Creative Arts Hub & Gallery

08/30/2026

Storing all your stencils for projects
Hang them on a cloths line

08/30/2026

08/29/2026

Rest in color

She covered the universe in dots. Then she became one of them.
Yayoi Kusama (1929–2026)
Look at her in these pictures.
Same red wig. Same black-and-yellow dots climbing her sleeves. Same small figure in a wheelchair facing canvases bigger than her body. One day she is reading a sheet of red circles. Another day she is hunched over paper with a marker, drawing lines that never end. Another day she sits beside a champagne bottle wrapped in her own flowers. Always the same quiet intensity.
She started seeing those dots as a child in Matsumoto. They covered the tablecloth, then the walls, then her own skin. She called the feeling self-obliteration — disappearing into the pattern so she would not be swallowed by it. Art was not decoration. It was survival.
For seventy years she repeated the same act: one more net, one more pumpkin, one more mirrored room that turns a single visitor into infinity. She checked herself into a Tokyo psychiatric hospital in 1977 and never left. She kept a studio nearby and went every day. Even when the canvases got smaller because her body would no longer allow large gestures, the dots kept arriving.
“Our earth is only one polka dot among a million stars in the cosmos,” she said. “Polka dots are a way to infinity.”
She is gone. The rooms she built are still open. The paintings keep multiplying. The red wig is empty, but the pattern she started as a frightened girl now covers museums, streets, bottles, and the inside of millions of phones.
Thank you, Kusama. You turned hallucination into a language the whole world could stand inside.
Which of her works first stopped you — the infinity room, a pumpkin, or just one small canvas of dots?

08/29/2026

08/29/2026

FRIDAY NIGHT ART CLASS
Screen printing, Painting & GELLI ART Printmaking