The Commentary - Issue Five
Editors Note: This Summer in Art
Dear Reader,
It’s a big summer for Pittsburgh, and I want to make sure that you have the scoop. There's a lot of big events happening right now, and I want you to be a part of them. In this note, I will outline some of the major arts events happening in our city this summer, my thoughts on a few, and some reminders for monthly art events happening this summer.
First up is the once-every-four-years Carnegie International. North America’s oldest International Art Fair is right at our backdoor, and is already open. You will have until January 3rd, 2027 to see the Carnegie Museum of Art (CMoA) completely taken over with contemporary art from all around the world. In its 59th iteration, the show focuses on what connects us all as human beings all across the world. Our shared struggles, hopes, and dreams are highlighted by artists from all over the globe. I found the exhibition to be expansive, relatable, thought provoking, and humanizing (even in VR worlds that will give you quite the shock!) While we always try to include as many free/low cost events in this magazine as possible, I highly recommend the entry fee or utilizing a RADPass to experience this world renowned arts event.
The annual Three Rivers Arts Festival is around the corner, and will look a little different this year. Running from Fri, Jun 5, 2026 – Sun, Jun 14, 2026, there will be events, concerts, and hundreds of artists to meet and buy work from. Remember, all of the artists change halfway through the festival, so seeing it once just isn’t enough! As always, there are great musicians to see completely free! Here’s a few that you will be likely to spot me at: The Pharcyde (June 6), Buffalo Rose (June 11), and Delfeayo Marsalis & the Uptown Jazz Orchestra (June 13). That’s only a slice of what’s happening at the Festival, so be sure to check it out!
It seems the festival has finally found a new home after being booted from Point State Park. Arts Landing, the newly renovated “Backyard” of The Cultural District will host this year’s events. This major project has completely reimagined the downtown region, and I personally am very excited to see it host this year's festival. The relocation of the festival will not only bring foot traffic downtown, it will keep the action of the festival close to the permanent galleries run by the Pittsburgh Cultural Trust. Make sure that between munching on fair food and seeing live performances that you visit the always free galleries on Liberty and Wood.
While thinking about the Cultural District, I’d like to highlight a great way to see the aforementioned permanent galleries. Every month, the Cultural Trust hosts a Gallery Crawl spanning the length of Liberty Ave gallery zone. Make sure to take the extra few steps to include the August Wilson African American Cultural Center in your crawl, as the institution always has free open galleries as well. Extra fun activities including, DJs, vintage sellers, and free wine and beer, and more are all available at the following dates this summer: June 26, July 31, and August 28. The exhibitions are constantly changing and are always free, so be sure to check it out!
Another monthly gallery crawl I want to bring attention to is Unblurred: First Fridays on Penn Avenue. This monthly gallery crawl seems to be getting bigger and better every month. Between the artist studios and galleries popping up in Bloomfield/Garfield every month, and the amazing bites you can get along the way, you are sure to find a few things to enjoy. As the name suggests, the first Friday of every month means all the doors will be open. Enjoy food, drinks, and great art all summer long!
Getting in the groove across the river, the Northside Music Festival will be held July 10-12. This free event is one of my favorites. Be sure to stop by the local music venues such as Park House and ACB, but also check out the volunteer run stages all over Deutschtown. It’s a great opportunity to support local bands and businesses.
As always, this is just a few of the events happening this Summer here in the Burgh, and keep your eyes peeled for other events too. I hope to see you enjoying the sun and the art this summer!
Heather Hershberger
Center of Life: centeroflife.org
Radiant Hall: radianthall.org
Margaret Bjorklund is an oil painter based in the Pittsburgh region. Her works highlight the ambiguous nature of life through scratchy brushstrokes. In this way, she captures moments in the cycle of death and decomposition. This work highlights the death of the Virgin Mary in the Christian faith. Her focus in this work is contrasting the works of the Italian Renaissance, and framing Christian death in a new light, while emphasizing death as a key component to both her practice and the faith.
The Assumption of the Virgin (After Titian)
Margaret Bjorklund,
Oil on Canvas
Mourning Hemlocks and Other Dying Things
by Heather Hershberger
Recently, I had the opportunity to venture slightly outside the city, through the rolling foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, past the Hartwood Acres Sculpture Gardens to the home and studio of Maggie Bjorklund. A painter, a mother, and an avid gardener. One could even add the label: “avant-garde natural researcher.”
Her work is composed of finely painted natural subjects in various states of decomposition. Thin layers of paint reveal tiny brush hairs and canvas shining through. Her fascination lies in death, and since the recent arrival of her son, birth.
It’s interesting, to arrive at the topic of death, without the subject of birth, but that is precisely how our conversation began. Clearly a topic Bjorklund has meditated heavily, and once noticed, permeates her work with clear fascination. What happens as an orange, half peeled, is left on the counter for weeks on end? How does its flesh dry and wither? When a flower starts losing its petals, is that where the beauty begins?
