PRISMA: Hi Joshua, could you please introduce yourself?
Joshua Lennon: I’m Joshua Lennon, from Maine in the USA.
How and when did you start creating art?
When I was in high school, I went to a boarding school for two years because I was very into playing ice hockey. At that school, my life began to expand. I met new people, had my first relationship, and started to experience things I had always known existed but hadn’t really encountered growing up in a small town.
I took a graphic design course taught by an incredible woman named Remy Steevens. The whole principle behind the course—and the message she tried to share—was that through making art, you can empower yourself.
She came from Indonesia and grew up in the Netherlands. I think her family didn’t have much money. She once told a story about walking into school where the girls would gather and show off the clothes they had bought over the weekend. She always felt a bit left out of that experience. But her grandmother had taught her how to sew, so she went home, took her uncle’s old clothing, and started transforming the garments into clothes of her own.
She told us this story in class and acted it out, walking across the room. Remy had so much spunk—she was the kind of woman you’d see walking and immediately think, “I want to know who this person is.” As she described the story, she walked by the girls, and they asked, “Remy, where did you get those clothes?” And she said, “I made them.” The way she said it, with such pride, really affected me.
Along with her stories, she gave us support, showed genuine interest in all her students, and understood that I was beginning to pick up on art. There was an old, out-of-service darkroom at the school. She gave me the keys, the old chemicals, and an old camera, and just let me go and discover these things on my own. She also taught me how to sew. I started sewing surfboard covers. She became something like a mentor to me.
A month before I was meant to graduate, I was feeling a bit lost. I didn’t know what I would do for college. I went home for a long weekend, and when we returned to school that Monday, we all went to our homerooms. That’s when they announced that Remy had passed away over the weekend. She was in her late seventies and had died of a brain aneurysm. It was shocking. She was the first person close to me, in my everyday life, who had passed away.
Going into that summer, I had no idea what I would do. I was over playing hockey—I had been at this boarding school, and I had all these new feelings and ideas. I was starting to develop into something else. I remember, during that summer, having an epiphany. Remy had passed away, but she had given me so much in those two years. I felt like I had been her final student. It now felt like my responsibility to make art in her name.
At the time, I hadn’t even really started doing my own practice or fully understanding what art could be. But I had this feeling—that this woman had given me something, a way of seeing the world—and now it was my responsibility to pass that on. That was the beginning of me making art, because of this one woman.
Because it’s such a strong story, I feel a real sense of responsibility to honor it. I’ve found that in life—at least in my own life—when something happens that carries meaning, a story or moment that feels important, it should be honored. It should be followed. That, for me, is the beauty of life: to have these stories and to give them the space and attention they deserve. These things are important. They’re not to be ignored. They’re what give life its richness.
Then you went to college to study art?
I went to university in Boston, at the School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts. For me, it was a great experience because the curriculum was elective—there was no set pathway you had to follow. As I mentioned, I had hardly done any art before that, so I got to take classes across all kinds of disciplines and really start to discover what I was drawn to. It felt like being a kid in a playground. I was genuinely happy to go to school every day, to try hard, to explore. It felt like living a dream. It was a really good experience.
Since graduating in 2022, there have been moments—some small, some more significant—that have reinforced the idea that I’m on the right path, and that I should continue doing this. These little affirmations come every so often. Maybe it’s being accepted into a small international film festival. Maybe it’s someone buying your artwork. Or having an exhibition, or proposing a show and having it accepted. All of these things come together and make you feel like, okay—this is working. It’s not like I’m constantly struggling to find the next step. There’s been consistent, positive reinforcement.
It reminds me to have faith that this will work out. I’m putting all of my energy into it, and I’m genuinely happy doing it. My mindset is maybe a little naive, but I think it’s optimistic in a good way. And I do feel a kind of responsibility—if I have this feeling, this pull toward making art, then it’s my responsibility to be true to that. To express it, and not be embarrassed about being idealistic or overly hopeful.
