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“From a teenage emperor, assassinated at seventeen by their praetorian guard, they transform successively into a cruel monster, a creature of unusual and excessive appetites, an effeminate impostor from the East, an anarchist intent on hastening the decline of the empire, an epicurean of metaphysical blasphemies, a sacred fool whose blunders cause the skirts of reality to lift, and an androgynous angel straddling the ruins of the ancient past and our precarious present.”
An evocative and powerful description of Heliogabalus (Elagabalus) by Berlin-based artist Elijah Burgher (1987, USA), whose latest body of work loosely revolves around the image of this infamously controversial Roman emperor.
In the New Art section in the booth of Ivan Gallery (Bucharest), Burgher draws on mythology, occult magic, queer desire, and art history to examine how images survive and mutate across time. The New Art section, curated by Övül Ö. Durmuşoğlu, is reserved for solo presentations by emerging artists with a compelling and conceptually thoughtful practice.
Heliogabalus or Elagabalus is a historical figure whose life has long been eclipsed by an unstable and excessive afterlife in literature, painting, opera, devotional fantasy, and gossip. “They were said to have delighted in quizzing embarrassed senators on whether they, too, had enjoyed the passive role in anal sex when they were young and beautiful,” writes Burgher in his essay Our Lady of the Latrines: Notes on the Elagabalus Egregore. Although ancient sources cast the emperor as a depraved tyrant, sexual deviant, and religious scandal, more recent readings crown them “an anarchist, hero of hedonism, saint, and martyr of the sexual revolution,” as Arrizabalaga y Prado (2010, 1) note in his research, quoted by Burgher.
Very little reliable visual evidence of the emperor survives. Only two bust types are generally attributed to Heliogabalus, largely because their name and image were systematically condemned after their death through damnatio memoriae. This scarcity of material evidence has allowed the emperor to become a screen onto which later writers and artists project their own (vicious) ideas.
The body of paintings shown at Art Rotterdam is made with acrylic paint on studio rags and material cut from failed or abandoned paintings, mounted on panels. Many works consist of ripped or torn pieces of canvas and linen collaged together. Even when painted over completely, the seams of the surface remain visible and the history of the materials appears along the edge of the panel. “They remind me of mummy rags and bathroom graffiti,” the artist explains. “I am also looking closely at Fayum tomb portraiture and the grisaille paintings of Mantegna and Bellini. Some paintings draw on my work with sigil magic and occult abstraction to explore and amplify the solar phallic cults of antiquity, Heliogabalus being an outstanding and perverse example of one.”
In his essay Our Lady of the Latrines: Notes on the Elagabalus Egregore, Burgher deliberately uses the pronouns she/her when referring to the emperor. The choice functions partly as a provocative gesture that resonates with both transfeminine readings of Heliogabalus and the playful use of feminine pronouns in gay slang.
Outside that specific textual context, however, the emperor’s gender identity remains historically uncertain. In this text, we therefore use they/them pronouns to acknowledge the variety of contemporary interpretations surrounding the emperor’s gender. The question of gender, however, is not the central focus of Burgher’s paintings, which are more concerned with the emperor’s mythos, the scarcity of historical evidence, and the long history of artistic interpretations of this enigmatic figure.
The Golden Ass
While Burgher is primarily presenting new paintings in the booth, The Golden Ass reflects another central aspect of his practice: drawing, and particularly drawing with colored pencils, a medium he has explored intensively for more than fifteen years. The colors in the work are built through watercolor washes on paper, over which the artist carefully hatches layers of colored pencil.
“The emperor is now mainly known as Elagabalus or Heliogabalus, names that derive from the Syrian solar deity they served as high priest. During their brief reign in the early third century, they shocked society by elevating the eastern sun god to the centre of Roman religious life and compelled Roman elites to participate in unfamiliar rituals imported from the eastern provinces,” tells Burgher.
This is just one of many scandalous stories that revolve around the figure of Heliogabalus and their afterlife image. In turn, the emperor acquired an infamous number of vulgar nicknames. “Golden Ass could easily be added to that list”, Burgher notes. “French playwright and theorist Antonin Artaud describes the emperor’s entry into Rome walking backward, ass-first, as they lead the phallic stone representing their god on a golden quadrigal drawn by 300 naked women and 300 drugged bulls.”
Across these legends, gold appears alongside bodily substances during sacrilegious spectacles. Quoting Artaud, Burgher notes that “to the shit, blood, and cum that frame the emperor’s fate, gold can be added, the gold of solar fire as well as the earthly gold embroidered on their purple robes.”
For Burgher, this strange constellation of materials also recalls the symbolic Great Work. In medieval alchemy, the Great Work described a transformative process in which base and chaotic matter is broken down and gradually refined until it becomes gold. The process was often imagined as a cycle of stages associated with different colours (black, white, yellow and red) and substances, moving from darkness and decay toward illumination and completion. Within this framework, the substances evoked by Artaud, blood, excrement, semen, and gold, can be read as markers within a symbolic chain of transformation. Burgher therefore describes the myth of Heliogabalus as a constantly shifting cycle. As he writes, the emperor’s legend operates like a turning wheel: “each pose spins the wheel of Elagabalus’s fortune, turning shit into gold and back again.”
Other compelling nicknames proposed by the artist for the emperor include Solar Phallic Princess, Poor Little Ghost Boy, E\H, and Our Lady of the Latrines, which he often references in the titles of his artworks.
Heliogabalus (Latrine Graffiti)
One of the other works in the booth of Ivan Gallery is Heliogabalus (Latrine Graffiti), which refers to a scene that remained vivid in Burgher’s imagination while he made this series. A latrine is a communal toilet, and the term evokes the crude, careless drawings and writings often scratched onto the walls. Burgher connects this idea to a play by Jean Genet about the Roman emperor, long believed lost but only recently rediscovered and published.