When asked about her inspirations, the artist answered simply: “my compost pile.” Every day, while delivering partial bits of unused fruits and vegetables, maybe an onion skin that can’t be used for soup, Bjorklund looks at her compost. I mean, really looks. What kind of bugs are devouring what scraps? How does an apple core compare to an orange peel in terms of speed of decomposition? What exact hues of brown can be found on both? Personally, when taking out the compost, I get a bit squeamish. I get it over with as fast as possible, and I sure as hell am not taking a look at the bugs when I do. This fresh perspective excited me. What beauty have I been missing out on? One look at her work surely gives you a taste.
A cranefly in a spider web caught my immediate attention. She said it was stuck in her studio window one morning. Its long legs broken, twisted up in the web, but not quite concealed entirely. Its large wings still remained free. A moment just before complete annihilation. There was still hope for the cranefly, but more for the spider. Moments like these are what inspires the artist. Her brush went immediately to the canvas. She painted an image that intentionally lacks a clear focus. It almost looks as if you are squinting. The blurry nature of the painting allows us to truly contemplate who or what the subject may be. She did not mourn, in the traditional sense, for the cranefly, as it is simply a part of the cycle of life. However, in the act of memorializing the creature, the viewer sees more than a spider about to get a meal, but the necessary sacrifice of the fly.
She says plants are easier to work with. There is a less clear aspect of sentience, the flesh is more of an abstract concept. However, behind our ill-fated cranefly, a regal hemlock stands in the distance. When discussing it, and the others bordering her property, the artist was filled with real grief. For a conversation revolving around death, this was the first time I had felt like we were discussing something truly emotional, and less as investigators or researchers.
The state tree of Pennsylvania has a sense of mysticism surrounding it. It is a familiar and sometimes dreaded feature in folk tales and storybooks. Their tall, thick trunks with large branches are heavy and laden with deep green needles. They are awe inspiring, and under attack. The hemlock woolly adelgid is an invasive insect draining the lifeforce from our trees. Conservation is hard, as the bugs are small and only really visible via their white cottony eggs. In three to nine years, an infestation of these tiny creatures can kill the behemoth tree. The treatment is expensive, and often applied too late. This painting seemed to be both a memorial for the insect, but also the trees behind it.
When I arrived at the studio of Maggie Bjorklund, I did not imagine that my Saturday morning would consist of conversations about the cycle of life. See, my only interaction with her work (in person) was of her work at the Tomayko Foundation. Assumption of the Virgin (After Titian) stands proudly in the permanent collection there. Its symmetrical form immediately caught my attention; you can see it yourself on the next page. Its sumptuous form of body parts and pink hues spoke nothing but Dionystic liberation, and pure gaiety at first glance. Of course, once I saw the title, my views modified from Grecian wine festivals, to the ecstasy of rebirth through death in the Christian lens.
The molded and anonymous bodies of who we can assume are the saints of Christian liturgy seem to melt into one another, and their luscious, pink surroundings. Arms, legs, and hair dip into cool blue waters and seemingly melt into its current. In the top half of the painting, jubilant forms seem to leap into the heavens behind a barely distinct virgin rising up. Her shoulder guides her lifeless form away from the masses below. It seems that she is being pulled by a string tied under her shoulder, propped. The imagery of death in Christian work is typically shown with the subject more alive than ever before. This contrast in imagery is stunning, and hones in on the realities of death and decomposition. While death has been glorified for centuries in images, Bjorklund argues it’s the death itself that is beautiful and necessary. Rather than add death-defying light behind the virgin’s eyes, Bjorklund focuses on the life around her. The life, according to the Christian faith, that her and Jesus’s sacrifices were for. Without death, there can be no life.
In her studio, I noticed a shift. A shift in technique, a shift in subject, and in color pallet. The girlish hues of pink and orange were shifting to forest green and blue. Deeper, richer colors were on the “work in progress” portion of the space. An unexpected side effect of motherhood. Previously, her work had been completed in the form of a study. One session for one painting - as long as it took, and as long as the paint was still wet. Now, it is no longer possible. Layers naturally dried as her baby needed her. More layers for more time spent on other, more pressing, projects. It was beautiful to see. A transition in real time to accommodate both artistic practice and motherhood. In addition, new subject matter was appearing. Bright, starlit centers with less discernable subjects which marked a change in fascination. Birth. New beginnings, and the precise opposite of decomposition - growth. The progression from death to life seems to have always been the core focus of Bjorklund’s work, and it is fascinating to witness the progression within her oeuvre. Just as apple cores give way to worms, or a cranefly becomes a meal, the progression of subject from death to life continues, beyond a single painting, and beyond a lifetime.
Sara Tang is a multidisciplinary Pittsburgh artist. Her work cross examines chronic illness, identity, and ecopsychology. Were work also explores multiracial experiences and kinship. She is heavily involved in our local community through organizations like the #notwhite Collective, Anthropology of Motherhood, and JADED PGH.
Her visual arts work consists of atmospheric reflections and dreamlike subjects.
Aural Study
Sara Tang, 2023
Pisansky dye, watercolor, ink, and oil pastel
Exploring the Pittsburgh Underground
By Layne Shaffer
One fateful night (Friday October 25 to be exact) the used bookstore Bottom Feeder Books was transformed. Located in Point Breeze, for one night only visitors were transported to the city’s many tunnels. Which ones, you may ask. Maybe the Liberty Tubes or the dreaded Squirrel Hill tunnel from 3-6 PM Mondays through Fridays. Instead we were taken underground. Tales from the Tunnels was a one-night event at Bottom Feeder with installations and a film screening by artists Sadie Shoaf (also known as Sandyloaf) and Isabella Schubert-Jones.