That mindset has helped me stay optimistic. The path of an artist is one where the light doesn’t always illuminate the way ahead. So the only thing I can really control is my attitude. Hopefully, the light comes—and when it does, it’s a brief celebration before you step deeper into the path again. That’s exciting, because it means you’re making progress.
I have to keep reminding myself of that, especially in moments where it’s easy to forget. Last year, for example, I stayed in Athens for six months. I had a show, and then I proposed another one and had that accepted too. There was this stretch of about six weeks when I was living in Greece—in a foreign country, in my own apartment, which doubled as my studio—and I had nothing to do but make art. That was the dream. That was the life I had imagined. And I asked myself, “Are you happy doing this?” And I was. I was really happy.
Of course, there are days when the pace gets difficult—when I think, “I have to be creative today,” or “How am I going to make something?” But then I remember: we’re doing art. It shouldn’t be hard. It’s not like I’m diagnosing someone’s disease. Art can be light. It can be fun. And sometimes, shifting to that perspective is what helps me work through moments of creative block or stale energy. Those little shifts—those reminders—are often what keep me going. And I’ve felt them even here at Prisma.
How did you find Prisma?
I’ve had the idea of doing an art tour for a few years now, mainly because I really admire musicians. And, though this feeling might change over time, at least right now I sometimes think that music is the ultimate art form. It’s about how people engage with it—they can return to it again and again, carry it with them into different moments, share it with others. There’s something very powerful about that.
And from the perspective of the musician—the maker—you can have that solitary, introspective experience of creating something alone, but then you also have the opportunity to collaborate. You can be in a band, part of a group. You get to create with others, and that’s something I haven’t really experienced in my own visual art practice yet, but it definitely interests me.
Then there’s the idea of performing. You make an album, and then you get to go out and perform it. That’s a whole second life for the work—you get to reinterpret it in a live setting, give it a new energy. And on top of that, you get to travel, tour, see the world while sharing what you’ve made. I find that incredibly inspiring. I’m rambling a bit, but that’s where the seed of the art tour idea came from.
So I came on this tour with a set of artworks I had made. The idea was to travel around and sell them to people I’d connected with in the past—friends, acquaintances, people who had shown interest in my work. I have a very good friend who was doing a residency in Lisbon for six months, and he invited me to come visit. I thought, sure, that’s a great idea—but I didn’t want to just go and be a guest in his life. I needed something of my own, something that made sense for me creatively. So I thought, maybe now’s the perfect time to actually do the tour.
When I arrived in Lisbon, I had a few days where things hadn’t really started yet. I was settling in, acclimating. I spent that time doing as much research as I could. I found a few artist residencies in the city. My friend helped me pull together a cohesive portfolio and an artist statement—something I sometimes struggle with, since there’s often so much work and so many ideas that it can be hard to present them in a clear and unified way. He helped me shape it, and I applied to Prisma.
I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I knew that at some point, the tour part of the journey would come to an end—and when that happened, I’d be ready, and excited, to stay in one place for a bit and just focus on making artwork. That’s how I landed at Prisma.
How has your experience at Prisma been?
The courtyard where we’re sitting right now has been one of my favorite aspects of making art at Prisma. It’s allowed me to get a little bit messy. That’s something I really appreciate—stepping outside of my usual studio environment, where it’s easy to fall into repeating the same methods or techniques over and over.
Being in this new space made me think, “I should try something different.” And the great thing about Prisma is that I didn’t apply with a fixed project. I applied with the idea that I’d come, I’d make work, and we’d see how—or if—it changed. It’s really nice to have that kind of support and openness be understood and accepted.
Of course, you don’t have access to all the same materials you normally would, so you have to improvise a little. For me, in the first few days, it was like—okay, I’m on a new pathway. Let’s keep going, let’s see how far it can take me.
With the work I’m making now, there’s this element of needing time—it has to age a little. And maybe it’s actually been a good thing that it’s been rainy, because the pieces are starting to decompose in a way that adds to the process. That’s something unique to this environment—something I wouldn’t get at home. And to me, that’s a very positive thing.