In the play’s final scene, the emperor hides in the palace latrines with his lover, Aeginus, while the guard closes in. There he notices the obscene graffiti covering the walls and recognises that the texts refer to them. The emperor reflects on the strange form of glory they represent:
“Aeginus, here is the glory that I desired, without knowing it: my name and my titles, each distorted, transformed, grimacing or smiling, your choice, among them, and strengthening them, obscene poems and drawings, which everyone would call vile, on the walls of the latrines used by the slaves.” (translation by Elijah Burgher).
For Burgher, this scene suggests a powerful inversion. The emperor’s image survives outside marble monuments and official histories and persists in crude and anonymous graffiti. “This scene lingers in the background of my imagination while I make these paintings, although I am not aiming to illustrate it. I would say that my major themes right now are eroticism, sacrifice, and resurrection,” Burgher explains.
You can explore these works by Elijah Burgher, along with many others, in the booth of Ivan Gallery in the New Art section.
Written by Emily van Driessen
If, as the saying goes, all roads lead to Rome, then the reverse must also be true. Rome is a starting point. This certainly applies to the founding myth of the Eternal City. According to tradition, Rome was founded by Romulus and Remus, twin sons of the Roman god Mars. The boys decided to establish a city on the spot where they had been found by a she-wolf.
The image associated with this myth may be even more famous: the bronze sculpture of a watchful she-wolf with two infants suckling, better known as the Capitoline Wolf. It appears on the Roman city coat of arms and bronze copies of the sculpture can be found all over the world, from Pisa to Tokyo and from Bucharest to Perth.
Romanian video artist Aurelia Mihai created LUPA, a film about the Capitoline Wolf and the copies of the sculpture that are located around the world. It serves as a good introduction to Mihai’s work, in which she regularly features iconic artwork. Her focus is not only on the work itself, but also on the places where it appears and the value we collectively assign to it. That meaning, after all, can differ from place to place and change over time.
LUPA by Aurelia Mihai can be seen in Projections. Aurelia Mihai is represented by Sector 1.
I had a great time watching LUPA, which centres around the copies of the Capitoline Wolf found all around the world. Why did you pick this particular work for Art Rotterdam?
The decision to present LUPA for the first time in the Netherlands at Art Rotterdam was made collectively. LUPA is a complex project that combines several central aspects of my practice: the intertwining of cultural-historical research with current socially relevant topics such as migration, belonging and postcolonialism, as well as the exploration of monuments and myths as forms of collective belonging. The film’s plot spans distances across continents, stretching from historical times to the present day. It also encompasses artistic discourses on originals and replicas and reflects on the medium of art itself.
Lupa narrates the film and at one point, says, “I am always a copy, never a fake.” As a viewer, you immediately sense that this line is the core message. What is the message you are trying to convey?
Here, Lupa refers to her own origins. During restoration work in 2007, it was discovered that the technique used to create the Capitoline Wolf bronze sculpture did not exist during the Etruscan period. Consequently, it was re-dated to the 11th–12th century, rather than the 6th century BC, as previously assumed. Experts believe that the Capitoline Wolf is a replica of a lost Etruscan original. The two children, Romulus and Remus, were added in the 15th century during the Renaissance. The international press then claimed that the Capitoline Wolf was either a ‘medieval fake’ or ‘had fallen from its pedestal’.
Another issue concerns the bronze technique itself. This raises the question of whether bronze itself is a reproduction technique, given that its processes are based on reproduction. In other words, a positive is first created and then destroyed to produce the negative required for bronze casting. Finally, a new positive is cast in bronze within this negative. This is considered the original, but it can also be considered a bronze copy of the original prototype.
The film LUPA examines the historical evolution of this iconic symbol – both a monument and a myth – and follows its journey around the world. In this context, it analyses the reception of this monument after its redating in 2007, but also in the current postcolonial context. Here, it shows that Lupa belongs to everyone and reminds us of its symbolic value.
The Capitoline Wolf is an iconic artwork. As are the Suprematist Black Square in the eponymous video work and Trajan’s Column in your film Centi Piedi. Yet the movies are only partially about these iconic works. They are also very much about the way they are seen and the function society ascribes to them. This is a recurring theme in your work, so when did you first establish this as a theme?
From the very beginning, I was interested in precisely this narrative, based on the process of reflection on the subject over time. And that is why I chose video and film as the medium of expression for the work described above.
I would describe why I was interested in this process in Lupa as follows: monuments and myths are part of our collective consciousness. Monuments belong to the public space, while myths belong to intangible heritage. They serve to evoke history or mythology and contain a narrative, a story from the past that can interweave historical facts with fiction. The history and meaning of monuments can be rewritten over time and is linked to the rewriting of history. They can convey an ideology and be propagandistic in nature. Monuments can be misused, forgotten and rediscovered.
Another important aspect is the fact that the Capitoline Wolf migrates around the world and is assimilated into different societies, in different places and in each context, is given its own meaning, similar or different, and even contradictory.
From the outset, I knew that the work would not only be about the Capitoline Wolf or the Black Square, but also become a contemporary narrative highlighting current socio-cultural and political issues. I construct narrations in multiple layers, with the medium of film itself often being one of them.
You mention the differences in context and the various interpretations of the Capitoline Wolf—what are the differences between Bucharest and Tokyo, for example?
There are three bronze statues of the Roman she-wolf in Tokyo, two of which are located in public places. The first is in a park and was donated by the Italian government in 1938, the second by the city of Rome in 2001 to mark the fifth anniversary of the city partnership between Tokyo and Rome. The third statue was offered to Crown Prince Akihito of Japan during his visit to Rome in July 1953.
The Municipality of Rome gifted the Lupa statue to Bucharest in 1906 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of King Carol I of Romania’s coronation and the 1,800th anniversary of the Roman conquest of Dacia.
