Cassandra Mayela Allen

WARD: Can you introduce yourself?

CASSANDRA: My name is Cassandra Mayela Allen. I am originally from Venezuela, and I’ve been in New York for the past 11 years. I work mostly with textiles, but I also work in a variety of mediums. I’m really interested in creating a practice that revolves around participatory and communal social work.

WARD: For Slow Forest, you’re sharing a piece of “BRAIDED PRAYER I” [2024], and you have a participatory performance guiding it through the piece. How do you think the setting of Slow Forest will change the context of that work?

CASSANDRA: Well, as you know, I’m currently at Skowhegan, and being here, I’m definitely in nature. When I first planned to come here, I packed a bunch of stuff thinking that I would be focusing on a certain kind of practice or projects, and I basically didn’t touch any of those things. I mainly focused on creating site-specific works, and I developed a net made out of these braids that’s going to be left out here. I recently learned very basic welding, so attaching the weavings could also be something fun. It truly depends on how or where we want to set it up. In a previous residency I did in Uruguay, I extended the thousand-foot-long braid along a path, which was special as a guide through a meditation path. But here, in contrast to those works, the forest “eats” the braid, if that makes sense. It’s thin and spread out, whereas in more compact compositions, there’s a dialogue between the work and the space that I think I’m more interested in exploring. Letting a space guide your work into creating something else has been fun.

You can’t be too precious or too methodical: A, when working with people in manual labor, because we all have different ways of making, and B, when installing in a site-specific space, especially outdoors, because the work is in conversation with the space. It’s been fun to see spiders building webs in the gaps of the net, or fabrics starting to sun-bleach because they’re out in the elements. That, in my opinion, adds to the work in an ephemeral way. It’s creating its own life.

WARD: One thing I love about your work is that it has a tangible use. You can feel it as a blanket or rope. I was looking at “Bodega Quilts” [2025] and could imagine covering myself with them. Even with braids, there’s so much historical context—as beauty, but also as utility. What drew you to work that is so rooted in craft?

CASSANDRA: I agree. I’m always trying to challenge notions of what can be utilitarian but also hold metaphor in that utility. It’s not just covering in a practical sense, but emotionally, feeling contained in community. Same with the net. You build the net to play, but we were trying to keep the ball in the air as long as possible, a way of holding or lifting each other up.

WARD: Your work is also tactile and ritualistic, expressing these elements through braiding, clothing, and tapestry. What are you accessing internally in your process, and how do you connect it to your history and surroundings?

CASSANDRA: For me, working with my hands is definitely an active meditation. It’s how I channel and process anxiety, calm down, and ground myself. That energy comes through my hands; it’s soothing. I’m more interested in the process of making than the conceptual part—not that there’s no concept, but I’m more excited about the making.

This connects to life in the city, carving space for yourself and connecting with others through making. A lot of artists in the Western understanding work alone in a studio, which can be isolating. I enjoy making by myself, but I’m flexible about what my studio can be. I can cut and braid fabric on the subway. I can work during a studio visit while chatting. It’s two streams of release and engagement, making the load easier because so much is repetitive and tedious at times.

I don’t work with fibers. I work with discarded clothing and fabric, material already here. I hate the concept of waste, which only exists in our modern human world. In nature, there’s no waste: leaves fall and compost, feeding the soil; metal rusts and returns nutrients to the earth. But humans put everything in garbage bags and hope for the best.

Growing up in Venezuela taught me that resources aren’t infinite. Even though larger powers could make big changes and don’t, my small protest is to reuse and repurpose. I’d rather work with materials considered waste than buy new canvas or fabric. As for ritual, society often frames ceremony as needing a temple, priest, or extraordinary setting. I believe there are many ways to tap into the ceremonial in the mundane. That communion when making with people feels sacred.

WARD: Earlier, you mentioned growing up in Venezuela and how it shaped your work and use of donated fabrics. Could you elaborate on how growing up affected your process and philosophy?

CASSANDRA: Growing up in a failing state as I became an adult shaped how I think—not just in art, but in life. In the U.S., many take certain things for granted because they’ve never seen the end of them. Experiencing state failure and lacking access to basics like water and electricity makes you resourceful. Crisis teaches you to see things differently and make something out of nothing.

I also come from a very fragmented society. This made me conscious of the need to focus on what people have in common rather than the differences. In my practice, I initially wanted to bring the Venezuelan diaspora together through a tapestry of stories, a physical space for healing and communication. But I learned that migration often means parting radically with roots, and some aren’t ready to revisit them. Non-participation became the most common form of participation. So, I shifted my focus to a broader immigrant community, and also to parallels in movement and adaptation that exist even within one’s own country or city.

Longing for home and belonging is universal, and if my work can create empathy rather than displacement, that’s my goal— establishing conversations between people who might otherwise never talk. Even if you come to one of these gatherings and sit next to someone you don’t think you have anything in common with—or don’t agree with—the space itself opens an opportunity for a conversation you wouldn’t normally have. That’s the spark you need to maybe contemplate certain things in your life.