It’s a bit of a challenge, but it’s one that pushes you. You’re forced to work through it, and in the end, it probably makes you stronger, or more creative, or just more flexible in how you adapt. That’s something I’m really enjoying.
And the people here have been super easy to connect with—really open, easy to talk to, fun to hang out with. Everyone’s very easygoing, which makes a big difference, especially for me since I’m only here for a month. It’s important to feel like you’ve made friends right away, like things are clicking. That’s the best-case scenario.
How does Lisbon inspire or influence your work?
This is something I’m still trying to figure out. To be totally honest, I didn’t have the feeling right away that Lisbon was “my place.” And yet, despite that, I’m happier being here right now—doing this—than I would be doing anything else. I’m very pleased to be here.
But for whatever reason, Lisbon itself isn’t a place I can see myself living in long term. It’s not somewhere I would consider my favorite city in the world. Still, there’s something valuable in that—just being here, experiencing it, seeing what comes of it. That in itself has meaning.
It’s a little hard for me to put into words, probably because I’m still in the process of understanding my relationship to this place. Some places give you that instant feeling, like, “Okay, this is where I belong.” And I just didn’t get that here. But at the same time, I’m genuinely glad to be here. That’s the honest answer.
I think I could probably describe Lisbon better than I can describe my own feelings toward it right now.
Can you tell us more about your mail art project?
I’d say the last body of work I made—the one I brought with me on the tour—was, up to that point, the most crisp, clean, and cohesive series I’d created. The pieces felt almost like perfect objects. That, in itself, was really exciting—to reach that level in my practice. It felt like unlocking the next stage.
Then I came here, to Prisma, knowing I wouldn’t have access to the same materials—like the wood panels I had been using or the resin I used to seal the pieces. So the question became: how far in the opposite direction could I go? Could I make something raw and dirty, with the intention of creating an imperfect thing? Something that needs time to weather, to age, to break down?
I’m not even sure I’m fully there yet, but hopefully, soon, the work will reach that point. The base idea, maybe, is this: we have artifacts in the world—objects that carry history and age. And these new pieces I’m working on, they’re not exactly artifacts in that sense. Maybe they’re more like “art fakes”—constructed objects that try to emulate the feel of something found.
The thought is: what if you made something that looked like it already existed? Like, you’re walking down a street in Lisbon and see one of these posters or layers of old wheat-pasted materials—and maybe the piece I’ve made feels like it could’ve been there all along. It looks worn, weathered, lived-in. Not something carefully composed by an artist, but something you stumbled across.
That’s the simple idea, at its core.
As for the subject matter—it may relate in some way, but I’m not thinking too much about it consciously. Right now, the focus is more on the effect: creating something that feels like an artifact, or something that could be mistaken for one.
Where this idea of postcard mail art came from?
A teacher of mine—again, I’m very influenced by the people in my life. That’s one of the beautiful things about friendship: it’s not necessarily about how much time you spend with someone, but about their ability to affect you deeply. That’s something I’m starting to really understand and appreciate more in my relationships.
This specific teacher, Bill Burke, had some postcards that he had signed and sent over the years, and I became really interested in them. At some point, I decided to make a collage postcard and mail it to him. And something clicked, almost instantly. I realized it was a great way to quickly create a small piece of artwork—and then let it go.
Over time, that process started to shift my relationship with the idea of preciousness in art. When you start mailing out your work like that, it becomes easier to detach from it. It becomes easier for someone else to buy it, or for you to give it away, or simply to have it out in the world, rather than tucked away in a drawer or sitting in your studio forever.
And I don’t want to speak for everyone, but I know that, at least for me and many of my friends—especially when you’re younger—you start making things and you want to keep them. You’re proud of them. You think, “This might be the best thing I’ve ever made,” and maybe, “I might never make something like this again.”
