Meet the Artists Confronting Trump’s Culture Cuts

Jones’ recent spring exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art PS1, The Sumptuous Discovery of Gotham a Go-Go, draws on historical influences as varied as Blaxploitation films, film noir and ballroom culture to explore themes of resistance. The end of Jones’ MoMa residency concluded with the Gotham Ball, a kiki ball staged in honor of New York’s queer and trans artist community.

“Ballroom culture is so much more than dance and balls,” Jones says. ​“It’s world-building. Familial units are constructed and nurtured, and it’s about athleticism, style, affect, language, dress, craftsmanship and lived experience.” 

Always, their work is about showing up — for their community, their loved ones and themselves. ​“I aim to work hyperlocally, starting from my roots and allowing the positive reverberations of collaboration, spirit and love to spread outward,” Jones says.

What began as a coping mechanism evolved into a practice of resistance and cultural reclamation. As a queer, disabled and nonbinary artist of Flathead Salish descent, Morigeau explores the tension between matriarchal and patriarchal spaces, frequently en- gaging themes of ​“in-betweenness.” Their practice spans drawing, painting, poetry and sculpture, and is rooted in a deeply personal yet profoundly communal exploration of identity.

One of Morigeau’s most powerful series, pow wow songs, emerged during the isolation of the Covid-19 pandemic, when Indigenous powwow festivals were canceled. Seeking solace, Morigeau turned to old cassette tapes stored in their basement — recordings of powwow singers from all over. Inspired by these sounds, they created a visual representation of the rhythms, translating each beat into deliberate, meditative marks.

“Each cross, a vocal cry,” Morigeau says. ​“Each circle, a hard drum. I need to feel these songs even if it means glancing at the wall as I walk by for a few moments.” The series became an assertion of resilience: ​“These songs are prayers. These songs hold us. All of us. They allow us to remember.”

Morigeau’s work also engages with Salish oral traditions, reinterpreting Indigenous storytelling through contemporary art. Their upcoming summer exhibition at Nunu Fine Art in New York will feature artwork inspired by Salish monster stories. These narratives — such as the cautionary tale of how chipmunks got their stripes — embed environmental wisdom and communal values, reflecting the interconnectedness of all living things. ​“Our monster stories remind us of balance and respect for the natural world,” they explain. ​“They teach us to fear the woods not be- cause they’re evil, but because they demand preparation and care.”

As a self-taught artist, Morigeau embraces the freedom of working outside institutional norms, pushing against mainstream expectations of Indigenous art. ​“There’s a liberation in not knowing the ​‘rules,’” they say. “[Native abstract artists] are keeping culture alive through this type of visual storytelling.”

“I realized then how compelling of a symbol the flag was and how much power people placed on it,” Carter recalls. ​“It’s interesting to see that my teacher would think infringing on my right to protest was more American than, well, my right to protest.”

That realization underpins Vexillary, Carter’s show at Microscope Gallery in New York. Through a series of sculptures, installations and multimedia works, he interrogates the ideals the American flag purports to stand for, examining it as a symbol of national identity and a vessel of systemic power.

In his Musical Flags series, he reimagines the strict principles of the flag’s design to uncover the injustices hidden within its symbolism. In ​“Gloom of the Grave,” an ink print on canvas, Carter replaces the stars in the flag with musical notes from the third stanza of the national anthem. The corresponding lyrics, absent from the piece but integral to its meaning, read: ​“No refuge could save the hireling and slave / From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.” By referencing this stanza— rarely sung or discussed — Carter highlights the anthem’s historical ties to systemic racism.

Carter’s examination of the flag is not limited to its history but also tackles its role in contemporary society. In ​“Frozen Flag,” Carter encases the flag in a block of ice, housed in a commercial freezer. ​“The work is a metaphor for the country being frozen in time but also doomed to repeat the same mistakes,” Carter says. ​“The frozen flag reflects a country paralyzed by its own history, unable to move forward until conditions for change are created.”

While his art addresses systemic injustices, Carter emphasizes it exists alongside the efforts of activists putting their lives on the line for similar anti-imperialist causes. ​“There are plenty of people doing absolutely extraordinary work about similar subject matter,” he adds, underscoring the privilege of using art as a platform for advocacy. ​“My work is the tip of the iceberg in what has to, and needs to, be done to see substantive change.”

For Carter, art is not just about the messages it conveys but the questions it inspires — and its ability to keep those questions alive: ​“I hope that my work starts a conversation. That’s really the end goal.”

In the tapestry ​“Kānehunamoku,” Lehuauakea portrays the storied floating island of the same name, a sacred place between heaven and Earth, painted on kapa using natural pigments. The red ochre, gathered on Maui, represents the life-blood connecting Native Hawaiians to the land, while the blue pigment, sourced from the Oregon Coast, symbolizes the transient energy of those navigating cultural in-betweenness. ​“It’s an allegory for the power of the unseen, the intangible and the space between spaces,” they say.

But for Lehuauakea, the process is just as significant as the piece. They are committed to gathering materials in ways that align with Indigenous land stewardship: ​“The materials I paint with are not purchased at an art supply store. Since I have to gather them myself, I am able to forge a deeper, more meaningful relationship to both my materials and the lands they come from,” they say. This approach reflects their belief in ​“radical slowness and environmental responsibility,” a practice deeply intertwined with their identity as an Indigenous cultural practitioner.

Lehuauakea’s work is always challenging the perception that Native Hawaiian culture is a relic of the past, instead demonstrating how it evolves and thrives in the present. ​“Indigenous people have always adapted to shifts — whether social, political or environmental,” they say. ​“Our material culture and visual art should evolve with that.”

Her paintings, filled with hybrid human-animal figures, blur the rigid definitions of selfhood. ​“The supernatural, the monstrous, the spiritual seep into the tidy confines of ordinary existence,” Sung explains. ​“Hybrid figures playact domestic and social roles, make half-hearted attempts at assimilation, reverse roles, and swap parts — both anatomy and persona-wise.” In Sung’s visual world, creatures exist in a state of constant transformation, mirroring the way marginalized identities navigate imposed structures and expectations.

One of her standout paintings, ​“Tiger Rider,” captures this performative tension. Two tiger-human hybrids sit against embroidered clouds in a scene that looks as if it was lifted from an ancient folktale. At first glance, the piece appears playful — mythic figures in an almost whimsical setting. Beneath the surface, it challenges the idea of control and dominance — who wields power, who is forced into submission. By placing hybrid figures at the center of her compositions, she invites viewers to reconsider hierarchies— whether between humans and animals, the physical and the spiritual, or tradition and innovation.

Sung’s reworking of mythology is a direct challenge to the deeply gendered narratives within Chinese folklore. Her reinterpretation of figures like the Monkey King as a woman disrupts the traditional hero’s journey, recasting the character’s transformation as a feminine, fluid and subversive act. Likewise, her use of Buddhist iconography reconfigures spirituality beyond patriarchal structures, infusing it with a queer and feminist perspective. Through her work, Sung reclaims folklore by reshaping it, ensuring these stories evolve alongside the cultures that tell them. Her works ask: What happens when the monster is no longer the villain? What if transformation isn’t about punishment, but freedom? Sung insists on retelling history through the perspectives of those who were left out of positions of power.

“My work is my own attempt to participate in that reciprocal act of shaping — to retell and recontextualize these inherited stories through the lens of my own experience and identity,” she says. ​“Art is science fiction in that it is our way of creating alternate realities and visions of other ways of being and seeing. That’s the point of counterculture!”