Two scenes in the film highlight the importance of the monuments in the two cities. In Tokyo, a grandmother recounts the legend of Rome’s creation to her grandson. In Bucharest, the she-wolf recounts its own history:
“Since I arrived in Bucharest in 1906, I’ve moved five times, only to ultimately return to this same place. I survived two world wars and the Ceausescu dictatorship unscathed. It was a different story in the Moldovan capital of Chisinau. The Soviet army destroyed me in 1945 as an alleged symbol of fascism. I embodied the Latin-Roman roots of the Moldovan people and the Romanian language. They melted me down to make weapons out of me.”
The film creates its own reality by staging moments of interference with sculptures as if they were a road movie – a journey through time and space.
I can imagine making a short film like LUPA is a long time in the making, involving considerable resources and travelling. What was the most challenging part about this project?
Yes, it was a very complex project that took several years to complete. The research was intensive and obtaining filming permits in museums and different countries, as well as organising travel, was very time-consuming. But I had a very good team and received a lot of support from institutions in Rome, such as the German Academy Villa Massimo.
Written by Wouter van den Eijkel
The fact that the work of Daphne van de Velde is being shown at Unseen Photo is not surprising. Her work consists of photographs and sculptures made from photographs. But this simple description does not do justice to the breadth and singularity of Van de Velde’s work. The results are preceded by a performance and video registration. As a result of this procedure, and the associative image manipulation that follows, Van de Velde’s work cannot easily be pinned down or compared with that of others. It stands on its own.
The person in the photographs is Van de Velde herself. The pictures are stills from the recording of a performance. She prints the images and then tears or bends them so that the tension she experienced as a dancer is incorporated into the image.
In a photograph from her newest series, Penthesilea, we see her lying in water with her arms spread out, the silhouette of her body visible. The core—her torso and face—has been torn out. That portion of paper curls out from the flat surface. The tension is palpable.
In the sculpture Crossing, the movement of a dancer can be recognised: a raised knee in a brown tunic. Here, too, part of the body is missing—the face this time. Revealing and concealing is a central theme in Van de Velde’s work. In Penthesilea, she links this to the myth of Penthesilea, the Amazon queen who, in a male-dominated world, chose love rather than indifference. We spoke with Van de Velde about her new series and unique approach.
Works from the series Penthesilea by Daphne van de Velde can be seen at Unseen Photo at the Black Swan Gallery stand.
At Art Rotterdam, work from your new series Penthesilea will be shown. Not everyone is familiar with the myth of this Amazon queen. Why were you inspired by this story and why did you decide to use it in your work?
The unusual names in Greek mythology make it seem as if we are speaking about another era, yet they also essentially address our own time: how we relate to ourselves and to one another, and how we position ourselves within the world we inhabit. What appeals to me in these texts is that they are stripped of all irrelevant information that characterises our time.
Penthesilea caught my attention because she clearly positions herself as a woman in a male-dominated world. I admire her courage to cast off her armour, step out of her self-chosen prison and move from indifference towards love. In my newest series of work, I walk alongside her for a while, though at times I also follow my own path.
At the fair, we see the final result of what could be described as a multi-stage process: dance, performance-photography-sculpture. Can you explain your approach?
I do not divide my work that way, but choose a medium that best suits what I want to express in a particular artwork, but I understand what you mean. Because of my background in contemporary dance and degrees in Fine Arts, Architecture and Autonomous Photography, my work is rooted in spatial awareness and bodily movement. I move between photography, performance and sculpture to explore these transitions. My own body functions as subject, instrument, carrier and voice.
What does your work require?
To make art, I need five dimensions: the first three to give a work spatial presence, supplemented by time and place. The notion of time is especially important because my work has a narrative quality. The title of the series, Penthesilea, suggests this.
Can you elaborate on this?
You need time to watch a performance. With a photograph, this is different – you receive all the information at once. A sculpture lies somewhere in between: you need time to observe it from all sides. The reason sculpture stands at the end of this three-stage process is that I create my art for an audience and that audience does not always have access to my performance.
Within my process, I effectively freeze time several times. The moment I take a still from a performance is the first instance. To visualise the bodily tension I experience as a dancer, I transform the two-dimensional plane of the photograph into a three-dimensional one. I do this by pulling or pushing the surface—sometimes until it tears—to allow certain parts of the body to disappear and others to emerge. In some cases, the documentation of the final sculpture can be a third freezing of time, as it enables me to incorporate the direction of light.
You also mentioned the place where your work is shown. Do you determine that on a work-by-work basis?
Location is important. For Art Rotterdam, the sculptural form comes closest to what I want to convey in relation to the audience there. Soon my work will be shown at an exhibition at the EYE Filmmuseum in Amsterdam, where my films function best as the medium. In places where I can meet the audience within the space and where sufficient room is available, performance works well.
During the opening of the PhotoBrussels Festival, I presented a performance in which I encountered the image of my body on a life-size photograph that was 2 1/2 metres high and manipulated it with my body until a sculpture remained. Dance and the deformation of the photograph intertwine, something I can literally demonstrate to the audience.
This is also reflected in the presentation of the work within the series Penthesilea. Some sculptures consist of folded photographic paper. Others are torn. In both cases, the images are not entirely visible. My approach is highly associative. At the moment of creation, I choose the form that best suits the artwork.
How would you describe the theme of your work?
Conceptually, my work involves the revealing and concealing of the body, exposure and protection. That is why I never show the body in its entirety, but emphasise certain parts, while allowing others to be omitted by literally removing them or placing them in shadow.
Your gallerist told me you were once a timid person and that dance helped you to develop a sense of presence. That connects with the theme of revealing and concealing the body. When someone moves, you never see everything at once.
Everyone has their own way of communicating. There was a time in my life when I found it very difficult to express myself verbally. Dance became a way for me to speak – and became almost addictive.
My initial form of communication was contemporary dance, followed by photography. In recent years, I have combined both, rooted in a personal narrative. For me, making art remains a means of communication. The artworks reflect my emotions, such as love and the fear of it, but it is not exclusively about me. It involves feelings we all share as human beings.