Upon entering the space, one is greeted by three female sculptures known as the “Three Ladies” sitting in a row. Fog reduced my visibility and the lights were flashing. The women had glossy faces and a blank stare that still somehow managed to feel judgmental at the same time. One held a keyboard with long fake nails. They all wore clinical white skirt suits. In each room, you are greeted by animatronic creatures – something more than animals and something less than humans. Definitely something of a dream where you might wake up in a cold sweat. In the next room, Shoaf and Schubert-Jones’ film plays on a loop. There are two connected storylines that can be briefly recounted as follows: The first story is titled ‘The Itch’ and follows the main character, a lost fellow named Craig with a green face is tormented by his lover, a lovely lady to whom he has married not too long ago. She is known as the Mold Goblin. But, Craig has left the tunnels, where they lived, to lead a more normal life in the real world. She tries her hardest to get him to come back. He goes to the doctor for some help with a mold infestation (cue the three ladies from the first room) who secretly want him to go back to the tunnels. Craig and the Mold Goblin have a toxic relationship, and he is being called back to the tunnels. It is a tale of being polluted – either by love or mold.
The next part of the film titled ‘Feeding Frenzy’ is a domestic scene – the same character – now known as Billy Bob – is at home with his pregnant wife. He has also adopted what I can only assume to be a West Virginian accent. However, he is tormented by the now pregnant Mold Goblin who is crawling around his home at night. He tries to investigate to no avail. Eventually, the creature gives birth (in his attic!) to eerie green babies who crawl across the floor towards the camera. Both storylines are a combination of uneasiness and humor. You feel a sense of empathy for the green man as he navigates the women in his life, and you grow to understand why he would not want to go back to the tunnels. The viewer is thrown into a world that is reminiscent of our own world, only with something eerily out of place. Of course, we do not want to think of what lurks underneath our very footsteps.
Both artists have a distinct artistic style – specializing in a pleasantly unsettling array of masks, costumes, and sculptures – many of which called Bottom Feeder home on October 25th. Inspiration from this short film comes from old horror movies and dreams. It was directed by Shoaf with performances by Shoaf and Schubert-Jones, with artist Daniel Gruschecky credited on filming and music. Collaboration between the artists undoubtedly created a horror-scape inspired by their artists’ interest in the rich history of horror films in Pittsburgh. Shoaf and Schubert-Jones sculptures are brought to life through this film – a perfect combination of humor and horror.
Shoaf produces wearable art – incorporating painting and sculpture into three dimensional scenes as seen through “Tales from the Tunnels.” Likewise, Schubert-Jones lives in a world of her own creation, creating characters and sculptures that she has portrayed or brought to life, animatronically, that is. Together, the artists produced an immersive exhibit that is surely something to write home about – whether home is Shadyside, Bloomfield, or even the tunnels.
Back to the exhibition. In the final room, you feel as though you have entered the film. Every mask, sculpture, and character from the film is positioned for you. The green man and his wife stand at the altar. The creature who gave birth sits eerily on a chair that spins. Her green babies crawl every which way on the ground. You have to watch your step. Other masks appear to jump out at you as you turn yourself – but ironically they are the only thing that stays in place. Another version of the green man's defeated body lays in the corner – he looks scared to see you as you step in. I took a picture with the happy couple, you know, to celebrate.
For more information on this exhibition and the artists, visit their instagrams @sandyloaf and @isabellaschubert.
The Voice of Atiya Jones
by Shawna Carter
The journal and personalized pin gifted to me were shades of amber, my favorite color. I gazed at them, appreciating that the universe saved them for the moment that I would meet their creator.
My keepsakes were gentle reminders of my visit to Radiant Hall - Lawrenceville, a space populated by a plethora of multidisciplinary artists expressing a unique perspective on human life. Adorned with creations from floor to ceiling, I was in a funhouse. I moved forward to allow my feet to enjoy the ocean of wood shavings from an abstract sculpture as they brushed against the soles of my shoes.
Allowing myself to float wherever my eyes landed, I witnessed a collection of bold lines upon an ebony canvas. Intrigued by its lack of beginning or end, I ventured into a studio space empty of its creator, full of imagery. As I explored the paintings and how each curve, broken from the next, still interconnected to create an intricate sea of thoughts, Atiya Jones entered the studio. I immediately complimented her on her work. She humbly replied that they were a byproduct of her internal and mental works-in-progress.
Her strokes, representing the acceptance of her anxiety within, are imperfect yet balanced. Each different and disconnected, the lines laid aside each other in togetherness. I appreciated the artist’s celebration of her mental health and asked her to elaborate. She described her current works as an evolution from her past creations. She then reached inside her drawer to provide me with a visual of her explanation.
The image of line work she shared paralleled what I’d previously experienced. I was unsure of the bigger picture figuratively as well as literally and wondered if that was the intent. Tightly knit lines intertwined to create the most beautiful maze of tangled monochrome madness.
Perfectionism. It feels as inescapable as depression for the hyper-focused.
