Nengi Omuku
Ethereal Landscapes, Collective Dreams
OLIVER BELL One of my earliest memories is you telling me not to touch anything. The studio felt dangerous when I was a kid. Electricity, sharp tools, things that could shock you. I was careful, for the most part, I didn’t touch much. But what really sticks with me is when you were working on The Improbable Flow. I was going to school across the street at Trudy’s Discovery House. We did a field trip where we walked over holding hands, and you explained the sculpture to us.
You talked about the water dropping at a certain pace and the light flickering so it looked like the water was floating upward. I remember you smiling while explaining it to all the kids. I must have been five. That was around 1986.
LARRY BELL I remember those days. There were always kids coming through the studio, a lot of activity around whatever was happening at the time. I don’t remember you engaging with any one thing in particular back then. You really only started running the tank [vacuum chamber] seven or eight years ago, long after those early days.
OB I never thought I was smart enough to run it. When you finally let me touch it, everything clicked. All those sounds I’d heard my whole life suddenly meant something. They unlocked memories I didn’t even realize I was carrying. It was the one thing I always said I’d never do. Now I do it, and it brings me a lot of happiness.
Spending that much time together also changed how I see the way you work. You show up Monday through Friday, regular hours, always wanting to make something and move things forward. People see your work as high-concept, but you’re really a working-class guy. You can talk to any plumber or electrician about anything. Some of our best conversations happened in the car, driving back and forth, especially between here and Venice Beach.
LB Time leaves its mark on working spaces, too. Over time, studios have a way of filling up. Tools, supplies, and things that once had a purpose. Eventually some of them stop being useful. But the studio itself hasn’t changed much. I never altered the architecture of the working room. Notes from 1984 still hang on the wall — Post-it notes I didn’t want to forget. One is dated on your first birthday. Comics, drawings from former assistants, pictures of your sisters, pictures of you. Little artifacts, accumulating quietly, without much intention.
OB All these years later, the vacuum chamber is the place where I feel you most clearly. That space hasn’t changed much at all. When I was younger, I didn’t always want to be there. If I got in trouble, you’d bring me into the studio and show me what you were working on. You’d be cutting small colored pieces for a collage and say, “Look at this one. Look at that one. I don’t know what will happen yet, but I feel like they belong together.” Then you’d start the press while talking to me about whatever I’d done wrong. I mopped the floor a lot back then. Now I love being in that room.
LB Running that equipment is like driving a car. You can get groggy if you’re not paying attention. I do things the same way every time, so I know where I am in the process. You can’t forget a step or walk away at the wrong moment.
The process involves heating materials until they evaporate inside a vessel with no air. A vacuum chamber allows things to happen that can’t occur in the presence of air or oxygen. The distance between the heat source and the material is critical. Sometimes something slips, something behaves differently than expected. You end up with something you didn’t plan.
Often those accidents become important visual moments. There’s a lot of luck involved. If you get close to what you intended, you’re lucky.
OB You’ve always talked about improvisation and intuition. When I was learning the tank, I didn’t understand that at first. Then, all at once, everything you’d said over the years, lectures, panels, the whole dog-and-pony show, made sense. I remember thinking you were more impressive than you let on. I still feel that way.
The tank was always a means to an end. Glass led to paper. Paper led to collages, and from there to entirely new bodies of work. It’s about discovering how materials behave when you don’t force them.
To me, the tank feels like a living thing. A big presence in our lives. Something you take care of. It’s an honor to work with it. I like knowing I’m doing something no one else in the world is doing.
LB That sense of chance stayed with me when I began placing the work outside. I’d shown work outdoors before, but never in a forested setting. The sculptures are usually placed in formal environments, with blank walls and controlled light.
Madison Square Park was different. Trees, squirrels, people, picnickers. Something like 64,000 people pass through the park every day. I thought the exposure would be good. It turned out to be better than good. Leaves fell into the work. Light shifted through the trees. All of it became part of the performance. It was an epiphany.
OB I was there for the opening. Seeing the work in public always feels strange to me. In the studio, it’s just work because I’m so used to it. Then it’s suddenly out in the world, and people respond to it.
At Madison Square Park, people from every background came up and talked to you. I loved sitting there with you, watching people. It feels completely different from a white-cube space.
LB Seeing the work in that setting changed how I thought about surfaces. What I enjoy most now is working with the two-dimensional materials. They’re faster and more flexible. We’ve been coating paper, films, and fabrics — materials that bend and twist. Their physical configuration determines how the coating lands. Some areas don’t get coated at all. You end up with evidence of a spontaneous gesture. That unpredictability is a gift. Glass demands perfection. If it isn’t cleaned properly, the coating fails. That rigidity troubles me. The softer materials allow play, layering, and surprise. The surface itself becomes part of the image. It probably sounds like voodoo, but that’s the best way I can explain it.
OB Being part of all of that, what I love most is the shared process. Following what the last piece teaches us and moving toward the next one. Running the tank for two-dimensional work feels freer. Glass is rigid and demanding. This feels more alive. I’m 44 now. In the early days, I was legally obligated to be here. I’ve done a lot of different things, but I’m grateful to work alongside you. Learning the tank means a lot to me. I’ve grown up around incredible people who were your friends. Those memories still feel close to me.
LB I’m thrilled. Truly. It means everything to me to work together like this. You’ve done extraordinary work. We also have a great team. Everyone contributes something important.
<This conversation is from Issue Ten>
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