Gisela Colón didn’t plan to become an artist.
“I studied law because I thought it would protect me,” she told ARTnews, looking back on a childhood in Puerto Rico shaped as much by instability as it was by the farm in the outskirts of Bayamón where she grew up.
She left San Juan in 1987 on a Truman scholarship, built a career in environmental law in California, and spent her twenties and thirties raising two sons. Making art, which she learned from her mother, a painter, remained secondary. It wasn’t until her kids left for college that she returned to it fully. “That was my time,” she said.
Now, nearly four decades later, Colón is the subject of two institutional solo exhibitions: “Radiant Earth” at the Bruce Museum and “The Mountain, The Monolith” at the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo de Puerto Rico, a dual presentation that doubles as both a career milestone and a homecoming. Represented by Puerto Rico–based dealer Walter Otero, Colón has, over the past decade, built an international profile with installations ranging from Desert X AlUla to sites near the Pyramids of Giza, while placing work in collections including the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Pérez Art Museum Miami, and El Museo del Barrio.
Her work sits in loose dialogue with Minimalism, Light and Space, and Land Art, though she prefers her own term: “organic minimalism,” a way of describing sculptures that focus less on form than on material; what it’s made of and where it comes from.
Gisela Colón’s monoliths at the Bruce Museum. Photo by Patrick Sikes
At the Bruce, that thinking takes shape in two bodies of work. First there are wall-mounted “pods” that read as biomorphic, almost cellular forms, somewhere between design object and living organism. The monoliths, taller and more austere, change color as natural light moves through the gallery.
“It’s a magical experience when you’re in front of them,” said Margarita Karasoulas, a curator at the Bruce who first encountered Colón’s work last year at Efrain López’s Tribeca gallery and helped bring the exhibition to the museum. “They shift with the light… everyone stops in their tracks.”
“What you’re seeing is only possible because of how she’s using these materials,” said Danielle O’Steen, the exhibition’s co-curator, pointing to Colón’s use of plastics and engineered pigments to create those surfaces that shift as viewers move around them.
Karasoulas had been thinking about how to activate the museum’s newly expanded, light-filled sculpture gallery, a space that sits at the intersection of art and science. Colón’s work, which incorporates aerospace-grade materials and collaborates with scientific processes, fit naturally into that framework.
The sculptures may look machine-made, but they are not. Each piece is cast and layered by hand, with pigments tied to specific places. At the Bruce, several monoliths reference Puerto Rican sites—river systems, caves, coastal formations—while the stones arranged around them come from the California desert near Colón’s studio, creating a small landscape inside the gallery.
Colón often talks about her work in terms of time. The pods relate to the body and perception. The monoliths point to longer scales, geological or even spiritual. When she speaks about the work, it’s as if they are a physical extension of her body.
“I feel like in the past life I was a rock. I was a piece of basalt. I was a mountain. You know, mountains are inside me,” she said.
Install view of one of Gisela Colon’s wall mounted works at the Bruce Museum. Photo by Patrick Sikes.
That idea traces back to her childhood in Puerto Rico, where she grew up between San Juan and Bayamón. Her father was a chemist; her mother, who taught her to work with color early on. She remembers peeling bark from eucalyptus trees on her grandfather’s farm, watching layers reveal themselves and then heal.
“That was an early lesson,” she said, “in how nature transforms.”
In her work, those early experiences show up in the materials themselves. Pigments reference specific landscapes. Forms echo caves, rivers, and mountains. Personal history is folded into the physical structure of the objects.
Her parallel exhibition in San Juan makes that connection explicit. At the Museo de Arte Contemporáneo, the work is placed back into the terrain that shaped it, from the El Yunque rainforest to the caves of Camuy, where mineral formations built over millions of years resemble the forms her sculptures take. It is, by her own description, a full-circle moment.
At the same time, Puerto Rico itself is newly visible in the broader cultural conversation, driven in part by figures like Bad Bunny. Colón welcomes that attention but resists the idea that it marks a beginning.
“I think he’s brought attention,” she said. “But we’ve always been here.”
Then she starts listing names. Roberto Clemente. Rita Moreno. Raúl Juliá. Ricky Martin. Puerto Rico is small, just over 100 miles long. But it produces at a scale that feels disproportionate.
“How does that happen?” she asks. Her answer is simple. “You know that Puerto Rico, the actual island, is made of the remains of a sunken a volcano that erupted millions of years ago,” she said. “It’s a lovely metaphor because, sometimes I feel like we’re all about to erupt you know? People just see just a little bit, only what’s on the surface, but underneath there has always been mountain of energy.”
You can see that idea in the work. The monoliths feel formed over time rather than designed all at once. The pods suggest something growing, slowly and continuously. Even her newest paintings, made with meteorite dust and volcanic material, push that idea further, combining materials from different places into a single surface.
She left Puerto Rico because she thought she had to. She came back to find it was always there—less a place than something that shaped how she sees the world.