Atiya expressed her journey of healing through her art and how the delicate lines of her early paintings evolved as she created space for her growth which is represented by the newfound space within her line work. I turned to examine the piece I found most unique from Jones’s abstract artworks. Surrounded by her signature WildLines sat a man, unidentifiable due to his face turning into the darkness around him.
He too, was ebony.
I chose to make my own assumption of this piece as Atiya tended to new art enthusiasts who entered her world. The ivory lines were endless against the shaded backdrop and though they mimicked the boldness necessary to address one’s mental health, the suffocation of it all seems too frightful for him to face. I reconsidered my understanding of what the artist told me of her inspiration and soon realized the deeper message.
It was her voice amongst the internal chaos derived from mental unrest.
A silent storm.
I am now in a space of comfort as I stare at my trinkets in remembrance of my Radiant Hall visit. Mindful of the experience, I equip myself to submit to the lines I’ve yet to connect. I noticed a difference in the gifts from Atiya that seemed to bypass me before. My citrus colored takeaways were more than just linear. Finely rounded circles adorned my journal and surrounded my pin reminding me of the circle of love that is my support. I am unsure of the true intent of the addition of these shapes but still…
I hear her resilience. Loud and clear.
The Imagined and the Tangible: An Interview with Julien Birch
by Layne Shaffer
I first encountered Julien Birch’s work at Espresso a Mano on Butler St. in Lawrenceville. They use their walls to highlight some of the artists of Pittsburgh and – coincidentally enough – hold onto copies of The Commentary for distribution. It is only fate, then, that in the last issue of the first volume of the commentary, I was to write about one of the artists that has been exhibited on its walls. This is a true testament to the culture of art in Pittsburgh – that it can be found anywhere if you look closely enough. And, coincidentally, looking closely enough is exactly what Julien Birch asks of you. I was drawn to their work for its sense of intimacy and of unusual space. Take works such as The Living Room, 2022. Birch combines familiar imagery – that of a radiator, the infamous chinoiserie vase that every mom seems to own, and windows with ledges that have undoubtedly been painted over ten to fifteen times by your landlord – with that of the unfamiliar. It is unlikely you’ve ever seen green waves like those found in a set design eat up the white curtains on your walls. Or that your mother would put the aforementioned vase on a small red table in the middle of the floor. It is in these details that Birch thrives. For Birch, scenes such as these are an aesthetic depiction of a fleeting or unexplainable memory. Though Birch did not experience what you see within this painting, they may have experienced the fleeting memory that is left with you when you view it. In fact, memory visualizes itself in their paintings in ways that are at first not recognizable to the artist. Birch grew up in Louisiana, and shared with me that it took them a long time to realize that they included water motifs in their work because they lived through Hurricane Katrina. There is a theatricality to these murky waves, perhaps a conscious choice deriving from Birch’s interest in the Czech filmmaker Jan švankmajer who made stop motion films that have a decisive element of the surreal. Of course, the traditional aspects found in The Living Room are taken from as common a place as their very own apartment. Birch is interested in the small peculiarities in everyday architecture such as a tiny door [cue that intensely unnerving scene from Pan’s Labyrinth] or the ornate trim of windows.
Interestingly, Birch’s sculptures go in the opposite direction. A ceramicist by trade, Birch appreciates the everyday quality that ceramics have, preferring their works to be held or used. For many ceramic artists, this fact is what makes their designation as a craftsperson or an artist difficult. As I explored in one of my earlier commentaries (See “I Love My Ugly Son: An Interview with Liz Wells,” Issue 4), ceramic artists have been historically pigeonholed into being either a craftsperson or an artist, as if the two are mutually exclusive, and as if functional ceramic sculpture cannot exist within the realm of fine art. Small sculptures were Birch’s way of getting back into artmaking after a break. As of right now, these ceramic sculptures feel like the right next step for them. They are currently making ceramic objects that bring elements from their paintings into the three dimensional. There still exists a sense of the peculiar in these sculptures, as exemplified by My Favorite Thing is Discourse, 2023. Not many of us likely have a chair at home that has a pointed vase inserted into its seat. Just as Birch works from the real to the unreal in their painting, they move from the imagined to the tangible in their sculpture. It is a truly cyclical method of artistic production.
by Mercedes Perez-Shillington
The Catholic Croatian Church in Millvale, just across the 40th Street bridge, was built in 1900 to serve the Croatian immigrant community in Pittsburgh. After a fire that destroyed the ceiling and exhibited decorative murals, Maxo Vanka, a Croatian immigrant artist, was charged with painting new murals in both 1937 and 1941. He drew on his experiences as a volunteer ambulance driver in World War I and his experiences while living in Pittsburgh.
The Millvale murals transform the landscape of the church. Almost every surface is covered in images, which vary from more traditional religious motifs like the Crucifixion and Madonna and Child to more socially progressive images that address class discrepancies, the labor movement, and war. These images include “Injustice,” a dark figure holding a bloodied sword as they step on the disembodied limbs and faces of the oppressed, with a World War I gas mask sheltering their identity. While the murals reflect the anxieties of the early 20th century, they also reveal the same tensions that persist today. Labor rights, genocide, war, and immigration are still widely contested, and the murals reflect back a message of bleak reality but hope for a better future.