But the more you make, the more you begin to understand that the real joy might actually be in giving it away. Sharing it. Letting it go. And postcards are a perfect way to do that. They’re a gift, and there’s also a personal layer—because the postage and stamps mark the place you’re in. It becomes a way for friends, family, or even strangers to track where you are in the world.
There’s something playful about it, too. You can send a postcard to anyone whose address you have—without even telling them in advance. There’s something really fun and spontaneous about that.
And I guess what I’m saying is that it changes the nature of what art is. It doesn’t have to be this precious object that only lives inside a gallery.
How does travel and movement influence your process?
There’s always the hope that any place I arrive in will influence me—that the work might shift or evolve, even if only a little. And even if that doesn’t happen right away, I think that over time, you carry those experiences, ideas, and memories with you. Eventually, they become part of what shapes the work.
Right now, the way I think about making art is that it’s something fluid—something that moves and changes throughout my life. Hopefully, it grows and develops over time. That’s one of the reasons I love doing it. I can recognize the evolution within myself as I participate in it. I can see the results—not in terms of external rewards like exhibitions or residencies, but in the way the work itself changes. That’s the real reward: getting to exercise new ideas, learn new skills, and actualize them in a way that feels meaningful. That’s the coolest part.
It takes me back to what Remy used to say: that through making art, you’re empowering yourself. That’s what it’s really about. That’s the beauty of it for me.
When it comes to travel and being in different places—especially at this stage of my life, as a 26-year-old emerging artist—a big part of the art world is meeting people, networking, making connections. And what better way to do that than through travel? Because when you’re traveling, you’re not just focused on the artwork. You’re also out in the world, meeting people, going out, having drinks, experiencing things. Those are the parts of life I really want to live.
And sometimes, you’re in a totally different place in the world, a little bit drunk in a bar, having a great conversation, and you just think, “This is very cool.” The people you meet—maybe not that exact person—but people like that always come back around. You meet them again in a new place, you hear about what they’re working on, and often they’re doing really interesting things. And sometimes, you get to be part of that too.
It’s like a snowball that keeps growing—one experience leads to the next, and travel makes that possible. Especially now, in this era of computers and remote applications and emails—it can all feel a little impersonal. For me, I’ve found that actually going to a place, showing up, presenting myself, having a real conversation with someone—that seems to be when something meaningful actually develops. Much more than just sending off emails.
It even relates back to the postcard idea—sending something physical, doing something tangible. It’s about action and presence, not just virtual outreach. And maybe emails work for some people—I’m not discrediting that. But for me, and for the way I’m wired, showing up in person feels much more natural and effective.
What kind of responses have you gotten from people who receive your postcards?
It’s super cool when your friends receive your work. Especially in the beginning, it would usually go like this: they’d get the postcard, and then text me a photo of it. That moment—knowing it arrived, that it made the journey, that it’s there, safe, appreciated—that’s a great feeling.
Eventually, I started encouraging them to send something back. It doesn’t have to be a piece of art—it could be anything. The point is, it doesn’t have to be a one-way thing. I wanted to experience receiving something too. And once it became more of a correspondence, that’s when it really got interesting and fun.
Then, when I return from traveling, I often find a stack of mail waiting for me. That moment—sitting down and going through it, seeing all the things people have sent—is such a beautiful part of the process.
And beyond giving to friends or family, I also started thinking about all the galleries that exist. Why not send them postcards too? No expectations—just a way to engage. Like throwing seeds into the wind. You never know which ones might grow.
One example that really stands out: a few summers ago—2020, I believe—I sent a collage postcard to Merz Gallery in Scotland. They were holding a collage workshop at the time, and while I couldn’t participate directly, I thought, why not send them something anyway?
Six months later, they messaged me on Instagram, saying something like, “Thanks for the postcard from six months ago. We always love receiving art in the mail.” It turned out that David, the person who runs the gallery, is really into mail art, collage, Dada—things that happen to connect with what I’m doing. He told me that receiving my postcard was actually part of the inspiration behind their decision to organize a mail art exhibition.
