like a palette of things that don’t fully belong together, but somehow feel more real in combination (or held within the same space).
I also LOVED the floral net curtains that seemed to separate the paintings from the sculpture work. How did the idea for the net curtains come about, and could you explain the creation process behind the netting?
One of the gallery’s windows in Lewes looks out onto a home with lace curtains. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after my first visit. I drew a version of that pattern and worked with a textile company in London, Orto Print Studio, to hand-print a set of sheer organza curtains. They hang at the end of the space, veiling the concrete sculpture titled The Dreamer. The pattern echoes traditional domestic lacework, but with a sense of unease—the birds are restless, the vines tangled with thorns. I wanted the curtain to act as a threshold, bringing the outside in, but filtered through anxiety. It lets in light and blocks it at once, folding nature, fear, and interiority into a single surface.
You seem to avoid being confined to a particular medium or method, which is refreshing. Are there any mediums you are currently exploring or interested in at the moment?
This was the first time I’d worked with cement and steel. I’d used bronze and ceramics before, but I wanted something more architectural that carried both weight and tenderness. The Dreamer sculpture was made in response to Quentin Bell’s fibreglass sculpture of the levitating woman, which sits on the pond at Charleston.
I love to find out that artists are based and doing well in areas such as San Francisco and other locations that aren’t typically viewed as a primary art hub. How has living in San Francisco affected your style and working process?
I’ve lived in San Francisco for over two decades. I’ve always loved that fringe, and underground work isn’t an exception here- it’s the lineage. From Beat poets to queer drag performers, underground comix to DIY printmakers, the city has a history of holding strange, political, and deeply personal work. That energy isn’t always visible anymore, much of it’s been pushed out, but its residue is still part of the city.
One artist based in San Francisco who comes to mind is Chaz Bear, also known as Toro y Moi, who discusses how being based in San Francisco may have limited some opportunities compared to locations like LA or New York. However, he often highlights the positives and his love for SF outweighing these issues. We’d love to hear about your experience with the creative scene in San Francisco.
To be fully honest, I don’t go out much. I enjoy privacy and my time alone. When I moved here about 20 years ago, I was much more immersed in the community. My partner and I started and ran an art space and residency program for 7 years, which was an amazing experience because I had such insight into seeing how other artists work. The creative scene here doesn’t feel as centralised as LA or New York, but that’s part of its power. I’m not sure I’d make the same work if I lived somewhere that always expected me to be public. San Francisco lets me be alone without disconnecting.
Are there any San Francisco-based artists you are currently obsessed with or hugely inspired by? Who should we keep a close eye on?
I admire many artists from San Francisco, people working quietly, experimentally, or at a slant from the centre. More historical inspirations are Jess, Joan Brown, Roy De Forest, Viola Frey, and Gertrude Parker.
And I know this is a long list, but here it is: Mike Kuchar, Ben Peterson, Cross Lypka, Isaac Vazquez Avila, Sahar Khoury, Parker Ito, Maryam Yousif, Maria Guzmán Capron, Nick Makanna, Laura Rokas, Klea McKenna, Chelsea Wong, and Nico Colón. Et al. is a gallery doing great work with emerging artists, and Colpa Press continues to publish and collaborate in ways that feel vital.
What else do you have planned for the rest of the year? What should we keep an eye out for? And where should people go to keep up to date with all things Koak?
I have a few upcoming projects I’m excited about. I’m currently making work for some group shows this fall. I’m also showing with Union Pacific at Frieze London, and next summer I’ll be an artist-in-residence at Pilchuck Glass School in Washington. Each one’s a different challenge, some returning to familiar threads, others pushing into new material territory.
The Window Set is on show at the Charleston until 21 September 2025
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