Education, conservation, and community outreach have been the priorities of the Society to Preserve the Millvale Murals of Maxo Vanka. They are a pillar of the Millvale community and serve the larger Pittsburgh region with public and private tours, hosting community events, and programs like the LIGHT Initiative and Gift to America 2.0, which use Vanka’s inspirational work as a stepping stone to engage diverse audiences and artists in Pittsburgh and beyond.
But these murals are in danger. The harsh elements, Pittsburgh pollution, dwindling parish, and the expansion of Route 28, have endangered the condition and support for the murals. Through fundraising and several grants, the Society to Preserve the Millvale Murals of Maxo Vanka began conservation efforts in 2009 for the highest-risk murals, including the Pieta, Mati, and Croatian Mother Raises Her Son for War. These efforts revealed the murals that had been hidden behind decades of grime and damage and illuminated them with newly installed lighting design.
In 2023, the Vanka Murals was granted the Save America’s Treasures multi-year grant from the Institute of Museum and Library Services (IMLS) to address nine murals which occupy the largest and most inaccessible section of murals, the Evangelists, the New Testament, the Old Testament, and Transcendent Vision, the ceiling. This grant would allow world-class conservators to evaluate and treat the murals as well as support the design and installation of climate control, to mitigate some of the factors causing the damage to the murals.
The Save America’s Treasures grant allowed for the completion of the St. Luke, St. John, and the New Testament murals on the Southeastern barrel vault in 2023 and Transcendent Vision, the center ceiling mural in 2024. In 2025, I joined the project as a Pre-Professional Conservation Intern during the third phase. This phase addressed the most problematic Northwestern barrel vault. This vault had been particularly damaged because of its “weather-side” position on the Northwestern side, roof leaks, and overall moisture retention. This moisture and humidity fluctuation caused sulfur salts in the plaster behind the paint to effloresce, or phase in and out of crystallized states. These fluffy salts broke through the paint layer, causing paint losses in large patches, especially concentrated around the Old Testament window, the lower left section of the St. Mark Mural, and on the green border, lower right section of St. Matthew. Additionally, the aluminum leafing behind the figures in the Northwestern vault was severely degraded and required specialized care from object conservators experienced with metals.
Halfway through this last phase of the project, the Society to Preserve the Millvale Murals was informed that our Save America’s Treasures Grant would be terminated. This termination was connected to the federal deconstruction of IMLS and other arts funding. Without the grant funding, the Society was left to pay out of pocket for all conservator labor, materials, scaffolding, and the possibility of not being able to install climate control. Delaying the project was not an option, as there were time constraints on the conservators and the scaffolding had to be removed by June. The Society reached out to the Pittsburgh community, asking for financial and community to support in order to support the completion of the project. After an uncertain month, the Save America’s Treasures grant was reinstated, but in the meantime, the conservation team had continued its work, knowing that stopping might mean the murals would not be fully restored.
The scaffolding was taken down in late May 2025, revealing the work that had been finished on the Northwestern vault. In the time period between January and May, the Vanka team documented the condition and surface and structural damage, removed and cleaned dirt and grime that had accumulated on the surface after 80 years of Pittsburgh pollution with soft bristle brushes, dry soot sponges, and wet make-up sponges. Areas with high salt concentration were treated with a series of Ammonium Carbonate and Barium Nanoparticle poultices using the Ferrroni-Dini method. Areas with paint losses were in-painted using pastels and watercolor, reversible methods that could be adjusted or removed by future conservators as needed. Conservation requires a delicate balance of cleaning and treatment with restoration, without compromising the integrity of the original work. The murals that were revealed were clean, visually legible, and cohesive, while remaining Vanka’s own work.
While most of the project was done when the scaffolding was taken down, the lower left corner of the St. Mark mural still had to be addressed because the high concentration of salts meant that even more poultice rounds had to be applied than anticipated. The continuous moisture fluctuation the area had experienced for years meant that the original plaster had degraded to the point that a hole was visible on the other side of the wall. This hole had to be repaired with plaster and modostuk before in-painting. With the completion of the last finishing touches, using a lift, on these murals, 90% of the 25 murals in the church had been conserved.
While most of the project was done when the scaffolding was taken down, the lower left corner of the St. Mark mural still had to be addressed because the high concentration of salts meant that even more poultice rounds had to be applied than anticipated. The continuous moisture fluctuation the area had experienced for years meant that the original plaster had degraded to the point that a hole was visible on the other side of the wall. This hole had to be repaired with plaster and modostuk before in-painting. With the completion of the last finishing touches, using a lift, on these murals, 90% of the 25 murals in the church had been conserved.
This summer, lead conservator Naomi Ruiz and I began preparations for future conservation of the last murals, Croatians in the Old World, Croatians in the New World, and Mary, Queen of Croatians on the main Altar murals. Part of this mural was overpainted by Joko Knezevich, an artist in the 1970’s. This mural has been controversial. Should the 1970s changes be kept or should the mural be returned to its original depiction by Vanka, the original artist? Additionally, murals that have already been conserved have been analyzed to see if they will need additional conservation. Murals like Pieta will need to be addressed again due to the continued humidity fluctuations and roof leaks. Conservation has adapted over the years, and changing conservation practices may reduce salt evaporation more effectively.
