
Hollis Hammonds and Sasha West, “The Great Turning,” 2025, lithography crayon on Mylar and sound: Sasha West reading her poem “The Great Turning,” 120 x 288 x 288 inches. Installation at The Grace Museum. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
I visited artist Hollis Hammonds in her studio a couple of weeks before she was due to install at The Grace Museum in Abilene. At the time, she was frantically finishing up a large drawing that would end up being part of the work The Great Turning. Huge rolls of paper cascaded down from the ceiling of her studio to the floor, with almost every inch of surface covered in dense drawings of vegetation.
The show at The Grace Museum is divided into two rooms — the atrium, filled with smaller works on paper, opened into the main gallery, which was filled with installation work. In the atrium, texture felt paramount. Many of the surfaces were hand-made paper, tactile and rough, covered with ink drawings. A large collage, Carbon Collectors, mixed branches and plant material with drawings of the same subject on Mylar. It was located near the entrance to the main gallery, and the change in surface from tactile to slick served as a nice transition to the installation work.
As I stepped into the main gallery, I immediately noticed the audio: a recording of Sasha West, Hammonds’ collaborator, reading her poems. Across the installations, the audio had a seductive quality, drawing me closer to the work and holding me there long enough to listen to the whole poem. The main large installation, The Great Turning, dominated half of the gallery. Wide strips of paper hung down from the ceiling, creating a cylindrical space. There were two openings allowing the viewer to walk in. The space reminded me of Richard Serra’s sculptures, a womb, or a world. The exterior “walls” of the installation were filled with drawings of trash, but once I slipped inside, I was surrounded by drawings of soft vegetation and the soothing voice of West reading her poem about the potential to transform the world in a positive way.
The following is an edited and condensed conversation with Hollis Hammonds.
Renee Lai (RL): Two of the installations at The Grace Museum feature large drawings, sculptural assemblages, and poems both written and spoken aloud by Sasha West, your collaborator. How did you two find each other? What is the process of collaborating like?
Hollis Hammonds (HH): Sasha and I both teach at St. Edward’s University, so we’ve known each other for a long time. We did a faculty retreat together, and during that retreat she gave me one of her poems and I illustrated it. That was the first thing we ever did together.
We had an event in the St. Edward’s gallery where faculty did readings in the fall of 2019, and she read one of the poems that is in the show, “Ode to Fossil Fuel.” The poem is based on her research about climate change, a direction that she’s been moving in for a while. I was immediately excited because my work is about disasters and climate. Those themes have always been part of my work, and it was a natural transition for me to move towards climate change as well.
“Ode to Fossil Fuel” is an amazing list poem that talks about all the things that fossil fuels have brought us. It is used in making medical instruments, which took her mother’s cancer out, but at the same time, there are so many disastrous effects from fossil fuels. The poem is constantly shifting back and forth between the good and evil of the industry. It really impacted me.

Hollis Hammonds and Sasha West, “A Dark Wood: In Search Of,” 2021, ink on Yupo, painted detritus, mixed media, sound: Sasha West reading her poems “How to Abandon Ship” and “Ode to Fossil Fuel,” dimensions variable. Installation at The Grace Museum. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
I asked her immediately if she wanted to collaborate with me. I had a solo show coming up at Texas A&M University, and I wasn’t feeling inspired. I was also at a place in my career where I wanted to shift my work away from what it had been, which was very illustrative piles of debris, to something new. Working with Sasha gave me a fresh take on how to approach a subject that I was already dealing with. She gave me her then-unpublished manuscript. I spent several weeks reading through the poems, and I pulled out ten or so. We talked more, and I started making drawings directly from the poems. I would do an automatic drawing, and they would turn into images.
In the first version of our collaboration, she gave me her words and I made drawings. I made an installation, and then we recorded her reading her poems for the first time. I also made the first version of the sculptural assemblages, which I call totems. They’re tree forms made out of recycled materials. It was a forest that you could walk through. For the second major exhibit we did together, I created the drawing that you see in the show now, A Dark Wood: In Search Of. It is an adaptation of the first totem works with a backdrop I created about migration or displacement. There are figures walking in this man-made future forest with a flood. That was for an exhibit we did at the Austin Public Library. The piece in The Grace Museum is from that show.

