Shelburne, Vermont
The Shelburne Museum, which spreads across 45 acres in rural Vermont, bills itself as an “unparalleled and unique experience of American history, art, and design.” Founded in 1947 by the collector Electra Havemeyer Webb, the eclectic colonial campus is populated with sourced and relocated historic buildings from across New England and New York, including a covered bridge, weaving workshop, lighthouse, barns, and a cramped brick jail where visitors can pretend to be prisoners. Objects associated with childhood and whimsy, like toys, dolls, and gigantic pencils, fill the buildings. So do impressive artworks by figures like Claude Monet and Andrew Wyeth, as well as extensive collections of folk art and material culture. Although it’s a lofty claim to be unparalleled and unique, where else can you visit an exhibition of Impressionist paintings alongside a replica circus, then climb aboard a 220-foot-long historic steamboat inexplicably perched on the hillside?
It’s no surprise, then, that an outdoor exhibition of vibrantly colored abstract sculptures finds a perfect home in this quirky setting. While seemingly at odds with the historic architecture of the grounds, the aluminum sculptures in Carl D’Alvia’s “(mono)LITHS” (on view through October 25, 2026) heighten the element of play sprinkled throughout the museum. D’Alvia’s works sag, wobble, and curve, with simple forms that give way to soft, organic edges. Finished in automotive paint, their Minimalist surfaces are industrially precise, yet their silhouettes evoke bodies caught mid-gesture rather than inert geometric volumes.
Loaf (2021), a salmon-colored vertical slab, leans against a red barn, its curved form resembling a tongue emerging from the freshly laid mulch. Nearby, the stout, whimsical Pigeon (2025) is covered in bright-blue paint far from the grayish feathers of its namesake. The rudimentary shape, like a child’s outline of a bird, recalls motifs found in the museum’s folk art collection, translating the simplified geometry of a historic quilt into three dimensions. In Tandem (2025), two curved, vibrant yellow rectangles press against each another like lanky figures in search of an embrace.
Hints of anthropomorphism are common in D’Alvia’s works, and some sculptures possess distinct personalities, as if they might come to life. Belying the strength of aluminum, Sap (2021) leans and bends over as if containing a gloomy figure cloaked in green. The title is an apt fit for the Green Mountain State and its beloved maple syrup. Specter (2025) also takes a human-like shape, its sinewy, undulating silhouette conjuring a makeshift ghost costume seemingly frozen in motion. The pale, almost wan purple that D’Alvia chose adds to its shadowy presence. Seeing Specter surrounded by historic buildings, it’s hard not to wonder whether it is the only ghost on site.
Throughout the show, D’Alvia’s sculptures engage in multiple conversations with the museum’s distinctive architectural environment as well as its environs. Unlike the white-cube neutrality that often frames contemporary sculpture, the historic barns, gardens, and vernacular buildings establish an atmosphere rich with associations. The pared-down forms, when viewed alongside a nearby Shaker shed, for example, highlight the humanity that the religious sect sought to instill in its restrained creations. The saturated blues, greens, oranges, and yellows of D’Alvia’s works punctuate the surrounding landscape without overwhelming it, while their rounded profiles echo the rolling topography. Rather than competing with the museum’s context, “(mono)LITHS” creates surprising moments of cross-generational and cross-disciplinary exchange.