Your work stands apart in that it does not directly reference other artists. Are there artists with whom you feel an affinity?
I am drawn to artists who want to tell their own story, regardless of form or conceptual consequences. In that sense, I have great admiration for the music of PJ Harvey, who adopts a musical style appropriate to each project. Her work is cumulative and comparable to my art. Each project stands on its own, yet is built on previous ones. I am not interested in repeating the same art or music; once I have done something, it loses its sense of urgency.
Another artist I deeply admire is the prematurely deceased British-Iraqi architect Zaha Hadid. With her well-known statement, “There are 360 degrees, so why stick to one?”, she articulated a vision of architecture in which materials and forms offer infinite possibilities beyond the familiar 90-degree angle. I approach my art in a similar way. I enjoy material research and connections that initially seem impossible. I continue to experiment until I find a solution that makes them possible.
You mentioned earlier that Penthesilea lived as a woman in a male-dominated world and the artists you cited are also women. Is there a feminist critique within your work?
Penthesilea is not an idealised figure according to the male gaze, but a fallible female character. She inspired me to show how the conflict between desire and self-control continues to this very day. Despite women’s emancipation, female desire often remains beneath the surface. Penthesilea embodies the charged moment when an inner boundary is crossed and interior experience breaks outward.
Through my work, I want to advocate female strength, yet it is certainly not intended as anti-male. I believe in a fundamental difference between women and men in how they think, feel and act. Every individual contains, to varying degrees, elements of both femininity and masculinity. To me, there is no such thing as male or female art. What exists is the act of working based on your own strength—and for me that includes the strength I experience through womanhood and the courage to acknowledge both boundaries and desires.
Is there a project you would like to carry out in the future?
I would very much like to create the spatial work shown at Art Rotterdam on a monumental scale. The enlarged dimensions would allow audiences to relate optimally to the artwork.
A grant I received last year from the Province of Gelderland enabled me to develop a technique that makes it possible to produce my photo-sculptures in life-size, while maintaining structural stability.
My greatest dream is to present my sculptures in a monumental museum space where I can combine them with my films and performances to create a comprehensive experience of my work. Yet outdoor settings-squares and parks-are equally compelling, as they allow me to combine the direct nature of my work with the direct nature of public spaces.
Written by Wouter van den Eijkel
“Hi, I’m Jonathan, and I’m worried.” That’s how Dutch visual artist Jonathan Hielkema (1994) opens his artist statement. He worries, a lot, and those concerns are precisely what drive his artistic practice. Through a caring approach, he has developed a way of working that helps him (and others) find reassurance.
“I used to think art was made for the viewer, but I’ve come to realize that artists also make work for themselves, for all sorts of reasons. For me, it’s mainly about talking to ordinary people, trying to find ways to move beyond the overwhelming scale of global issues through personal stories. That’s how I give my worries about the world a place.”
Hielkema connects this idea to worryism, a term he coined during his time at art school. “I started wondering what it was exactly that I had studied, and how on earth I was supposed to make a living from it? Because that’s something we were never really taught. That’s how worryism emerged: the act of worrying as art, worrying about art, worried art, a worried artist, art that carries worries.”
Hielkema is one of 92 emerging artists who recently received a Kunstenaar Start grant from the Mondriaan Fund. Part of his latest photographic project, Europe, who are you? (2025–2026), will be presented in the Prospects section at Art Rotterdam. The work fits seamlessly within his wider practice, where personal concerns become an entry point to address broader social questions.
Caring for a European Identity
Europe, who are you? (2025–2026) is Hielkema’s attempt to explore what a European identity might mean today. One part of the project, titled Around Europe, consists of four large oak frames containing archival photographs relating to colonial history, European identity, and integration.
The choice of oak is deliberate. “Oak represents the Franco-German axis and acts as an old connector within European history.” The archival photographs Hielkema collected capture moments from the founding countries of the European Union: France, Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, Belgium and Luxembourg. These archival images are presented alongside large staged photographs taken by the artist himself, which reflect on the present. In this way, historical fragments enter into dialogue with contemporary perspectives. Visitors are even invited to take the photographs out of their frames to read the archival descriptions printed on the back.
One of the archival photographs shows a border sign with a flag burning on the Italian–French border. “The information on the back reveals that the photo was taken in 1953. The negative was sent to the United States, where it was printed and scanned for newspaper distribution. The flames in the centre were actually drawn onto the negative by hand, because the real fire didn’t show up strongly enough in the image. As a contemporary counterpart, I photographed my own child eating a European flag.”
Another archival image comes from Belgium in 1960 and depicts a woman with two children. On the back it reads: Refugees arrive in Brussels. “Of course, this refers to colonists who were forced to return from the Democratic Republic of Congo to Belgium,” Hielkema explains. As a contemporary response, the artist staged a photograph of himself at the Atomium in Brussels, holding a protest sign that reads This Land Was Promised to Me. “At first glance it’s a cynical echo of the archival image, but it’s also a comment on current geopolitical tensions beyond the borders of the European Union.”
Born in 1994, shortly after the founding of the European Union in the early 1990s, Hielkema grew up with open borders and the euro as a matter of course. Yet while interviewing people across Europe, he noticed that many have lost sight of what those freedoms actually make possible, precisely because they have become so normalised.
“Europe often feels both tangible and abstract at the same time. It’s a vast and slow-moving system that can be difficult to grasp. To reflect that ambiguity in the installation, four 6-metre-high barrier gates, from the border between Germany and the Netherlands, tower above the oak frames and archival images. They are arranged as a semi-circular structure inspired by the layout of a parliament. But their meaning remains deliberately unclear. Are open borders something positive? Are they a threat? Or are borders themselves the threat?”