They put out a big open call, encouraged me to submit, and held the full exhibition. It was amazing to be part of that. So, it’s not just about giving a gift or showing where you are in the world—sometimes a gesture like that can lead to something much bigger.
And what made it even cooler was that this gallery is located in the town with the oldest active post office in the entire world. Every postcard that was sent for that show passed through that historic place. Once you start mailing postcards, you sort of become a little bit of a nerd about it—about stamps and postmarks and how long it takes something to travel from one place to another. That whole experience was really special.
What draws you to collage and found materials?
I first got into art through a graphic design course. From the beginning, what really drew me in was the idea that you could take things that already exist and transform them into something else. And to be honest, I was never super excited about doing everything on the computer.
I remember going back to my dorm, cutting up some papers, and bringing them to my teacher, Remy. She looked at them and said, “This is cool.” That was the moment I thought, “Okay, now I’m doing art. I’m doing it off the screen. I’m doing it my way.” That felt good.
Back in my hometown in Maine, there are antique shops everywhere. People come from the city or from outside New England to shop there, because things are more affordable and there’s a kind of charm to it. One day in one of those shops, I found these old Life magazines from the 1960s. They were 50 cents each. I started flipping through them and was completely blown away by the quality—the paper, the analog printing, the advertisements.
I realized a lot of the products and brands that I had thought were contemporary had actually been around for 60 or 70 years. That in itself was educational. These things existed, and I was learning about them through these old pages. What really drew me in were the advertisements—the layouts, the designs. Visually, they were beautiful. The magazines themselves were these incredible objects.
So I started making collages with them. I think at that time I made a small series, maybe five or six pieces. Then I went back to college and got wrapped up in other things, and the collage idea got pushed to the background. But it never really left me.
After graduating, I had a phase of just messing around with a lot of different mediums and approaches. Then I thought, “Okay, now it’s time to focus. Let’s choose one thing and see how it goes for a year.” That’s when I went to Greece and decided to commit to collage. I told myself, “I’m a collagist. That’s what I’m doing now.”
It simplified my life. Instead of bouncing between ideas—“let’s try this, let’s try that”—I could really settle in and expand within one medium. And hopefully, when I do eventually move on from collage, it’ll be because I’ve taken it as far as I can, even though, realistically, the possibilities with collage are endless.
But that’s the idea right now: to focus on one thing, to see how far I can take it. I do hope my practice evolves. I don’t want to be cutting paper forever. I want to move into other things eventually. But for now, this is the time to stick with it—to push it further and see what comes of it.
How has your European tour shaped what’s next for you?
I think it would be nice to settle somewhere for a little while—maybe for a longer stretch of time. Right now, I’m in Europe, and I really do love it here. I have good friends and appreciate a lot about the lifestyle. But at the same time, I haven’t really given the U.S. a proper chance, especially at this stage in my life.
When I go back to the States, I live with my family, which I love—it’s a beautiful thing to be able to do. But I don’t experience the same kinds of things there that I do when I’m traveling. When I travel, I usually try to stay in one place for a significant period of time, really get to know it.
So maybe it’s time to give the U.S. a real try—to see what I could build there. Logistically, it’s much easier for me as a citizen. I can move to a city, get a job, start a life, without having to constantly think about visas or how to make it work legally, like I do in Europe. There’s always this low-level pressure when I’m here of “How can I stay?” versus just moving forward and seeing how far I can go.
That’s less about the artwork itself and more about the conditions in which the artwork is made. But what I’ve come to understand is that those conditions really do matter. If you’re isolated—always by yourself, always working alone—it can limit you. There’s value in that kind of solitude, of course, but I think it only takes you so far.
When you’re out in the world, there are opportunities—some you can act on, some you’ll miss—but there’s a bigger system around you, and it’s good to engage with it. It’s good for my mindset, too. It gets me out of my own head. Instead of just focusing on myself and my own thoughts all day, I’m reminded to go talk to someone, have a conversation, even if it leads to nothing specific.
