ARTIST FEATURE: JOSÉ DURÁN
José Durán in his Bronx studio, wearing his own designs, in front of Charo, 2026. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.
José Durán arrived in New York from Moca in 1995, at sixteen. He grew up in a Bronx apartment where his mother covered the beds in faux satin and hung the windows with opulent curtains, so the rooms would suggest a baroque salon. Elena was a hairstylist who worked from home, and there were women in and out all day. The draping was for her, for her family, and for the women who came through.
Thirty years later, Durán has woven something taller than he is out of cut elastic bands, shaped like a body lying down. It is called Charo, and he made it after his friend Miguel died of AIDS, on the model of the AIDS Memorial Quilt. The shape is deliberate. “Under a sheet, a cover, a duvet,” he says. “Protecting the body.”
Nearly everything else he has made falls between those two acts. His first solo exhibition, curated by Orlando Isaac in Santo Domingo in 2023, was called Duvet. It contained his first textile: a pair of carved wooden legs lying on a plinth, the body above the waist covered by a length of woven black and white cloth. Among the paintings was one named for Dédée Bazile, the Haitian woman who gathered the dismembered remains of Jean-Jacques Dessalines from the street in 1806 and took them for burial. When Durán’s research into cotton led him to the Indian textiles traded for enslaved people on the West African coast, he responded by building tents for public space and wrapping a found chair in fabric. He has been doing versions of the same thing for as long as he has been painting, and what interests him is what a covering can do.
He brings three works to The Armory Show, all of them tracing back to one woman. In seventeenth-century Cartagena, one of the largest slave ports in the Americas, Paula de Eguiluz was the healer people came to. Born enslaved, free by her thirties, she sold remedies and love magic to the white women of the city, and the Bishop of Cartagena eventually became one of her patients. The Inquisition tried her three times for witchcraft, had her whipped, and sentenced her to death, a sentence the Inquisition’s council in Madrid overruled.
Durán painted Paula herself in 2023, and Ana and Juana take the names of her two sisters. The third work reaches Paula through the plants. She was a healer, and her knowledge of them became part of the record against her. Sábila is the Caribbean word for aloe vera.
Everything known about the two sisters comes from a single moment in Paula’s trial, when the tribunal asked her, as it asked every prisoner, to name her family. She said she had two sisters in Santo Domingo: Ana, who was free, and Juana, who belonged to a man called Antonio de Jaques. Nothing else about either of them was written down. Durán has given them a room to rest in.
Both women recline. At eight and a half feet tall, Ana is a rococo drawing room, a wedge of acid green driven down one side of the coffered ceiling, the mismatched checkerboard floor and every other surface built from short loaded strokes laid side by side, closer to mosaic than to brushwork. Ana herself is on a blue sofa in a patterned robe, plants at her shoulder, entirely at rest. Juana is the wider of the two, a glasshouse under an iron dome, agave throwing red flower spikes toward the glass, a tiger skin open-jawed on the floor by her daybed. Juana was the sister who was owned, and Durán has put her inside a building designed to hold displaced tropical plants alive in captivity. He says that was deliberate.
Sábila does the same thing with one plant. Across three sheets of deckled paper the aloe hangs from a bare branch, its leaves falling while the flower stems climb, orange spikes against a wash that shifts from coral at the foot to cold green at the top. The lowest sheet is all undergrowth, dry twigs and small bright scrub, a hummingbird at the edge of it. Aloe crossed the Atlantic with the people who knew how to use it. Durán uses it on himself for asthma, and has since childhood. He describes the three panels as ancestor, self and descendant.
The reclining posture is Elena’s, and so is the cigarette. He remembers his mother on the bed, smoking, receiving friends, and his 2024 exhibition at James Fuentes took her name. He puts nearly every woman he paints in the same position. The rooms come from her too. Durán builds his interiors out of Renaissance architecture and the décor of Black and Latino New York in the 1980s and 90s, which is what his mother was doing in the Bronx with faux satin and opulent curtains.
Until Elena died, he had never painted. His adult life had been fashion, then Taipei, where he learned Mandarin and took an MBA, with the plant research running underneath all of it. He picked up a brush to keep his mother present, working her image into his earliest canvases. Everything since is a version of that, including the three works he is taking to the Javits Center.
