Día de los Muertos is one of those wonderfully weird times when the land of the living and the realm of the dead decide to mingle—separated only by a whisper, a candlelit pathway, and maybe a few shots of mezcal. So, I figured, why not dive headfirst into this spectral crossover with an assemblage project that straddles both worlds?

In this workshop, we’ll be creating shrines that embody two halves of existence—maybe the world above and the one beneath the grave, or a split between light and shadow, past and present. However you decide to frame your piece, we’ll be scavenging, assembling, and reanimating found objects into something that has a magical story to tell.

And because we don’t do things halfway, we’ll be summoning our favorite tricks of the trade—paint layering, eerie patinas, and those deliciously distressed applications—to bring these creations to life (or afterlife, depending on your artistic leanings).

Come to Oaxaca, where the spirits are chatty, the altars are glowing, and the art gets a little mystical, a little macabre, and a whole lot of fun.

I think it’s about time for a weird little fiesta! In this wall-hanging workshop of wildness, we’ll be channeling the beautifully bizarre energy of Oaxacan Carnival—those costumed characters you see dancing through the streets—and shrinking it down just enough to fit on your wall without scaring the neighbors too much.

Each piece clocks in around 14–16 inches tall, with a flowing painted fabric body and a noggin that’s part clay, part found-object fever dream. These aren’t just decorations—they’re puppet-sized protectors, grumpy growling party guests, and maybe one or two trickster deities.

You’ll start with some humble scraps, a piece of canvas, and a few gloriously weird bits from your stash. Then we’ll coax these creatures into being with clay, paint, a dash of trickery, and a whole lot of imagination.

Just a little chaos, a lot of charm, and a creature that looks like it stumbled out of a dream and got lost in a mercado.

Let the Fandango begin!

Ahoy, you crusty creatives and barnacle-hearted bricoleurs! It's time to nail your colors to the mast and clear the crustaceans from your ears—because we’re diving headfirst into the shadowy seas of found-object assemblage. Inspired by the eerie beauty of shipwrecks, not the experience, mind you, but the haunting poetry of rusted hulls, tangled ropes, and salt-warped relics—we’ll be crafting nautically themed shrines and altars.  

These structures, shaped by time and tide, tell stories of sailors and sirens, mermaids and maritime monsters, sea gods and sunken secrets. We'll explore a range of techniques to help your creations take on a life of their own, including sculpting barnacles and coral, distressing surfaces with rust and verdigris patinas, and infusing your work with the haunting textures of the deep.

Whether your tribute is to Poseidon, a siren  or a peg-legged privateer, this is your chance to make something beautifully briny. So batten down the hatches. We’re already taking on water. And if your gut says this sounds like a class worth sinking into… trust it.

Let’s create an honorarium to music—a visual song to celebrate the instruments that once gave joy to our ears. This is no ordinary tribute, though. This is New Orleans, where even silence carries a rhythm, and every faded note lingers in the shadows just a little longer than it should.

Over the years, I’ve collected a curious mix of discarded instruments—trumpets that no longer toot, violins with stories carved into their cracked backs, piano keys stained by time. Their melodies may have faded, but their presence remains. In fact, I’d argue that some instruments never really go quiet. Especially here.

In this workshop, we’ll take broken musical relics and retune them—not to play, but to speak. Using the art of assemblage, you’ll transform battered banjos, lonely oboes, trumpet bits, and violin husks into sculptural shrines. Think altar meets jukebox. Think music you can see… and maybe feel.

After all, in this city, ghost stories and music dance toe to toe:

• On Lover’s Bridge, they say a violinist died waiting for a love that never returned. Now his bow whispers in the wind, and shadowy lovers are seen embracing by moonlight.

   

• At the Hotel Monteleone, a phantom pianist still plays after the Bayou Bar has closed, often summoning a tuxedoed man and two silent women who vanish down the hallway.

   

• And at the Andrew Jackson Hotel, a tour photo once captured two glowing orbs hovering over a figure that looked suspiciously like a violinist mid-performance.

Coincidence? Maybe. But in New Orleans, music never dies—it just changes key.

Extra Credit: If your creation manages to make even the faintest sound, you’ll earn four gold stars, a smiley face, and possibly a round of applause from this world and the next. Not required—but the spirits are known to appreciate a good comeback tune.