Installation of climate control will be completed in September 2025 and will greatly reduce the threats to the murals. All artworks are subject to their environment and need preventative conservation efforts to reduce the need for treatments. Conservation and climate control are investments that will preserve and prevent the loss of one of Pittsburgh's lesser-known treasures.
If you are interested in seeing these stunning murals in person, you can visit during a public tour or book a private tour. For more information and options to support the murals, you can visit their website at vankamurals.org and follow them on social media @savemaxovanka
City of Steel and Salt:
Maxo Vanka’s Gift to America
Windows to the World:
An interview with Leia Davliakos
by Renee Dubaich
“Maybe you're in a black-and-white stage of your life and you move to a more colorful one. The ripple effect of a life that is never the same and always changing… It's grasping that, and being able to see that in art,” Leia Davliakos said when I asked if there was a time when she realized her art could affect the lives of other people.
The painting she referred to is entitled Frame of Mind, a reimagining of Monet’s The Poppy Field. A mirror-like shape captures the scene in color: the green field, the child picking red poppies, the pale sky, and the woman’s blue umbrella. While beyond the mirror’s edge, the color is starkly desaturated. It’s as if the scene is either growing or shrinking in color. A fading or expanding memory. Leia remembered when she finished the painting, she showed it to a friend who was so touched by it that she cried.
“I will never forget that moment. I never thought that something I could create could be so moving in somebody else's life,” she said.
I discovered Leia through Offroute (offrouteart.com), an organization that supports young artists in Pittsburgh. Leia’s art is reminiscent of seasides, vibrant blues, pomegranates, and scenes of Greece—a place that deeply inspires her in all of her work. I met Leia at the closest place we could get to the Aegean Sea, the Mediterra cafe in Lawrenceville on a chilly November afternoon. The lively space was filled with conversation, clinking of mugs, brewing of the espresso machine, and the smell of freshly baked pastries. The light softly shone through the large front windows, revealing. We sipped our caffeinated drinks as she invited me into her world.
Leia’s artwork ranges from oil to encaustic, watercolor, drawing, and photography. All of her works are connected by the theme “Windows to the World.” She explained her fascination with windows, arches, lenses, or anything that creates a space for art to be seen through. They are thresholds, separating and connecting one side to the other—the individual to the world, the individual to the art.
“It’s like a transition to something beyond. How do you grasp what’s beyond by seeing it through a lens like a window? Or an eye? Because everyone can see something different,” she said.
Windows find their way into all of Leia’s works, whether in metaphor as shown in Frame of Mind or the use of an actual window as in Eye of the Beholder, where Leia incorporates a six-pane window she found at an antique store. A Greek city at sunset is deconstructed across each of the panes, rendering the image in different forms such as mosaic, oil, acrylic, and photo collage. The horizon shifts from impression to detail like a memory coming into focus, or representing the boundless ways that memory can take shape.
Leia’s art is like her scrapbook, inspired by the people she’s met, places she’s been, and an ode to Hellenic memory. Paros Pomegranates, an oil painting created last summer at an art residency on the Greek island Paros, reflects this notion. The pomegranates resonate with fond memories of her mother and grandmother. While growing up, she recalled the fruit always being in the house, a highly regarded cure-all and symbol of healing in Greek culture. The painting and her time at the residency marked a pivotal moment for her as an artist. It was the first time she had her art shown in an exhibition (at ArtNumber23 gallery in Athens) and it was a transition from considering her art only as a hobby to a more deep-rooted passion and consistent practice.
Leia revealed she is still trying to figure out where she fits in Pittsburgh’s art world. She experiences a constant yearning to be back in Greece and her current projects reflect this. Her most recent oil painting, These Days, is inspired by a tender image of a mother and daughter from the MITOS PROJECT.* While painting this piece, Leia thought of Kastellorizo, the island where her family is from. In painting, Leia brings the places she loves right to her and holds them close, even when she’s thousands of miles away.
As our conversation came to an end, Leia reminisced on her journey as an artist; of how it began when she was very young and would draw alongside her dad, watching intently as he drew each line, and then recreating them on her own paper. Flash forward to where she is now, still using those techniques and never doubting that creating art was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. She said she finds meaning in every little step along the journey—even when there are times she may be unsuccessful, it’s taking that step that counts.
Thank you Leia for inviting me into your world, and sharing your world with others through art.
You can view Leia’s work at www.leiadavliakos.com.
* A photographic and ethnographic project on Greek costumes (pappasmichael.com/mitos/)
Writer Spotlight: Di
Pittsburgh is a sports city; anyone denying it, hasn’t been here for long. Pittsburgh has lots of identities: The City of Champions, The City of Bridges, The Paris of Appalachia... you know, you live here. It’s a common misconception that arts and sports are oil and water. The mixing of culture and sports has always been a tension point, and one many people (including myself) are working to provide answers to.
The Pittsburgh Penguins have started an initiative to invite local artists of different cultural backgrounds to design jerseys for different Heritage Nights.