Hollis Hammonds and Sasha West, “The Great Turning,” 2025, lithography crayon on Mylar and sound: Sasha West reading her poem “The Great Turning,” 120 x 288 x 288 inches. Installation at The Grace Museum. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
RL: Tell me a little bit more about the other large installation, The Great Turning.
HH: The installation is titled after Sasha’s poem “The Great Turning.” Her poem is named after a concept developed by Joanna Macy about the potential for regeneration, reclamation, and regrowth that could be a positive environmental future. The Great Turning asks how we can take disaster and move it in a positive direction.
We wanted to tell a story with this show. There are three moments: the outside atrium, which is about personal climate grief; the disaster installation, A Dark Wood: In Search Of, which is dwelling in disaster; and then the new part of the show, The Great Turning, which is heavily vegetated, showing humankind and nature having a more symbiotic relationship.
RL: Can you talk more about your process, specifically when it comes to your collaboration? Do ideas come before you both make work?
HH: Our collaboration has radically changed over time. For our first exhibit, I started with her poems, responding to her words and constructing a space where viewers can experience that content in a different way through my mark making. Since then, we’ve been trying to move towards a trans-disciplinary collaboration. I’ll have an idea, we’ll meet up, then we’ll talk about what we’re both interested in conceptually. While we’re talking, I’ll do a quick gesture sketch. That’s how the totems started. I knew I wanted a sound piece, and a vertical sculptural object. I do these rough drawings first, we discuss it more, and then we go off and start working.
For this show in particular, we talked at the start about what our goals were and what we’re trying to accomplish. One thing we’re interested in is growing our community engagement, but at the same time we are still really focused on the work itself. Most of the work in the show is lifesize. It is a theatrical approach, but it’s a great way for humans to have a different kind of experience rather than standing in front of a painting.
We want to make immersive spaces that can affect the viewer in some kind of emotional or physical way. We want people to have some personal questioning, whatever that is for them.
RL: Earlier, you said that you were hoping the collaboration would make your work move into a different space. How has your work shifted through this partnership?
HH: I think the main change is my intention. Before, I was putting bare disaster and what we’re doing to the planet. Humans are naturally prone to destruction. We are amazing. We build, but we destroy, constantly. My intention now is to move towards something that has a glimmer of hope for the future. I think that’s the difference.

Hollis Hammonds, “The Trees of Ucross,” 2023, ink on handmade paper sewn to fabric, 47 x 51 inches. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
RL: Tactility of surfaces seems important to you. I’m thinking about the hand-made paper in Trees of UCross, which is rough, and the smoothness of your Mylar or Yupo paper in works like A Dark Wood: In Search Of. Is the surface important to you?
HH: I spent my sabbatical on two projects. The first project was looking at the fringes of nature, trying to see the impact of human intervention. I was looking at groves of dying trees, things that had or hadn’t been managed, to see how climate is stressing nature.
The second project was thinking about an eco art practice. I spent a year critiquing my own materiality. I collected dirt and rocks. I dried and burned sticks to make charcoal. I made paper out of recycled paper, and added natural materials to it. I investigated different ways to make materials, without spending money, without adding to the carbon footprint. I was exploring all the aspects of what it means to have a sustainable art practice.
To me, the whole series in the atrium is about climate grief. What is my relationship to nature? How can I look at it more carefully and think about how I’m contributing to the problem? Maybe I can effect change by having a sustainable studio practice.
The Yupo and Mylar are completely different. Originally I wondered if I could even be using those materials, since they’re made of plastic, from fossil fuels. The way that content is embedded in the material is very important to me. The medium is the message, and I teach my students that. I enjoy drawing on a slick surface, but I also choose Mylar because it is translucent. It has a sense of fragility. It is this human-made thing that is slick, but I am layering this natural thing on top of it. To me, that is an interesting conversation conceptually.