Because sometimes it does lead somewhere. You never know when you’ll make a connection that turns into a project, an exhibition, or something unexpected. Not everything happens right away. But at the very least, you have to put yourself out there.
Will Prisma be the final stop on your tour?
I’m coming close to the 90-day mark—so if I’m sticking to the rules, I’ll have to leave soon. This part of the journey is definitely coming to an end, at least for now.
I still have four pieces from the tour that haven’t sold yet. It would be great if I could find a way to place them, but even if not, I’m really happy with how the trip turned out. The experience of sharing my work—whether with friends, acquaintances, or even a few strangers who bought pieces—was really meaningful. I’m glad I got to do that.
As for what’s next, I don’t really know. We’ll see what happens over the next couple of weeks. I haven’t booked a ticket home yet, so something could still come up. Or maybe not. And that’s okay.
Your work touches on nostalgia and memory. How do you balance that with contemporary or future themes?
One part of my work that I think is always present—something I consciously consider when making collages—is that it’s less about my personal timeline, and more about the timeline of the images themselves. The material I use—say, a magazine from 1960—has its own history. When you look at some of the content, you realize it’s an older version of something that still exists today. But for some reason, it often feels cooler—maybe because of the design, or simply because we’re so far removed from it now. It gains this strange, almost mystical quality. Or at least, it becomes intriguing in a different way.
So I think about that—about how these images come from the past, and I’m in the present, working with them. But then the question becomes: how can I transport them into the future? Can I create a scenario where the collage feels like it’s coming from the future rather than the past?
That’s something I’m really interested in—how to use collage to create that effect. There are different ways to reinforce that idea—through language, through the specific imagery I choose. It connects to what I mentioned earlier about artifacts. Could these collages become future artifacts? What realm do they belong to? What planet?
Lately, I’ve been thinking that it would be exciting if the work didn’t seem like it belonged to this world at all. What if it looked like it dropped down from space? What is this thing? That kind of curiosity is more compelling to me right now than making artwork that provides an answer. I’d rather pose a scenario—one that leaves you with questions.
Because ultimately, those questions are the real substance of the work. And to be honest, I’m not always sure what I believe. I’m open to change, and I’m comfortable with that. Even in this interview—everything I’m saying now could change. And if it does, that’s totally fine with me.
Maybe because of that mindset, I don’t want to tell you, “This is what I believe,” or “This is what this work means.” I’d rather let the ambiguity live in the work. Even if I mess up the language and you don’t understand it right away, maybe that creates a different kind of thought—maybe you wonder, “Why did he say that? Where is this coming from?” And that’s more interesting to me than something direct.
Because if I make a piece that just says “hot dog,” then you’re going to look at it and think, “hot dog.” And now you’re thinking about a hot dog instead of engaging with what’s actually happening in the artwork. I’d rather make something that pulls you into a stranger, more uncertain space—something that opens up the possibility of wondering.
What’s been the most unexpected or meaningful outcome from your practice?
Definitely the Merz Gallery—that whole experience was super cool. It was meaningful to me because it became more than just an act of gifting or exchanging art. They’re doing the exhibition again in 2025, so it’s continuing, and that’s really exciting.
Even better, I got to share the open call with some of my friends, and they were able to participate as well. That made it feel even more special—like it turned into something collective.
I’ve been trying to think if there’s another story—something more personal—that stands out like that. I’m sure there is. I just can’t think of it right now. But I know there must be something.
What do you hope visitors take from your work at Prisma?
I don’t know—I don’t want to give a vague or evasive answer, but maybe it’s something we’ll see when people are actually looking at the work. I’m not thinking too much about the audience right now. My focus is more on waking up and making the artwork. I’m mostly concerned with what I’m doing, what I’m creating. Is that selfish? Maybe. But maybe that’s part of it too.
Of course, I hope people connect with it. Hopefully someone likes it enough to hang it on their wall. That would be great.