This is Durán’s first art fair, and for him it stands in for a Bryant Park runway he never got. He is presented at The Armory Show by Heliconia Projects, Santo Domingo, in Focus, the section curated by María Elena Ortiz of the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth, which this year centers artists working across the Caribbean and its diasporas. The fair runs September 24 to 27, 2026 at the Javits Center, New York, with an invitation-only preview on Thursday and public days Friday through Sunday. Durán has shown solo at Centro Cultural de España in Santo Domingo, Good Children in New Orleans, and James Fuentes and Hannah Traore in New York.

Juana, 2026. Acrylic on linen, 60 × 80 in. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.
JOSÉ DURÁN IN CONVERSATION
Interview by Marc Sifuentes
The Armory Show marks an important moment in your development as an artist. What does participating in the fair mean to you?
What makes this experience especially meaningful is this year’s focus on the Caribbean and its diaspora, curated by María Elena Ortiz. My Caribbean background is deeply connected to my identity and to the inspiration behind my work. I explore history, migration, culture, memory, identity, and the ways Caribbean people have shaped and reimagined their lives across different places. To see these conversations taking place within such an important international art fair makes the experience feel very personal.
I also see this moment as an opportunity to show that Caribbean art is not confined to one visual language or history. My work moves between textiles, sculpture, painting, fashion, and research, reflecting the complexity and hybridity of the Caribbean experience.
For me, The Armory Show is not simply about reaching a larger audience. It is about entering a larger conversation and seeing how my own experiences, research, and imagination can contribute to the evolving story of Caribbean and diasporic art.
This is my first time participating in an art fair. When I first entered the art world, The Armory Show felt like something very far away, a goal I hoped I would one day reach.
In many ways, it reminds me of what it felt like to dream of showing a fashion collection during New York Fashion Week in Bryant Park, when the shows were held there. As a fashion designer, that was a dream I always hoped to accomplish but never had the opportunity to experience. Being here now, as an artist, feels like a full-circle moment in my creative journey. It feels as though one of those dreams I carried with me from my years in fashion has finally found its way into another chapter of my life through my art.
As my practice has developed, I have become more confident in my voice and in the importance of the stories I am trying to tell through my work. Being able to bring those stories to an international audience makes this experience particularly meaningful.
The three works you are presenting, Ana, Juana, and Sábila, are connected through ideas of healing, ancestral knowledge, memory, and the resilience of African and Afro-Caribbean women. Can you tell us about that connection?
The three works I am presenting at The Armory Show are connected through my exploration of healing, ancestral knowledge, memory, and the resilience of African and Afro-Caribbean women. Each work looks at the ways knowledge of plants, medicine, spirituality, and care has been passed from one generation to another, despite histories of displacement, colonialism, and the suppression of Indigenous and African-descended knowledge.
The paintings of Ana and Juana are inspired by the two sisters of Paula de Eguiluz. Ana was a free Black woman. Juana was enslaved by Antonio de Jaques. Both were born in Hispaniola, and both are connected to the same healing traditions Paula practiced. Rather than representing these women through the colonial narratives that attempted to define or criminalize them, I am interested in reclaiming their intelligence, strength, and relationship to the natural world. I place them within imagined environments filled with medicinal and botanical plants, creating spaces where they can exist with dignity, knowledge, and power.
I also use my imagination to create the work. I am sure that Paula de Eguiluz’s mother was also a healer, and that she taught her daughters her practice. On a research trip in Nigeria I sat with healers and asked them questions, and they had learned their practice from their families.
Sábila brings this historical research into a more personal and contemporary space. Aloe vera becomes a bridge between ancestral knowledge and my own lived experience. I have used aloe vera since childhood as part of my experience with asthma, so the plant carries a deeply personal meaning of healing and survival for me.
Together, these works create a conversation between past and present, ancestor and descendant, collective memory and personal experience. They ask us to consider whose knowledge is remembered, whose knowledge has been erased, and how healing traditions continue to survive through us.

Ana, 2026. Acrylic on canvas, 103.5 × 65.5 in. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.