Caring for Masculinity
His search for a European identity resonates with another recent project, Black Butterflies, or; The Ballad of Jonny Toxic & Jacco Macho (2025). During his studies, Hielkema presented The Portable Village, a blueprint for a collaborative residential experiment where different disciplines would come together to tackle a social problem from multiple perspectives.
One of his teachers responded bluntly: “The man who always wants to change the world, do you realize how many disasters that has caused? Maybe you should take a look at your own masculinity.”
“I was completely taken aback, but it did make me reflect,” Hielkema says. “As a teenager I was relentlessly bullied for my long hair, nail polish and pink clothes. To survive, I started wearing caps, quit athletics and violin lessons, and took up basketball and smoking instead. Eventually I decided to turn that experience into a film together with a friend from Italy, Jacopo Martini. We travelled through the land of machismo and the land of thrifty Calvinists, speaking with ordinary people about how masculinity is experienced today, whether they feel concerned about it, and whether there might be alternatives. Through that process I started questioning my own masculinity, but also embracing it. And eventually I began asking whether it is still possible to celebrate it.”
Caring for One Another
Hielkema grew up in a family with seven brothers; one of them has multiple disabilities. After finishing art school, he chose to work in the healthcare sector. For six years he worked with Olivier, a disabled boy about whom he is also making a film. One question keeps troubling him: who will take care of these boys once their parents are no longer able to?
“Will it be the government? Will it be us brothers? Are we capable of that? What kind of bureaucracy would we have to deal with? My parents always made sure my brother Camiel had every opportunity, and his future path is quite clear. Camiel works as a DJ, DJ Wheelstar, has an assistance dog, works in Amsterdam and travels independently by train and ferry. But Olivier has only one brother and cannot live independently. From morning to night he relies on care provided by others and by his parents. Most people never really see that reality. On a societal level, we all contribute to that care through taxes. But within families themselves, there are countless worries about the future, especially at a time when the Dutch care system is increasingly under strain.”
Caring for Nuance
America, how are you? (2020) is the central question of another project. Hielkema wondered whether North American society is truly as polarized as the media and political rhetoric often suggest. “There seems to be this narrative of radical division. But there are roughly 250 million eligible voters in the United States, and about sixty million voted for Trump. So how many fucking people does that still leave?”
By speaking with that often unheard majority, Hielkema attempts to restore nuance to the conversation. “And nuance is precisely what tends to disappear today. Perhaps nuance could help us treat each other a bit more nicely. People often told me: ‘These are the kinds of interviews CNN or Fox News should be doing.’ But unfortunately, genuine human conversations rarely make for clickbait. In the end, good news simply means no news.”
Around Europe, part of the photographic series Europe, who are you? (2025–2026) by Jonathan Hielkema, can be seen in the Prospects section at Art Rotterdam.
Written by Emily van Driessen
In the New Art Section of Art Rotterdam, Galleria Doris Ghetta from Italy will present a solo booth featuring the work of Shivangi Kalra. In her paintings, she invites the viewer to step into her inner world, a world that is deeply personal yet resonates with something universal. Her works can be read as concentrated studies of memory, intimacy and social relations. The New Art Section, curated by Övül Ö. Durmuşoğlu, is reserved for solo presentations by emerging artists with a compelling and conceptually thoughtful practice.
Shivangi Kalra was born in Delhi in 1998. She studied Painting at the College of Art in Delhi and graduated cum laude from the Frank Mohr Institute in Groningen in 2024, following an exchange programme at Uniarts Helsinki. That same year, she received the Royal Award for Modern Painting. She currently divides her time between Amsterdam and India, two contexts that continue to inform her work.
Kalra’s dreamlike and enigmatic paintings explore the ways in which memory and perception can become intertwined. Rather than presenting clearly defined narratives, she depicts fragmented situations in which something has just occurred or is about to unfold. Each painting seems to function as a mental space that she constructs with care, element by element, at times almost staged like a theatrical set. At the same time, she rarely makes the scene explicit. Her compositions feature interiors, terraces and subtle theatrical elements, as well as references to lavish parties that she remembers from her youth. For Kalra, these gatherings form a microcosm in which social hierarchies and ingrained codes become visible, almost like a performance. Yet it is also a space for genuine connection. She seeks to understand what takes place when people come together in such settings, a society in miniature, captured in a painting that reveals as much as it withholds.
One striking aspect of her work is the psychological charge of the spaces she depicts. Many of her scenes are set in the city where she grew up, a place that has undergone profound transformation in recent decades, as has its social landscape. Yet the city functions less as a literal backdrop than as a space of memory. Festive tables appear in seemingly warm living rooms or shift to terraces and outdoor settings. At times, a piece of furniture asserts itself with unusual insistence. Figures emerge in motion blur, appear only as an autonomous hand or as mirrored doubles, cast an ominous shadow in a corner, partially dissolve behind smoke or curtains, remain faceless or fade into their surroundings. In some works, figures are framed by a window while in others, the viewer’s gaze is obstructed by the bars of a balcony. In some paintings, people are conspicuously absent. Animals recur throughout, from shadowy dogs and table legs resembling horse legs to tiger rugs that seem to almost come alive.
Kalra guides the eye along conspicuous yet slightly unsettled sightlines and charged details, including photographs on the wall that raise more questions than they answer. One can almost sense the silences, the outward display, the underlying friction and the unspoken hierarchies. The explicit and implicit social rules and the different expectations that are assigned to men and women. It is as if you’re looking at a charged yet unstable memory that has shifted over time, governed by a logic that belongs to dreams. In the context of the Royal Award for Modern Painting, Kalra stated, “I have increasingly begun to paint from memory and have learned to embrace the confusion that can arise from it.” As a result, her works carry unsettling and melancholic undertones, while humour and a touch of absurdity offer some soft edges.
Kalra’s work was previously shown at the Groninger Museum, the Chabot Museum, the Royal Palace Amsterdam, Method in Mumbai and the Museum of Goa. Later this year, she will present a solo exhibition at the Drents Museum in Assen.