For the Italian Heritage Night, our writer Di was selected to design the jersey. He is seen to the right, sporting his. The design boasts the Pittsburgh flag and the Italian flag on the sleeves, but doesn’t stop there. The white parts of the jersey have a marble design, a nod to the artists of the Italian Renaissance, but also the region his family’s ancestral home lies.
We wanted to send a warm, “Congratulazioni e ben fatto!” to our friend and writer for his creative work that helps bridge the gaps between the cultural communities of our city!
A Decorated Body
by Elizabeth Dawn of Memoirtisty
It is 1995, and I am 14 years old.
I’m sitting at the dining table with Cousin in one of my uncle’s homes. I whisper a confession.
When I grow up, I am going to be tattooed.
Cousin’s eyes became saucers. She excuses herself to report me to her mother, my aunt. Cousin is scared I am going to go to hell and needs to be soothed. I am scolded for saying things to confuse and hurt feelings; reprimanded for dreaming aloud about an adulthood of bodily integrity. The worst thing to be is a stumbling block, and I know better.
I am commanded to repent this sin against Cousin.
From the Tips of the Toes,
<br/>other told little sister a tale, and sketched the characters.
When unicorns jump into the ocean, they become narwhals; and if the narwhals surface, they are unicorns again.
On the right foot is Norbert the Narwhal, on the left, Nantucket the Unicorn; my “feet friends”. When I visit the beach, I dip the feet into the ocean, left-to-right-to-left-to-right, ritualizing the cycle from unicorn to narwhal. From life to life to the necessary and never-ending deaths.
This tattoo captures the innocence of childhood beliefs; a time of blind faith, when I may have trusted <br/>other to tell me the truth.
Around the Ankles,
Trying to be inconspicuous, at the base of a hot air balloon’s basket, a bat escapes into the night, surrounded by fireflies, with a stolen eyeball in its grip.
Up the Legs,
On the left calf, an Earth-bound astronaut in a hot air balloon made of the Universe, looks longingly toward a spaceship, attempting to beam him up. This tattoo expresses my relationship with <f/>other. He taught me to look toward the stars while limiting himself to black and white thinking.
I tried showing him the way, from inside the spaceship, but he does not recognize how I have changed.
And so <f/>other holds tight to his balloon, his beliefs, and dreams of adventure never far from reach.
Under my left knee is a black death moth in traditional styling; under my right, a colorful butterfly to contrast. Transformation unfolds my story. I am learning not to be scared of not being here any longer.
On my left thigh, a pinup-style tattoo; a portrait of my marriage.
I am dusting a bookshelf in a French maid costume with a white petticoat exposing a pink garter belt attached to black stockings. My hair is curled, and my lips a cherry red. I’m stuck in 1950; who wears high heels to clean? Hanging above my head is a framed portrait of my cat, Pixel; behind me is a round painting of pastel roses. I am smiling over my shoulder, toward my husband, who would be positioned on the couch with an Xbox controller in hand while I clean the house top to bottom, room to room. He’d eat snacks, drink whiskey, and lift his feet when I ran the vacuum. I am a perfectly obedient and appropriately sexy fantasy of a real wife. Displayed on the bookshelf, a Corona typewriter and a curated collection of books. Time and sun have blown out the letters and it is becoming difficult to read the titles. The HOLY BIBLE is in clear view, however, and stacked underneath is the book I am writing now 10 years later: I’M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS.
On my right calf, a grayscale garden skull made of flowers and leaves, with white accents, covers up the first hot air balloon tattoo. The first balloon was drawn by my ex-husband but he “hated looking at [the artist’s translation of his design]”.
When he complained, all I heard, that he could never understand, was “your calf is ugly, erase it”.
Expert eyes can make out the ghost balloon. Absence haunts.
Below the skull, a scene: three bats; one plucks an eyeball from a Mason jar, and two others approach in the distance. They fly across a night sky filled with fireflies who leave a glowing trail, a message, on the base of the ankle: “following intuition”. This is how I move forward, one step at a time. I do not require the eyes to see.
Beside the right knee, above the skull, is a ruby gem in the shape of a heart with a scripted bye. July birthdays; a farewell to friendship.
Watching from my right thigh, facing ahead and rich with color, an ornately framed portrait of an ambiguous figure sharing eyes and bending gender. A woman with her hair piled atop her head presents her femininity forward while a bearded man stares back at me, beckoning my masculinity. I mirror him and reflect her; we are one in the same. Who do you see when you see me?
A dove lands on my right hip with a twig in its grip, signaling new growth.
and Up the Arms,
On the left wrist I am adorned with five hash marks. At once, a celebration and sentence, of five years of marriage.
Facing the five is the Phoenix rising from the ashes, smoke billowing toward the armpit. I do not look away from the messy parts and missteps. I embrace this life-death-life cycle because I want to change; because I want to change I embrace this life-death-life cycle.
I wear my heart on my (left) sleeve to memorialize my relationship with <m/>other; a yellow rose with red-tipped petals and faded green leaves, plucked from a bouquet. Forget-me-nots (the flower of my birth state) hug the rose. Black-lined geometric shapes and dew drops are layered atop the flowers, with paint splatters of blue, purple, red and yellow framing the chaotic pattern.
