Ahead of his Seoul exhibition, Nari Ward talks spiritual agency, materiality and how care and surveillance can be two sides of the same coin

The artist is best known for his large-scale installations and assemblages for which he repurposes and transforms discarded and dispossessed objects found in Harlem into sculptures that reflect on memory, history and community. Ward’s intention on a fundamental level is to infuse life and hope in objects and places where very little or none remains. “If something is perceived as hopeless—or in a situation where it is at the end of its life—then the idea of giving it another new possibility makes sense to me,” Ward says of his motivation to use found objects. 

Just as Ward uses found objects in his work to ascribe a renewed sense of purpose to something nearing or at the end of its life, he is drawn to using copper for its ability to give lightness—both in terms of weight and shine—to illustrate ideas which are physically and conceptually heavy and dark. He’s used the metal throughout his practice and the base of his aforementioned new works on view this month in Seoul, which will form part of a series titled Still Livin’. The artist leads us through his studio, across the entrance and courtyard-like space to the furthest room, where a series of copper panels lie, featuring imagery made with nails, used prayer candles and bits of foraged bottles.

The patterns on the panel resemble the burnt-down candles and shapes of the broken bottles found at Covid street memorials. He starts his process by engraving an outline of the various found bottles on the copper panel and then drills the nails in accordingly. “The bottles were standing for a kind of haunting, an absent presence,” the artist says. The artist would collect empty bottles left over from people drinking at the memorials—bars being closed during Covid; he’d also replace the spent candles with new ones.

Motifs on other panels, part of Ward’s Restin’ series, resemble Congolese cosmograms that he saw at a First Baptist African Church in Savannah, Georgia. Composed of a diamond shape with cross-like horizontal and vertical lines, and symbols of sunrise and sunset, the emblem signifies “regeneration”, the artist explains. “It’s life, death and rebirth.” The idea of infusing new life into something deemed obsolete is pervasive in the artist’s practice.

Similarly, Ward uses copper nails to add a lighter dimension—literally—to the heavy sense of abandonment and emptiness inherent in the found objects. “The nails became a way to bring light back into it; the striation of the line brings in the light.” There’s also a mystical element that appeals. “All these mysterious powers were ascribed to copper back then; across cultures, it was considered to have healing components, and used in electricity for its ability to transfer energy.”

The depiction of bottles on the copper panel takes inspiration from the renowned 19th-century Italian still-life painter Giorgio Morandi, who was known for his renditions of glass bottles, ceramic vessels and boxes. It’s not uncommon for Ward to reference art-historical figures or movements in his work; as to why he gravitates towards Morandi, he says the Italian “created a mysterious engagement with something very recognisable”.

Ward channels the impact that Morandi’s work has on him into his work. From traffic cones encased in rubber tyres to ironing boards cloaked in tar, shoelaces tacked onto walls to strollers dripping in soda and glazed sugar, Ward’s pieces are crafted from vernacular materials, with recognisable objects layered in ways that prompt us to think about societal issues from new perspectives. 

Materials function as metaphors and Ward creates narratives with them—narratives that often have visceral, even haunting effects. The work that catapulted the artist onto the contemporary art world map in the US was Amazing Grace (1993), an installation consisting of more than 300 abandoned strollers configured in an oval formation, with flattened firehoses forming a pathway in the middle. A rendition of the hymn Amazing Grace played overhead at the Studio Museum in Harlem where the work was exhibited as a part of Ward’s residency.

These strollers are laden with connotations of abandonment and homelessness. “No one was noticing how empty it feels,” says the artist of when he started finding strollers, often left in car parks, where they would be used to gather and transport bottles and cans used for recycling, or by those experiencing homelessness to hold the few possessions they might own. “It was such a contrast juxtaposed against the flowing energy of the city; the energy around [the strollers] was so still.” While working on the installation, he recalls feeling depressed and heavy. “And that’s why [the song] Amazing Grace came into it,” Ward says. “It was my way to save the sadness. The song is about redemption and transformation. If something feels despondent, then I need to figure out how to bring a moment of levity or light into it, a way to visually take away the heaviness of the piece.”

When Ward moved to Harlem in 1986, it was starkly different to what it is now. Drugs ran rife and there was little gentrification; there were more interesting and unique materials for him to find and incorporate into his work. For instance, he recalls a poignant moment of finding an entire album of family photos. “Someone clearly glued pictures into this album and put it together. A lot of these things I wan’t necessarily finding in the garbage. It was more from people who were dispossessed. Maybe they fell into addiction and lost their faculties in maintaining their lives. There’s always so much trauma associated with it.” While the area is cleaner, safer and more developed now, there are cons to that situation. “The good thing is that the services are more efficient, garbage gets picked up and empty lots get cleaned up. But back in the day, I could see something and know that in three to four weeks, it would still be there and I could count on picking it up then. Now, if I don’t get to it in the next three or four hours, I can forget about it.”

The artist is looking for new narratives to build using new combinations of materials. An idea he’s been toying with for some time is that of care and surveillance being two sides of the same problematic coin. Ward has explored this in works such as Say Can You See (2021), an American flag on which there are so many security tags of the type attached to clothes in shops, the flag itself is barely visible. The piece illustrates the idea of control under the guise of care and promise of safety and protection.

“What I was referencing with that was in some ways this is a normalised situation in contemporary culture: the over-surveillance; half the time, we don’t know we’re being surveilled and the other half we willingly give it over.” There’s also the darker allusions drawn from the impact of attempting to remove the security tag without the specific machine; if you manage to somehow take it off, you’re likely to tear the fabric or, in the case of Ward’s work, the US flag and everything it represents.

Security tags appear again in Untitled Warnings (2024), a work that will be on view at the Seoul show. In this case, the tags are attached to a birdcage. Home, care, protection, endearment, affection and vulnerability are all aligned with those objects—as is the more sinister notion of surveillance. He’s thinking about using tags on discarded teddy bears next, the most common receptacle for nanny cams, and another example of this protection versus control dichotomy.

Despite the sometimes haunting, often daunting themes that Ward’s works focus on, the hope is always to forge connections—whether between objects, ideas or, perhaps most significantly, people. And Ward seeks to be the point of connection. “I think what really was powerful during Covid was the desire for people to come together, even if it meant their demise. People wanted to be in proximity, share a moment together,” the artist says, emphasising that the most exciting part of activities like “viewing art, performance or having a creative communion is that it’s done collectively”, willingly, with agency and without any agenda.

“Finding ways to share a moment that’s not around anything divisive is really necessary, now more than ever.”

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