WARD: You’ve also lived in New York for 11 years now. How do you think New York City has changed your practice compared to growing up in Venezuela?

CASSANDRA: New York has given me and taken so much. It’s a city that can embrace you, squeeze you so hard, spit you out, and then take you back again—it’s such a moody girl. It’s been an amazing place to understand what an expansive community can be. A lot of like-minded people navigate here, and things can happen spontaneously if you’re open to them. It’s tall, it’s challenging, and at this point, almost offensive to live in, but it has exposed me to so many backgrounds I never would have met in Venezuela. One of my best friends is from Cambodia; I’ve learned about weaving traditions in the Philippines that are similar to those in South America. New York shows the human part of what life can be, and I’m grateful for that.

WARD: We met in New York years ago.

CASSANDRA: Yes, and that’s a beautiful thing. You meet people in passing, connect, then life gets busy, and later you reconnect. There’s a rhythm to it, like breathing within the city with everyone else. I also love how anonymous it can be—like Where’s Waldo?—and then on a Wednesday in Astoria, you’ll run into someone and think, “I really live in New York.”

WARD: Let’s go back to your fabric use. You work with donated and reworked fabric. Do you feel there’s energetic memory in the clothing?

CASSANDRA: Definitely. When working with clothes people intentionally bring, they’re charged with energy. In gatherings, I ask people to bring something tied to their migratory story, something seen as joy, resistance, or something they want to let go of. This space offers a cathartic outlet, a way to honor and transform it. Even without telling the audience every story, the work holds those layers. You can feel that presence without knowing the details.

WARD: Could you talk about your work “Maps of Displacement” [2021-] and how shipping memory contributes to it? Do you envision an end to the project?

CASSANDRA: I’d love to return to and expand that body of work, but right now it feels precarious given the current persecution of immigrants. When I started “Maps of Displacement” [2021-], I noticed an increase in Venezuelans in New York. Venezuela’s migration is young—only in the past 20 years—and recognized as a crisis internationally for just the past decade. Compared to older diasporas like Mexican, Puerto Rican, Bangladeshi, or Filipino communities, it’s very new. I became curious about why people were choosing New York, which seems hostile if you don’t know the language. The media offered little. Right-wing narratives frame Venezuela as a communist hellhole; left-wing ones romanticize it because it’s a leftist government. Neither side holds it accountable as a dictatorship.

So I started asking Venezuelans to share something from their migratory process, regardless of why they left. I received everything from a childhood stuffed animal to the outfit worn on the day they traveled, to a favorite pair of pants that no longer fit. I kept the request flexible so people could go deep if they wanted, or keep the process internal. I’d love to continue the work, but I’d need more resources and a safer way to do it, given current immigration policing.

WARD: Back to “Braided Prayers I” [2024]—you’ve activated it in different NYC contexts, like Tambao and with Artists and Mothers. How do these contexts affect the work?

That’s something I’m still exploring. Tambao is a Latin American design store; their clientele is warm and festive. That activation felt casual and celebratory. People braided with wine, came with friends, chatted, and moved on to dinner.

CASSANDRA: With Artists and Mothers, the group was all artist-mothers, and the activity took place around Mother’s Day. The braids became reflections on motherhood and art-making—more contained; more intimate. I’ve done family braiding sessions where kids, parents, and grandparents braid together. Every variation adds something; it never subtracts.

WARD: Do you think there’s a greater narrative uniting all these activations?

CASSANDRA: Yes. Unlike “Maps of Displacement” [2021-], which focused on a specific group and experience, the braided activities invite everyone in. That creates space for people from very different backgrounds—some thinking about migration, some not—to see themselves in one another. Braiding itself is universal. It exists in every culture, whether in hair, rope, or textiles. It’s safe, accessible, and easy to learn. That universality allows participation without appropriation. It belongs to everyone.

WARD: When did you realize you wanted to be an artist, and when did you realize you were an artist?

CASSANDRA: I think I realized I was an artist as a child. I’ve always been ingenious and creative, more inclined to making than to science. But coming from a conservative, traditional family in Venezuela, I put it aside for stability. In New York, trying to live a “normal” life made me miserable. I realized there was no other option; this is the only way I can make sense of my life.

WARD: Where did you go to school and what did you study?

CASSANDRA: I studied journalism in Venezuela but dropped out. I later graduated in graphic design. In art, I’m self-taught. No formal art school, though I count Skowhegan as education.

WARD: So much of your work is about memory. Braiding itself is ancient, passed down for thousands of years. Can you tell me your first memory of braiding or being braided?

CASSANDRA: I grew up in Margarita, an island in Venezuela on the Caribbean, and wore braids in my hair— very Caribbean girl. I created tiny braids, transforming my own clothes, and making things unique so they didn’t look like everyone else’s. I went to a bilingual school and befriended braiders at the beach. They wanted more tourist customers but only had signs in Spanish. One day, I brought them a little cardboard sign in English saying “We Make Braids” so they could reach foreigners. They glued it alongside the Spanish one and used both.