Shivangi Kalra’s presentation will be on view in the New Art Section during Art Rotterdam (27–29 March in Rotterdam Ahoy), presented by Galleria Doris Ghetta.
Written by Flor Linckens
Daily at 12:00 and 16:00 | free, registration at the fair (first come, first served)
During the upcoming edition, Art Rotterdam will provide daily guided tours for visitors of thefair. These offer both emerging art lovers and experienced art connoisseurs new perspectives and an insight into the diversity and highlights of the fair.
Passionate art professionals will explain, in an accessible way, the remarkable stories behindboth the artwork and the maker.
At the end of March, Rotterdam briefly turns into an exciting hub for photography. Across three locations, visitors can experience just how broad and dynamic the medium is today: with Unseen Photo as part of Art Rotterdam, the Unseen Book Market in the newly reopened Nederlands Fotomuseum and the photography festival Rotterdam Photo at Deliplein. Together, they form an engaging route across three distinct contexts, appealing to everyone interested in photography, from collectors and professionals to curious visitors.
Within Art Rotterdam (27 to 29 March), Unseen Photo presents an international programme featuring both established names and upcoming talent. Photography is fully integrated into the fair and forms part of the wider presentation spanning no less than 14,000 m² at Rotterdam Ahoy. Alongside the Main Section and the Solo/Duo programme, Unseen Photo includes several curated sections. Visitors come across new work by contemporary photographers in the New Photography section. In the Encounters section, curator Domenico de Chirico explores how photography can intersect with other disciplines. In The Past Present, photography historian Hedy van Erp focuses on analogue photography up to the year 2000, with particular attention to rediscovered archives and found images that acquire new meanings through contemporary interventions.
Running parallel to the fair, the Unseen Book Market takes place at the recently reopened Nederlands Fotomuseum in Pakhuis Santos. From 26 to 29 March, 35 publishers will present a wide range of photo books and publications here. During these days, the ground floor of the museum will become a meeting place for publishers, artists and lovers of the photo book. Entry to the book market is free. Please note that it may be busy and that a queue may form. If you would also like to visit the exhibitions at the Nederlands Fotomuseum, a regular museum ticket is required.
At the same time, Rotterdam Photo takes place at Deliplein in Katendrecht from 25 to 29 March. This international photography festival presents more than thirty photographers from around the world in an informal setting: an open container village. The 2026 edition, ‘Echoes of Silence – War in the Artist’s Soul’, explores how conflict and tension resonate within personal narratives, memory and migration. Rather than documenting violence directly, the focus lies on the inner reverberations of conflict: photography as a reflection on what war and unrest leave behind in the individual. As part of the programme, visitors will also encounter a series of curated exhibitions featuring artists such as Caroline Monnet (Canada), Diego Moreno (Mexico/Switzerland), Hashim Nasr (Sudan/Egypt) and Otto Snoek (Rotterdam). Rotterdam Photo also offers a programme of Photo Talks, panel discussions, live music and opportunities to meet the artists.
Unseen Photo at Art Rotterdam
Friday 27 March – Sunday 29 March: 11.00 – 19.00
Address: Rotterdam Ahoy, Ahoyweg 10, Rotterdam
Tickets: €22.50 (with discounts for students, an off-peak ticket for €16.50 and free entry for children up to 12)
Unseen Book Market at the Nederlands Fotomuseum
Thursday 26 March: 13.00 – 21.00 (the Nederlands Fotomuseum opens at 11.00)
Friday 27 March – Sunday 29 March: 11.00 – 17.00
Address: Pakhuis Santos, Brede Hilledijk 95, Rotterdam
Tickets: €17.50 (with discounts for, among others, CJP cardholders and free entry for holders of, among others, a Museumkaart)
Rotterdam Photo
Wednesday 25 March: 18.00 – 22.00
Thursday 26 March: 11.00 – 18.00
Friday 27 March: 11.00 – 18.00
Saturday 28 March: 11.00 – 20.00
Sunday 29 March: 11.00 – 18.00
Address: Deliplein, Rotterdam
Tickets: €6.50 (with discounts for, among others, Rotterdampas holders and groups)
Saturday, March 28, 4:00 to 5:00 PM
Stand C 01, Galerie Ron Mandos
Internationally renowned Rotterdam artist Joep van Lieshout has created an art walk in the form of a booklet, guiding you to his favourite artworks in Rotterdam that you might otherwise overlook.
This was created in collaboration with Tramhuis, the recently opened kiosk for city walks. The kiosk is an initiative of Droom en Daad and encourages Rotterdammers and visitors to explore the city on foot.
On Saturday, March 28, from 4:00 to 5:00 PM, the booklet (€12.90) will be available for purchase at the fair, where Joep van Lieshout will be present to sign copies.
At first glance, the colourful work of Vuyo Mabheka seems cheerful. The combination of fresh colours, naive childlike drawings and cut-out photographs is easy on the eye. But that impression does not last. With each work you see, your view evolves. You start to recognise the same photos again and again and the same drawn figures reappearing. In his photocollages, Mabheka tells what it is like to grow up as a Black person in a township in post-Apartheid South Africa. It is a highly layered and fragile story that is rarely told, one surrounded by shame and distrust.
Vuyo Mabheka’s work can be seen at Unseen Photo at the Afronova stand.
Mabheka’s series is called Popihuise, a Xhosa corruption of the Afrikaans pophuis (dollhouse). He added the ‘e’ at the end to make the word sound English. The name refers to the original function of the drawings, which were homemade toys. Mabheka used them as a board game when his younger sister brought friends home.
Vuyo Mabheka (South Africa, 1999) and his sister grew up in the township of Thokoza, just outside of Johannesburg. They had an absent father and their mother worked most of the time. At first, they lived with their grandmother, but when she died, much of the responsibility for raising his younger sister fell to Mabheka. Afronova’s Emilie Demon describes it as an unstable environment, one in which a great deal depended on the ability to improvise and the survival instincts of a minor.
