Cheat on Me, 2024 | Thomas Martinez Pilnik | Glazed stoneware and acrylic yarn | 48 x 48 in
Concept & Jeila Gueramian
I began thinking about safety. Not the kind that arrives with passwords or gated buildings, but the first kind—the one that needs no justification, no words. The kind that simply is.
Perhaps the closest we’ve come to that feeling was before memory itself. Inside the womb. A warm, rhythmic architecture made only for you. Perfect, private, and finite. We don’t remember it, of course. But that absence lingers. And somewhere in its wake, we learn to reach for other versions—echoes of safety found in objects, textures, and time.
Childhood is one of them. Or at least the idea of it.Whether lived or imagined, we’re all familiar with its cultural shorthand: softness, freedom, discovery. The age before language became expectation. Even those without ideal memories of their own can recognize what it was meant to be. We’ve seen it illustrated a thousand ways.
This exhibition began there. Not in nostalgia, but in the quiet urge to return to a place that might never have existed exactly as we remember—or imagine—it.
The process was not linear. It rarely is. Certain artists stayed with me over time—encountered through studio visits, fairs, quiet moments in other people’s spaces. Their work carried a kind of emotional charge. I remembered it before I could name why.
Cheat on Me, 2024 | Thomas Martinez Pilnik | Glazed stoneware and acrylic yarn | 48 x 48 in
Note: The Toy Box
Concept & Jeila Gueramian
I began thinking about safety. Not the kind that arrives with passwords or gated buildings, but the first kind—the one that needs no justification, no words. The kind that simply is.
Perhaps the closest we’ve come to that feeling was before memory itself. Inside the womb. A warm, rhythmic architecture made only for you. Perfect, private, and finite. We don’t remember it, of course. But that absence lingers. And somewhere in its wake, we learn to reach for other versions—echoes of safety found in objects, textures, and time.
Childhood is one of them. Or at least the idea of it.Whether lived or imagined, we’re all familiar with its cultural shorthand: softness, freedom, discovery. The age before language became expectation. Even those without ideal memories of their own can recognize what it was meant to be. We’ve seen it illustrated a thousand ways.
This exhibition began there. Not in nostalgia, but in the quiet urge to return to a place that might never have existed exactly as we remember—or imagine—it.
The process was not linear. It rarely is. Certain artists stayed with me over time—encountered through studio visits, fairs, quiet moments in other people’s spaces. Their work carried a kind of emotional charge. I remembered it before I could name why.
And then came Golden Thread, a fiber-based exhibition by BravinLee Programs. I’ve followed their work for years. But this was the first time I saw it on such a scale. A room filled with knitted trees, mushrooms, lights, and small surreal creatures. Whimsy without sentimentality. The kind of room you don’t walk through. You linger. You listen. You feel slightly undone.
And then came Golden Thread, a fiber-based exhibition by BravinLee Programs. I’ve followed their work for years. But this was the first time I saw it on such a scale. A room filled with knitted trees, mushrooms, lights, and small surreal creatures. Whimsy without sentimentality. The kind of room you don’t walk through. You linger. You listen. You feel slightly undone.
That visit shifted something. It reminded me how immersive softness can be—and how few spaces allow it.
I had just shown Persephone Bennett’s knitted works in Vulnerable Heart, and the response made clear: material matters. Texture allows entry. When we permit tenderness in the gallery, we shift how people relate to the space—and to themselves.
That visit shifted something. It reminded me how immersive softness can be—and how few spaces allow it.
I had just shown Persephone Bennett’s knitted works in Vulnerable Heart, and the response made clear: material matters. Texture allows entry. When we permit tenderness in the gallery, we shift how people relate to the space—and to themselves.
I reached out to Jeila Gueramian. Her work doesn’t merely reference childhood—it reconstructs its logic. Her use of color, shape, and structure bypasses nostalgia and moves straight into sensory memory. You don’t think. You recognize.
We didn’t know each other. But I wrote to her. Explained the shape of the show. What I remembered about her work. What I hoped to build.
She responded with openness. I offered her the Project Room.
She began constructing in her studio. Found someone with a van. Installed with precision and an artist’s particular kind of devotion—working late, adjusting details by hand, still refining on preview day. The room she created is her own visual language made physical. It holds story, texture, and the emotional residue of time spent truly working.
I’ve always believed that the most meaningful part of curating is learning when to step back. When an artist is in rhythm—when the room becomes theirs—the only role left is to hold the space. And let it unfold.
I reached out to Jeila Gueramian. Her work doesn’t merely reference childhood—it reconstructs its logic. Her use of color, shape, and structure bypasses nostalgia and moves straight into sensory memory. You don’t think. You recognize.