When you look at these works alongside your earlier paintings, what do you recognize as continuous in your practice, and what feels genuinely new?
When I look at these works alongside my earlier paintings and even my work as a designer, I recognize that the research process has remained very consistent. From the beginning, I have always been curious and interested in looking deeper into ideas, histories, people, and experiences that have had an impact on me, my country, my culture, and the world around me. I am constantly researching, imagining, and asking myself how I can translate those ideas into a visual language.
What has genuinely changed is my understanding of what the work can do for me personally. When I first began painting, one of the main reasons was to find a way to process the loss of my mother. Painting her image in some of my earliest works became a way of connecting with her, keeping her present, and trying to understand something I could not fully understand at the time, her passing.
Creating art as a form of healing is relatively new for me. I have always used art to investigate history and culture, but I am now recognizing that the process can also help me understand my own experiences. In that sense, the work has become both research and a personal form of healing.
Your transition from fashion into visual art happened relatively late compared with the conventional trajectory of an artist. Did you experience that transition as a reinvention, or did you eventually realize that you had been building the same practice all along?
For me, the transition from fashion into visual art was definitely a reinvention. When I left fashion, I did not immediately know that I was going to become an artist. I moved to Taipei, learned Mandarin, and pursued an MBA. My original plan was actually to return to fashion.
When I came back to New York, the pandemic happened shortly afterward, and everything changed. But even before the pandemic, I had already started thinking about creating art. I had never painted before, so there was no conventional path or training behind it. During the pandemic, I began teaching myself how to paint, experimenting and learning through the process.
Looking back, I don’t necessarily think I was secretly building the same practice all along. I really did have to reinvent myself. But I also began to recognize that the skills and experiences I had developed through fashion, my understanding of materials, construction, color, composition, textiles, the body, and creating environments, were already part of the way I thought.
So the transition was a reinvention, but it wasn’t a complete departure. I brought everything I had learned with me. Fashion gave me a foundation, Taipei expanded my worldview, and teaching myself to paint gave me the freedom to discover what could come next.
I think that is still how I work today: I allow each chapter of my life to become material for the next one.
What did fashion teach you about art that you still use every day in the studio?
Always experiment, never be afraid of colors, and don’t follow any rules.
Your practice moves between painting, sculpture, furniture, fashion, and textiles. Do you ultimately think of these as separate practices, or as different manifestations of the same artistic language?
I see them as one artistic practice expressed through different mediums. Painting, sculpture, furniture, and fashion are different tools I use to explore the same ideas, beginning with research, curiosity, and personal experiences.
I let the idea determine the medium it needs to become, whether a painting, sculpture, textile, piece of furniture, or something wearable. Each medium allows me to explore different aspects of my creativity, while moving between them keeps my practice evolving.
Ultimately, I see myself as one artist with one evolving language expressed through different materials and forms.
Textiles have always been part of your creative language through fashion, but they have taken on a different meaning in your recent work. What brought you back to them, and how do you think about them now, as painting, sculpture, garment, architecture, or something else?
Textiles have always been part of my creative language, especially through my years as a fashion designer, but I returned to them at this moment for a much more personal reason. I wanted to create something that could physically express the ideas of protection, love, and remembrance.
The loss of friends to HIV/AIDS brought me back to the intimacy of fabric and the idea of a covering, something that can hold, comfort, and protect. Using woven elastics, canvas, and textiles from Dakar, Senegal, I wanted the material itself to become part of the memorial.
For me, returning to textiles has also been a way of returning to something familiar but seeing it differently. Fashion taught me how to construct with fabric, but now I am using textiles to explore grief, memory, healing, and love. This work has allowed me to understand that materials can carry not only physical form, but also emotion and history.
I think of the textile as something that exists outside those categories. It can be painting, sculpture, architecture, or even a garment, depending on how I use it. The scale gives the material an architectural presence, while the patterns, colors, and textures connect it to painting, and the physicality of the construction brings it into the language of sculpture. What I am really interested in is the ability of fabric to transform space and create a physical experience for the viewer.
You have researched the historical relationship between textiles and the transatlantic slave trade. Can fabric function as a form of historical archive? What can it preserve that written records cannot?