The path from an unstable childhood to bricolage art was a long one. Demon lives and works in Johannesburg. In addition to her gallery, the Japanese-French curator runs the photography project Of Souls and Joy in Thokoza. Alongside a photography course, the project also offers tools to learn how to reflect on and talk about traumatic experiences. “I’ve learned a great deal over the past ten years,” Demon says by phone. “At first, the participants were distrustful. What is someone like me doing there? What does she want from us? That was the attitude. So, it took a long time to gain their trust.”
“Talking about traumatic experiences always takes time, but for Black South Africans, it is probably even more difficult. They feel unseen. That’s why I wanted to make it a safe space, a place where you could learn about photography and if you want, to talk about your traumas.”
It proved a challenge to do justice to the layered nature of the work and the original function of the drawings, Demon explains. Not only because many of the sheets are marked on both sides, but above all, because the stories they tell are extremely personal.
For instance, the father figure returns in several guises—once with the text I’m Proud at eye level, his arm draped around a cut-out photo of a five-year-old Mabheka. Elsewhere, he appears as a police officer helping a young Mabheka cross the street.
In iGumbi Lam we see Mabheka as a toddler sitting on a bed in a bedroom. Keywords are written on the wall. Whereas the inner world of the average five-year-old in a stable environment might include things like football, Pokémon, Nintendo and a pet, Mabheka’s word cloud is far grimmer: police, family, love, dad, hero, doctor. At the bottom of the image, the date is visible on an alarm clock: Fri / 13.
There are also elements that might be referred to as mythologising. In Top Zinto, a corrugated-iron shack turns into a colourful house, and in Imbali Yesizwe, a house without parents becomes a place of redemption for a nation.
To do justice to all these aspects, Mabheka and Demon chose to allow small differences between edition numbers. Each collage is therefore slightly different. The drawing remains the same each time, but the photos differ per edition because they are cut out by hand. The selection can also vary. “This approach suits the work well,” says Demon.
In 2024, Emilie Demon brought Vuyo Mabheka’s work to Paris Photo. It was an overwhelming success and the work sold out within a few days. The renowned French photobook publisher Chose Commune also published a book about the series. It changed Mabheka’s life; he recently moved into an apartment with brick walls. He now fills his days with painting and visiting museums. “Don’t stay stuck in this anger—be open and curious,” Demon advised Mabheka. That seems to be working out well. We have only seen the beginning, Demon says confidently over the phone. “His peach is so ready now.”
Written by Wouter van den Eijkel
This year marks the tenth edition of the NN Art Award. The annual incentive prize of €10,000 is awarded to a talented artist who completed their education in the Netherlands and presents work at Art Rotterdam (27–29 March at Rotterdam Ahoy). The professional jury nominated four artists: Fiona Lutjenhuis (Galerie Fleur & Wouter), Tina Farifteh (Gallery Vriend van Bavink), Mandy Franca (Night Café Gallery) and Kyra Nijskens (Prospects / Mondriaan Fonds). From 14 March to 25 May 2026, work by all nominees will be on view at Kunsthal Rotterdam.
In her multidisciplinary practice, Mandy Franca explores the friction and entanglement between the digital and the everyday. She grew up in Rotterdam-Zuid, where cultural diversity was the norm and contact with her family in Curaçao took place via a calling centre, a small shop in the 1990s and early 2000s in which you could make international phone calls for a fee. The clocks on the wall showing different time zones reflected not only physical distance but also two realities existing simultaneously. From an early age, Franca developed a keen awareness of what technology can do to proximity, memory and identity.
In her artistic practice, she examines how digitalisation, migration and globalisation shape our relationship to everyday objects, places, traditions, images, memories and domestic environments, often without us even noticing. How can these be preserved? Franca believes that the individual always points towards the collective. She seeks not only to revalue what appears ordinary and grant it additional weight, but also to consider how its experience connects to broader, shared realities. In this way, personal experiences are placed within a larger fabric of shared needs and mutual dependence. Franca pays particular attention to care, connection and the body as an archive. Our relationship with the more-than-human world also runs as a continuous thread throughout her practice.
Franca starts out with fleeting snapshots taken on her smartphone, often in low resolution as she embraces the technology that is available to her. In doing so, she refers to Hito Steyerl’s essay on the ‘poor image’ as a democratic counterpoint to the ‘perfect’ visual language of the commercial world, where circulation and accessibility outweigh technical perfection. Franca explores what digital materiality means and how an image relates to surface, reproduction and tactility. She gives form to these questions by connecting analogue and digital processes, drawing, printing and layering images to reveal a complexity in which the digital and the physical are inseparably intertwined. A tension emerges between the reproducible image and the singular gesture that transforms it into a unique work. Franca frequently experiments with different media and printing techniques. In earlier works, she combined NASA imagery with her own photography, video and sound.
Mandy Franca was born in Rotterdam in 1989. She studied at the Willem de Kooning Academy in Rotterdam and at the Royal College of Art in London, followed by a residency programme at the Rijksakademie van beeldende kunsten in Amsterdam. Her work has been shown at Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam, Saatchi Gallery in London and TENT Rotterdam and is included in the collections of Stedelijk Museum Amsterdam and the Rijksakademie. Her work recently appeared in the publication ‘Vitamin P4: New Perspectives in Contemporary Painting’ by Phaidon Press.
Mandy, can you tell us more about the work you are presenting at Art Rotterdam and at Kunsthal Rotterdam?