We didn’t know each other. But I wrote to her. Explained the shape of the show. What I remembered about her work. What I hoped to build.
She responded with openness. I offered her the Project Room.
She began constructing in her studio. Found someone with a van. Installed with precision and an artist’s particular kind of devotion—working late, adjusting details by hand, still refining on preview day. The room she created is her own visual language made physical. It holds story, texture, and the emotional residue of time spent truly working.
I’ve always believed that the most meaningful part of curating is learning when to step back. When an artist is in rhythm—when the room becomes theirs—the only role left is to hold the space. And let it unfold.
Jeila has experience working at scale—her immersive installations have been shown in museums and large institutional spaces. But translating that presence into the gallery context is something she, like many artists who work large, continues to navigate. One of the conversations we often have with artists is how to make their work accessible to a broader range of collectors—not only through price, but through scale.
In New York, space itself is a luxury. Collectors may love a piece but hesitate when imagining it in a small apartment or a shared space. For artists whose work requires physical immersion, the question becomes: how can we preserve the spirit of the piece in a way that fits the real lives of our audience?
In Jeila’s case, the emotional architecture of her environments—the way light shifts under her structures, the sudden drop in tension, the feeling of being gently transported—cannot be replicated in miniature. But that doesn’t mean intimacy is lost. She’s created a number of smaller-scale works: soft sculptural forms, kittens, puppies, and other imaginative creatures. They measure anywhere from 7x7 to 12x15 inches—beautifully made, self-contained, and filled with the same tactile charm as her larger pieces.
Photograph by Will Ellis, 2025
This show is not a show about childhood. It’s a show about longing—for safety, for simplicity, for a world that made sense before language arrived. And perhaps, about what remains when we no longer remember, but still feel.
This show is not a show about childhood. It’s a show about longing—for safety, for simplicity, for a world that made sense before language arrived. And perhaps, about what remains when we no longer remember, but still feel.
Entry Way | Governors Island New York, NY 2018
Ivy, 2025 | Jeila Gueramian | Mixed textiles | 12 x 15 inches | $900
These works are not compromises. They’re invitations. Entry points into a world that can grow over time.
Leopold, 2025 | Jeila Gueramian | Mixed textiles | 7 x 6 inches | $600
Photograph by Will Ellis, 2025
Jeila has experience working at scale—her immersive installations have been shown in museums and large institutional spaces. But translating that presence into the gallery context is something she, like many artists who work large, continues to navigate. One of the conversations we often have with artists is how to make their work accessible to a broader range of collectors—not only through price, but through scale.
Entry Way
Governors Island New York, NY 2018
In New York, space itself is a luxury. Collectors may love a piece but hesitate when imagining it in a small apartment or a shared space. For artists whose work requires physical immersion, the question becomes: how can we preserve the spirit of the piece in a way that fits the real lives of our audience?
In Jeila’s case, the emotional architecture of her environments—the way light shifts under her structures, the sudden drop in tension, the feeling of being gently transported—cannot be replicated in miniature. But that doesn’t mean intimacy is lost. She’s created a number of smaller-scale works: soft sculptural forms, kittens, puppies, and other imaginative creatures. They measure anywhere from 7x7 to 12x15 inches—beautifully made, self-contained, and filled with the same tactile charm as her larger pieces.
Ivy, 2025
Jeila Gueramian
Mixed textiles
12 x 15 inches
$900
Jeila Gueramian is a multidisciplinary artist known for her whimsical, immersive installations that blend repurposed textiles and technology. Her large-scale works have been exhibited at major venues such as Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art and the Columbus Museum of Art, while her residencies include locations in Italy, Iceland, and New York.
Through her art, Gueramian invites viewers into alternate worlds that evoke nostalgia, wonder, and a sense of exploration, encouraging them to relive childhood memories and emotions. Her work has been reviewed in publications like Frieze Magazine and Art Forum, and she currently lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.
Leopold, 2025
7 x 7 inches
Mixed Textiles
$600
These works are not compromises. They’re invitations. Entry points into a world that can grow over time.
Jeila Gueramian is a multidisciplinary artist known for her whimsical, immersive installations that blend repurposed textiles and technology. Her large-scale works have been exhibited at major venues such as Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art and the Columbus Museum of Art, while her residencies include locations in Italy, Iceland, and New York. Through her art, Gueramian invites viewers into alternate worlds that evoke nostalgia, wonder, and a sense of exploration, encouraging them to relive childhood memories and emotions. Her work has been reviewed in publications like Frieze Magazine and Art Forum, and she currently lives and works in Brooklyn, New York. (Her bio)
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