For me, discovering this history completely changed the way I look at textiles. We often associate fabric with beauty, fashion, domestic life, comfort, and cultural identity, but textiles also carry histories of labor, exploitation, migration, trade, and power. Learning that Indian cotton textiles were deeply connected to the networks that supported the transatlantic slave trade made me think about how an object can carry many histories at the same time.
So yes, absolutely. I believe textiles can function as a form of historical archive because they can preserve stories in ways that traditional historical records often cannot. A document can tell us what happened, but a textile can tell us how something felt, how people lived, what they valued, what they wore, how they cared for one another, and how they carried their culture from one place to another.
Fabric can preserve personal and collective memories through patterns, colors, techniques, repairs, stains, embroidery, and the hands that made and used it. These details can reveal histories that may never have been written down, particularly the experiences of women, enslaved people, migrants, and communities whose voices were often excluded from official records.
This is one of the reasons textiles are so important to my practice. I am interested in what fabric can remember. When I work with textiles, I am not only thinking about their physical qualities; I am thinking about the people, journeys, and histories embedded in them.
For me, a textile can become an archive that is alive. It can be touched, transformed, carried, worn, inherited, and reinterpreted. It allows history to exist not only as information, but as something emotional, physical, and deeply human.
Your recent textile work is connected to friends you lost to HIV/AIDS and to the AIDS Memorial Quilt. How does physically constructing something to remember or protect another person change the meaning of the work for you?
Physically constructing something to remember or protect another person changes the meaning of the work for me because the act of making becomes an act of care. Every movement, every woven elastic, and every piece of textile becomes part of the process of remembering. I am not simply creating an image about loss; I am physically spending time with that memory.
The work was created in response to losing close friends to HIV/AIDS, particularly Miguel. The idea of creating a covering came naturally to me because a covering can represent protection, comfort, and love.
At the funeral, his mother pulled me aside. We were both looking at him in the casket. She told me he had been waiting for me at the hospital, that he wanted to see me. I could not make it on time. I will never forget that.
This textile piece was created for him, to cover him and protect him.
I think about the people I lost as people who deserve to be held and remembered, not defined only by how they died.
The connection to the AIDS Memorial Quilt is important because it transforms individual loss into collective remembrance. My work continues that idea, but through my own personal experience and material language.
In making the piece, grief becomes something I can physically work through. The textile becomes a memorial, but it also becomes a form of healing for me. I am creating something that symbolically continues to hold and protect the people I can no longer physically protect.

Charo, 2026. Elastics, textile, canvas and acrylic, 110 × 60 in. To be shown in the exhibition of GLAAD’s third Equity in Media and Entertainment Initiative cohort, advised by Mickalene Thomas. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.
Your first solo exhibition was called Duvet, and it included a painting named for Dédée Bazile, who gathered Dessalines’ body out of the street and buried him when the soldiers who killed him had dared anyone to try. You have made tents for public space, wrapped a found chair in fabric, and now woven a covering for Miguel. Is covering something you think about deliberately, or is it a thread you only recognize looking back?
Yes. I am always researching powerful women, learning about them and placing them at the forefront of my practice, naming the pieces they inspired me to create so that their names will never be forgotten in history.
With my work I want to protect these women. I paint them in resting poses, in beautiful interiors, always relaxing and most of the time having a cigarette. I see these women as my mother. I see them like my mother: powerful, caregivers, revolutionaries.
And the textile for Miguel, yes. Under a sheet, a cover, a duvet, protecting the body.
Black women have been central to much of your earlier work and to your understanding of beauty, labor, aspiration, and history. How has your thinking about the Black feminine changed as your practice has expanded into textiles, sculpture, and more abstract forms?
My thinking about the Black feminine has changed as my practice has expanded. Earlier in my work, I was very focused on representation, placing Black women into spaces that were never intended for them, and allowing them to occupy spaces of beauty, luxury, power, and aspiration.
I wanted to create the images I rarely saw: Black women not as subjects defined by struggle, but as people who could simply exist, rest, dream, and take up space.
As I moved into textiles and sculpture, that idea of representation began to evolve into something more physical and intimate. I became interested not only in placing Black women within these spaces, but in creating things that could hold, cover, shelter, and protect them.
