Bridging Worlds: A Conversation with Inga Lāce, Chief Curator of the Almaty Museum of Arts

Q

How did you first find your way into creating? Was it something you always knew you wanted to do, or did it find you?

INGA

I wanted to be close to art processes. I used to do art myself — I went to art school after regular school — but I did not want to pursue it as a university degree. I wanted to stay close to the process of creation. So I studied other things: Asian studies in Latvia, cultural management, and tried to remain connected to art and everything around it. That gradually led me to curating.

Curating is a very diverse profession. Through working with different artists, you learn a great deal about different perspectives, about the world, and about different spheres of knowledge. Artists are constantly researching and engaging with so many subjects. It is really something.

Q

Looking back, is there anything you wish you had explored earlier or differently in your career?

INGA

My pathway has been gradual by nature — from Latvia and Eastern Europe, to international contexts, then Georgia, Armenia, and Central Asia. I see that as entirely natural. New interests arrive through artists, circumstances, colleagues — and I think that is a sign of the time. These things cannot be forced or scheduled; they happen for specific reasons, at the right moment.

When I went to New York for the first time, I asked myself why I had not gone sooner — but the truth is I went because I had a specific project there, researching Latvian artists in exile. Without that, there was no real reason to go. It is the same with Central Asia: it came into focus exactly when I had the resources and the intellectual context to engage with it seriously. In retrospect, the timing always makes sense.

Q

You were a CMAP Central and Eastern Europe Fellow at MoMA. What was your experience of New York beyond the institution itself? What did the city do to you personally?

INGA

There is nothing like New York. In some ways, it is the best place in the world — and I say that a bit ironically, because it has such diversity of artists, institutions, and such an intense rhythm that is extremely energizing.

As a more experienced curator, I would say the best place in the world is where you can work independently and creatively. That is why I enjoyed being in New York — because of the energy, the people, the art histories, and the sense of possibility.

I did not stay, because at that moment I had other projects I wanted to pursue elsewhere. But I always enjoy returning. You can live a very full life in your neighborhood, have meaningful human moments, and at the same time be constantly inspired. Everyone is always doing something — opening shows, researching, creating. There is a real exchange of ideas.

Q

Do you see yourself coming back to New York to do more projects here?

INGA

Sure, it can always happen. There is growing interest in Central Asia — we often host visitors from institutions like the Smithsonian and MoMA. So there is a real possibility that a Central Asia-related exhibition could take place in New York.

New York is always open to ideas. But in terms of working there, you really need to be in a strong position — it is an expensive and competitive city. The conditions need to be right in order to fully enjoy its creative energy.

Q

When you were living in New York, did you feel there was a lack of Central Asian representation?

INGA

Absolutely. Central Asian representation in New York — and in the broader Western art world — remains limited. The solo exhibition of Uzbek artist Saodat Ismailova at the Swiss Institute in New York was a significant step, but the structural reality is that visibility for artists from the region changes slowly. It is tied to how those artists circulate within galleries and institutions, and that infrastructure takes time to build.

There is also a historical dimension. Communities with longer diasporic roots in New York — Korean, Chinese, Eastern European, and African American communities — have established networks of galleries, collectors, and patrons that naturally support their artists. With Central Asia, that infrastructure is still forming. Incorporating the Central Asian diaspora into the broader landscape of Asian diasporas in America is a relatively recent development. The potential, however, is considerable.

We are currently working on a Getty Institute-supported project in partnership with NYU and the Almaty Museum of Art, focused on rethinking Central Asian art histories. A dedicated CMAP fellowship for Central Asia would be another meaningful step. These things require allies and sustained facilitation — but the momentum is real.

Q

When I visited Almaty last summer, I was struck — it was my first time there — by how the city feels like it's in the middle of a cultural awakening. As a curator, how do you see your role in shaping that moment?

INGA

I think of my role in two distinct ways: as a facilitator and as a bridge. Facilitation means advising artists, advising the museum on which voices and practices to engage with — the curatorial work itself. The bridge function is about maintaining active connections between Central Asia and the wider art world — through institutional partnerships, collaborative projects, and creating conditions where artists and curators from the region gain access to genuine international opportunities. Both are necessary, and neither works without the other.