Hollis Hammonds, “Distant Past Distant Future,” 2024, ink on drafting film with steel hanger, 103 x 180 x 8 inches. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
RL: It feels like a scrim covering the gallery wall. Because the Mylar is slightly opaque and simultaneously see through, I think about what might be behind it. The materiality lends itself to an optional way of being, like depicting a landscape that might exist. It’s real, but not real.
HH: The difference between the two bodies of work is that one is very tactile, which is like bark, earth, etc. The slickness of the other body of work is theatrical. I think about a lot of my work as fiction. I am really interested in truth. Truth, to me, could have some fiction in it. To be truthful of a thing or an experience or whatever you’re trying to get across as an artist, you have to lie. As an artist, you’re trying to create a work that someone will have a particular experience with. By trying to achieve that, you may not be able to be factual. I’m really interested in fact and fiction melding together to create something that is more authentic and truthful. I’m okay with this suspension of disbelief, the fantasy of it.
RL: There is such a density of mark making in the Mylar works. You are describing dense piles of debris or plant matter but they’re so airy, so light, that they’re really not there. You have the outline or the shadow drawn in ink and the rest is just the texture of the Mylar.
HH: I’ve never limited myself to a particular media, though it may look that way. I do think my work moves into illustration. To me, drawing is the most vulnerable form of art making. It is the hand of the artist. Drawing is the most authentic you can be even when you’re rendering something that is a lie. In a way, I think the sculptures are more illustrative, because they’re a physical manifestation of an idea. It’s less so than the drawing, but the drawing is clearly illustrative. I’m not uncomfortable with that.
RL: What is the line between drawing and illustration for you?
HH: I think illustration clearly tries to tell a story. It’s trying to get across a very specific idea, and everything is in service of that.

Hollis Hammonds, “Carbon Collectors,” 2024, mixed media, variable dimensions. Photo courtesy of Renee Lai
RL: There are many objects within the show, such as branches, broken chairs, and piles of debris, that exist as physical objects. These same objects also appear as drawings within your work. How do you decide what gets to be sculptural? In this case, I’m thinking of the collage Carbon Collectors. The physical branches are at the top of the work, but then there is the drawing of the branch directly under it. How does drawing the object change it for you?
HH: I used to get asked a lot if I make a sculpture and then draw it, or if I make a drawing then make a sculpture. They form simultaneously for me. I’ve never built an installation then drawn it, although I have done drawings then built a physical thing that is an illustration of the drawing. I feel like some things need to be in the physical form. It links the body, a sensory thing, to the image. The drawings are often multiples, on the wall, layered, coming out. I want them to be physical even though they are flat pictorial surfaces. I’m trying to bridge a gap between the physical experience and the visual.
RL: I’ve noticed that a lot of your works are on moveable panels. I know that paper only comes in a certain width, but is that way of working in bits and pieces important to you?
HH: For sure. A lot of my work has been in components and multiples that are put together. When I was young, I was obsessed with religious art from the Renaissance and the Byzantine eras, even though I wasn’t raised Catholic. I love altarpieces, multiples, things that open, things that have a narrative. Comics are also important to me and my work, and in my teaching I am interested in sequential imagery. Multiple panels are moments but they can be put together to make one big image. It is a methodology that I have been using for decades, but it is different within each piece. It is part of my visual language to have a grid or multiples. The grid, especially in the context of natural imagery, gives structure within the chaos of the image.
RL: Your drawings are so dense I think of the marks as being more tight, but the material you choose, like the ink, is much looser. What is your relationship to drawing tightly versus drawing loosely?
HH: Actually, my marks are quite gestural. It’s kind of a frenzy when I’m making them. The final image does have a quality of being tight. The thing that I love about the drawings is that they fall apart when you get closer to them. You can see the craziness and the ugly crudeness of the mark making. I want to make visceral crude marks but I want them to hold together as something beautiful when you step back. I like the tension of that. If I could simplify my work, it would be: fragility but also the vulnerability of the hand, the imperfection of humankind as makers. But at the same time, the beauty of the world and how all these imperfect things create this beautiful experience.
The Great Turning: We Gather, We Grow, We Tend is on view at The Grace Museum in Abilene through September 20, 2025. An artist reception will take place on Thursday, July 17 at 6 p.m.
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