Textile became particularly meaningful because of its relationship to the body and to acts of care. A blanket, a covering, or a shelter can communicate protection in a way that an image alone cannot.
My work has therefore moved from asking, “How do I represent Black women?” to asking, “How can I create a space or object that cares for them?”
The materials allow me to explore beauty, labor, history, vulnerability, and protection simultaneously. I think of the work as creating a world in which Black women are not only seen, but held.
Nearly every painting you make carries a woman’s name. Glenda, Gloria, Nanny Queen, Marie Kingue, Rosa Elegni, Mama Eddy, Elena, and now Ana and Juana. Where do the names come from?
The names come from women I admire, sometimes friends and sometimes important Black Caribbean women. My last two works, Ana and Juana, were the names of Paula de Eguiluz’s sisters.

Sábila, 2026. Triptych, gouache, acrylic and watercolor on paper, 90 × 22 in. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.
You have maintained long relationships with artists including Mickalene Thomas, Kehinde Wiley, and Derrick Adams, dating back to your years in fashion, and you began painting after spending time at Black Rock, the residency Wiley founded in Dakar. What did those relationships, and that time in Senegal, teach you that formal art education could not?
I met Mickalene Thomas, Kehinde Wiley, and Derrick Adams when I was in fashion school, at a time when I was still thinking of myself primarily through fashion. Kehinde was especially important in introducing me to the art world around 2004 and helping me understand that there was a place for me within it.
Those relationships have influenced me far beyond the creative side of my practice. They have also been important in my personal life and have taught me the value of community, mentorship, curiosity, and continuing to learn.
Through them, I learned that being a great artist is not simply about having talent or making objects. It is about being deeply engaged with the world around you.
They taught me the importance of research, of understanding history, asking questions, looking beyond what is immediately visible, and knowing where your ideas come from. They also showed me the importance of education as something that never really ends. You continue learning from artists, museums, books, conversations, travel, and from the people around you.
Most importantly, those relationships taught me that you do not have to build an artistic life alone. Community can challenge you, educate you, inspire you, and help you see possibilities in yourself that you might not have recognized yet. That has become an important part of how I approach my own practice today.
When I travel to Senegal I buy textiles. I am connecting the transatlantic textile trade with my own textile practice.
What are you investigating now that you could not have investigated five or ten years ago?
I have been researching plants for about fifteen years. I was investigating plants for medicinal purposes while I was in Taipei, and even before Taiwan. But what I am investigating now is something I could not have understood five or ten years ago: the use of plants as sources of medicinal knowledge, healing, and love-attraction practices, and the cultural histories carried through that knowledge.
Traveling to Cartagena, the Dominican Republic, Senegal, and Nigeria and speaking with healers about the ways plants are used was a magical investigation for me. I was not simply researching plants as botanical objects; I was learning about the knowledge, rituals, beliefs, and histories connected to them, and how that knowledge has been passed from one generation to another.
These conversations made me think differently about the relationship between nature, the body, spirituality, and cultural memory. They also made me more aware of how much knowledge exists outside of formal institutions and how easily that knowledge can be overlooked or lost.
This research is now entering my visual practice through painting and textiles. I am interested in plants as vessels for memory and as witnesses to migration, colonialism, healing, desire, and survival.
What began as research has become a way for me to reconnect with histories and forms of knowledge that feel both deeply personal and much larger than myself.
When someone encounters your work without knowing your biography, what do you hope they understand through the work itself?
Before someone knows anything about me or my biography, I hope they can feel my respect for beauty and for women through the work itself. I want the viewer to sense that the women I portray are being honored, celebrated, and given space to exist with strength, dignity, and beauty.
I also hope they recognize my love for detail, color, materials, and the environments I create. I want the work to invite people into a world that feels both familiar and imagined, a place where beauty can coexist with history, memory, and cultural identity.
Ultimately, I hope the work communicates a sense of admiration, care, and respect.

José Durán in his studio, the Bronx, New York, 2026. Photograph by Jonathan Carela.




















