I color outside of the lines and she stays in. I openly express [to her], I do not want to hide as she hides from herself. When we are alone, I believe she can hear me and we sing in harmony. She is where I grew in creation, yet she cannot believe her own creativity. Am I not as stunning as you are beautiful, <m/>other?
On the right wrist, aunt Teresa’s script of Love, written inside the last birthday card I’ll ever receive from her. She has been my ancestral angel; an anchor to blood across time. I find her inside my grief. In death, she is patient with me, forgiving, and she is always with me. And so, in life, I can be patient with me, forgiving, and i /\m always with me. We must die to know i /\m.
Under Love, rests a pencil, a sharpener with shavings, and a Pink Pearl eraser. I write because I must. Beside the writing tools is a reminder to “be brave with your words”, and a rose compass without directional points—a perspective on presence. Wherever i /\m is where I’m meant to be. Where I am, is where i /\m is found.
Another five in morse code marking 10 years of marriage beside my right elbow pit.
The most popular tattoo is Pixel, my pixelated cat portrait, on my right bicep. She glares, and dares you to gettooclose.
Resting the right fist under the chin, the forearm exposes a request for a date to satiate with breakfast foods. Strawberries, blueberries and pineapple spill from a plate of syrupy pancakes stacked high, topped with a runny egg (the yoke often confused for butter), and stabbed with a fork. A knife hovers nearby, along with a syrup bottle branded BUY, a coffee cup identifying ME, and BRUNCH under the fruit. This tattoo inspires an activity.
I make eyes with someone. I tuck fist into chin, point to breakfast with left index finger, point to mouth, point back to tattoo and then point to person. It requires the skill of reading the eyes, which few have developed.
(I never use it. Turns out, I don’t care as much about dating as I thought I did.)
On the back of my right arm is a space- and Wizard-of-Oz-themed piece. There’s no place like home, but home isn’t Earth; “... my treasures are laid up, somewhere beyond the blue.”
Down the Head,
Behind the right ear, my handwriting; a word: “secrets”. Behind the left: “lies”.
Strangers tell me secrets and lovers tell me lies. The signal of a broken intimacy meter; the unfamiliar faces safer than the recognizable voices. Billy Joel was correct. I can ask for the truth but I’ll never believe you.
On the back of the neck, an eye with intricate detail and pops of color representing seven unblocked chakras. Creative flow opens me to consider new ideas.
Across the Back,
In between my shoulder blades, my second tattoo is covered by an apple. Inside the apple, a delicate edg in my own penmanship hides. Underneath the apple, my married initials: eve. Divorce led me back to edg, but I will leave eve be. She has had enough. Nothing is her fault.
Circling the apple were once two sparrows, red and blue. The red remains the same but the blue has transformed into a crow–a callback to tattoo number one… “for sorrow, two for joy…”
The first tattoo was always going to be a band tattoo. The shooting star from Counting Crows’ second album Recovering the Satellites hovered above my jeans for 21 years before it was covered up with a nest holding three blue eggs–symbolic of the three ghosts in my work. A snake is coiled at the nest’s base, uninterested in consuming the unborn, and moves instead into the center of the back, defined by an upside-down green glowing triangle representing eternal love from the inside-out.
Toward the Heart,
In the center of the chest, between the breasts, an anatomical heart in soft black with an eyeball. Flowers grow from the vessels. When I see with the heart, I bloom.
The only husband I’ll ever have, Matthew, in script under the left breast, showcases his deletion from my life. Underneath his name are seven red dots. “In the margin”—on my ribs—is the hard copy editorial direction “stet”, a Latin word meaning “let it stand”. Editors use this markup when the original text should be kept and the suggested change, ignored. (I interpret my naked skin as original and the suggested change as Matthew, meaning pretend I didn’t get this tattoo.)
A stick ‘n’ poke honors a deep and instant friendship; a halved grapefruit is positioned on the lower abdomen, to the left of the belly button. Yonic and symbolic, she and I make life worth the squeeze.
Resting across the right cage of ribs, a rhinoceros skeleton is encircled by forget-me-nots. Did you know, despite the rhinoceros’ tough-looking exterior, they endure sensitive skin? Same.
& Everywhere in Between.
The filler that hugs the body and amplifies the curves, a floral carpet amid a black spiral that bees confuse for reality. From the shins to the backs of the thighs, up the left glute and blooming around the spine, a garden of wild flowers; chrysanthemums, zinnias, blue bonnets, and forget-me-nots. Bury me green, naked and three feet deep, return me to the wild so flowers can grow through the bones.
The black spiral represents illusion. You see me with eyes not mine and do not know me. The absence of tattoo twirls my skin and I give in to the unknown; the void of “self”.
Nothing matters.
I knew myself well at 14.
My family pressed the importance of walking the talk—living by the words you speak—because words create.
I might’ve said I’m sorry to my cousin in 1995, but I never repented of my tattoo desires. (I have, however, repented many apologies I didn’t mean.) I am far more concerned with the ways in which I have sinned against myself because I was duped into thinking anyone else’s beliefs trump my own.
At 44 years old, I am proud to live the truths of this decorated body; and I am strong enough to die by them, like the Jesus character in my family’s bible.
The truth is not a stumbling block, unless a lie has been constructed
arou [you] nd.