Q

From your position, what do you think the Western art world most misunderstands or overlooks about Central Asian art and culture?

INGA

The complexity of the region is genuinely difficult to grasp from a distance. Central Asia is post-Soviet, but also profoundly Asian. The lingua franca remains Russian — yet it is, unmistakably, Asia. It is partially Muslim, but shaped equally by traditions of shamanism and Sufism. And within the category of Central Asia, there are distinct nations, each carrying their own histories of migration: displaced Koreans, Buryats, Germans, Ukrainians, Russians. The layering is extraordinary.

Artists are often the ones who make these complexities visible. Living in Central Asia these past few years — through daily life, research, and sustained engagement — I have come to understand certain bodies of work far more deeply than I could from the outside. Encountering this art in a Western context gives you a partial picture. The fuller one requires proximity. That is not a criticism — it is simply the nature of context.

Q

Huge congratulations on the Latvian Pavilion at this year's Venice Biennale. You previously created a pavilion back in 2019 — correct me if I'm wrong. How has your curatorial philosophy regarding Venice shifted over the last seven years, and what's the core urgent narrative you hope to present to the global stage this time?

INGA

The two editions are very different in both intent and approach. At Venice, I always begin with the same question: what is it — an artist or an archive — that I want the world to see? In 2019, the answer was an artist: Daiga Grantiņa, a Latvian sculptor based in Paris. The gesture was relatively intimate — I believed deeply in her practice and wanted it to reach a wider audience. The message was not overtly political; it was about recognition and dialogue.

This time, working with Adomas Narkevičius of MAREUNROL'S, the point of departure is an archive: the Untamed Fashion Assemblies of 1990s Latvia. These gatherings were not simply about alternative fashion — they were about freedom, playfulness, expectation, and solidarity. They represented a specific kind of collective possibility at a moment of profound political transition, when Latvia was moving from Soviet rule toward independence. In the current climate of renewed political rupture across Europe, that archive feels urgently relevant. We invited artists Māra and Rōze to engage with the material held by Bruno Birmanis, and what emerged from that encounter is the pavilion.

Venice attracts a great deal of justified criticism — the national pavilion format is unwieldy, the scale is overwhelming. I understand and share many of those concerns. But as a platform for visibility, particularly for smaller nations and less-circulated artistic voices, it retains its value. The question is always how you use it.

Q

What do you think makes the Biennale important in today's art world for all of us?

INGA

It is a meeting point of so many different artists and positions. That function remains meaningful, regardless of the structural criticisms. It is a space for exchange, for encountering new ideas, for finding allies. And for countries and communities whose voices are not consistently amplified on the international stage, it offers a platform of rare visibility.

The debates around participation — Russia, Israel — make this tension explicit. Some of my colleagues who were actively engaged in anti-Israel protests argued precisely that: we have this platform, and if we do not use it to say something, we will carry that silence for the rest of our lives. That argument resonates with me. A platform is only as meaningful as what you choose to do with it.

Q

What advice would you give to young students like me and emerging professionals trying to build a career in the art world today?

INGA

Begin with what genuinely interests you — a subject, an archive, an artistic practice, or a research question you keep returning to. Not because it is timely or strategically positioned, but because it holds your attention in a way you cannot fully explain. That kind of sustained curiosity is what shapes a real practice. It opens onto other artists, other disciplines, and in time, the collaborators and allies who will influence your thinking most. Working within broad frameworks — ecology, decolonization, identity — is valuable, but only when grounded in something specific: a particular archive, a photograph, an artist whose work raises questions you have not yet answered.

Alongside that, invest in your relationships — with peers at the same stage of their careers and with those who have been working longer. Make things together early on, with or without institutional support. Those early experiments tend to leave a deeper mark than formal opportunities that come later. And do not underestimate mentorship. The art world is sustained by those intergenerational exchanges, and most people who have built a practice over time are genuinely willing to share what they have learned.