The work on view at Art Rotterdam and at Kunsthal Rotterdam forms part of a larger series I began in 2023 titled “An Area of Land Dominated by Trees”. I was inspired by the opening sentence of Wikipedia’s description of a forest. The titles function partly as descriptive, almost encyclopaedic designations, as if they were a biological registration of a moment. At the same time, several titles carry a personal charge, such as “Fluttering Leaves Make the Wind Blow”, derived from a remark by my sister-in-law, or “My Grandmother’s House as a Place of Shelter”, which is also included in the presentation at Art Rotterdam in the booth of Night Café.
I am interested in multiple realities and forms of intelligence that extend beyond the human, and I situate both contemporary technologies and the natural world within a more-than-human context. Trees are social beings capable of complex communication, challenging the notion that intelligence is exclusively human. This invites a reconsideration of our relationship to nature and to contemporary technologies, expanding our understanding of intelligence. The emphasis placed in the West on individualism underestimates the importance of community, collaboration and the recognition of our mutual dependence and shared experiences. Understanding our interconnectedness is crucial to our survival. In this work, trees do not function as a metaphor but as a community from which we as humans can learn.
The images in this series stem from my personal archive, and were taken over the past years with my iPhone in various places and at different moments in my life, including London, the Vondelpark in Amsterdam, the Kralingse Bos in Rotterdam, the grounds of the Rijksakademie van beeldende kunsten and my grandmother’s house in Curaçao. This geographical and temporal layering reflects how my work comes into being, through overlaps between place, memory and present experience.
In both presentations, I consciously choose a non-hierarchical way of installing the works. They appear at different heights and extend across multiple walls, creating space for discovery and movement. No material, format or technique is subordinate to another.
My interest in community and interconnectedness is not only conceptual but also deeply personal. My parents were born in Curaçao and I grew up in Rotterdam-Zuid in a multicultural environment. My class at the Christian primary school consisted of children from diverse cultural backgrounds and each week began with prayer, each in their own way. As a child, I experienced differences in language, religion and ritual as self-evident and fascinating, it was my normal. As an adult, I became more aware of how this cultural diversity can come under pressure or meet resistance in society. For me, such cross-pollination represents a form of social intelligence. In that sense, I see a parallel with the forest. It reminds me that as a planet, humans, animals, plants and even technology are interconnected and dependent on one another.
What are your plans for 2026?
At the moment, I am working towards my first solo museum exhibition, which I am very much looking forward to. In May, my solo ‘I Breathe an Endless Universe in Me’, curated by Delany Boutkan, will open at Stedelijk Museum Schiedam. The exhibition forms an important anchor point within my practice and directly extends an ongoing line of research that began with ‘On Being Light and Liquid’ (Rijksakademie van beeldende kunsten, Amsterdam, 2024) and continued in ‘Why Do I Stare at the Sky and Long for the Clouds’ (Night Café, London, 2025).
Throughout this series, clouds, air and the colour blue recur as motifs that function as connective and communal elements and that emerged after a prolonged period of illness and isolation. I lay in bed for months, staring at the sky. As even the usual activities one might turn to during illness were not an option for me, the vast sky outside my window became my connection to the world beyond. The ever-changing sky disrupted the repetitive rhythm of my days and brought moments of reflection and wonder. I reflected on the contrast between my own immobility and the fluidity of the world around me. As I observed the movement of clouds, historically a symbol of freedom, I considered how such freedom is always contextual and situation-bound. The presentation at Stedelijk Museum Schiedam includes photographic and video works taken with a mobile phone from my own archive as well as in collaboration with family members, digitally simulated imagery, painting, sound and video works. In this exhibition, I explore how presence is experienced when people, places and times are separated. Breath and air play a central role.
My work has also been included in the recently published ‘Vitamin P4: New Perspectives in Contemporary Painting’ by Phaidon Press. The ‘Vitamin’ series focuses on contemporary artists working with painting and brings together around 100 artists from across the globe who, according to the editors, have made a fresh, distinctive or innovative contribution to the genre over the past five to ten years.
In addition, several exhibitions abroad are planned for the autumn and I intend to take time mid-year to rest in Curaçao, in between projects.
Can you describe how you felt when you heard you had been nominated for the NN Art Award?
I was quite surprised. The idea of applying came from my gallerist at Night Café, who was convinced I stood a chance of being selected. The fact that she recognised that potential in my work speaks to her intuition and commitment.
The news arrived at a particular moment: a day earlier I had learned that my grandmother had passed away after a short illness. The nomination therefore stood in stark contrast to how I was feeling at the time. I felt honoured yet also somewhat astonished. At the same time, given its timing, I see the nomination as an encouragement. I am grateful and it is an honour to be one of the four nominees selected from so many submissions.
Which project would you immediately take up if you were to win the award?
Over the past years, my health has limited my ability to travel extensively. During an earlier period, I began collecting images of flowers from my personal archive. From this growing archive, I develop collages combined with oil pastel that refer to the traditional floral still life, while also revealing corporeality and fragmentation. For me, flowers embody both vulnerability and resilience. In time, I would like to travel to Curaçao to photograph and study flowers there. My parents grew up surrounded by this flora. By connecting this future archive with material I have gathered in recent years, I aim to bring together personal and geographical layers. They function as carriers of memory, presence and family history.
To explore that layering further and develop my work on a larger spatial scale, my dream is not so much to realise one specific project but to acquire a large-format printer. Printing already plays an important role in my practice, yet at present I depend on external workshops with the appropriate facilities, which requires planning well in advance. Having my own large-format printer would allow for greater spontaneity, flexibility and experimentation with materials, enabling me to broaden my practice. If I had access to this equipment in my own studio, it would not only accelerate the process but above all enrich it. It would open up possibilities for experimenting with layering, materials and combinations that currently remain out of reach. In this way, I hope to further develop my artistic practice and deepen the balance between experimentation and technical knowledge.
The winner of the NN Art Award 2026 will be announced on Friday 27 March at Kunsthal Rotterdam. During this festive evening, all exhibitions, including the NN Art Award exhibition, will be freely accessible to invited guests.
Written by Flor Linckens
