Moshe Roas fuses a wide range of seemingly incongruous materials into sculptural works that balance weight and texture to achieve a kind of equilibrium, joining above and below into a new conceptual world. “Knop and Flower,” his current exhibition at the Haifa Museum of Art in Israel (on view through June 27, 2026), continues the mystical strain in his work. Drawing on objects from the Moroccan collection at the museum, he explores the conjunction of ornament, form, and the spiritual sublime in a presentation that continually unfolds as viewers move around and through the works.
Photo: Carmit Hassine
Robert Preece: How did the concept for “Knop and Flower” come about, and what were the ideas behind it?
Moshe Roas: The exhibition began when Haifa Museum curator Kobi Ben-Meir invited me to visit the museum’s ethnographic collection. As I was browsing the collection—with the help of Meir Atkin, the collection director—it became apparent that many of the objects that moved me had a connection to North Africa. I was drawn to the layered ornament, the tactile surfaces, and the intense presence of handcraft. What struck me most was not a single object, but the spirit that connected them, the attention to detail and the energy embedded in objects shaped by use.
The encounter aroused some personal memories because I had spent much of my childhood with my grandmother, who was born in Morocco. She was a seamstress and, in many ways, an artist. She would tell me stories of abundance of fabrics, detail, and color. Seeing these objects felt like a kind of confirmation of her stories and set the direction for the exhibition. The title emerged early. “Knop and Flower” refers to repetition as structure, as well as to ornament as a vessel of meaning as mentioned in the plans for building the Menorah as instructed by God in the Bible. I was interested in how construction and belief can co-exist within the same form.
RP: The works in the show focus on the idea of bridging heaven and earth. Can you explain how you created that connection?
MR: The bridge between earthly and elevated conditions appears through suspension. The works occupy the vertical space between floor and ceiling. Materials associated with weight, such as stone, wood, and metal, are lifted and held in space. In Weights (2026), an antique weighing mechanism becomes part of a suspended composition. Its utilitarian function dissolves, yet the idea of measurement remains present. Old Japanese fishing weights carved from cherry wood hang in a bound cluster, connected to sharpened brass rods and a treated mechanical structure. An instrument once governed by gravity now hovers in mid-air.
In Dervish (2026), carved eucalyptus branches cast in bronze form the central spine. Blown glass elements, desert stones, and red bracelets traditionally worn for protection are incorporated into the suspended system. The red elements recur throughout the exhibition and function almost as punctuation marks within the spatial composition; the eye cannot fully rest in their presence.
The stones in the exhibition carry geological memory, introducing a scale of time far beyond the human body. This creates tension between gravity and hovering; rather than depicting heaven and earth, the works exist between grounding and elevation.
Photo: Elie Posner
RP: Why do you juxtapose seemingly incongruent materials?
MR: Rather than perceiving materials as opposites, I am interested in how they recalibrate one another through contact. Most of the materials that I use—whether metal, wood, stone, or glass—are formed through natural processes. For instance, in Bambi (2026), a bronze casting derived from impressions of crystal, wood, and my own hand rests on an antique ready-made vessel. A balance mechanism hangs above, holding a delicate blown-glass element that supports the preserved hoof of a deer. Stones, including petrified wood, are integrated into the structure. The composition moves between density and fragility, both equally important. The aim is coherence built from difference.
RP: You referred to the museum’s collection of Moroccan objects. Could you explain how those objects inspired your works?
MR: The Moroccan objects reveal ornament as construction rather than embellishment. Repetition, engraving, and embroidery are integral to the object’s structure. This perspective informed works such as Chalice (2026) in which enamel and metal accumulate in layers to create weight and resonance. The surface operates as architecture. The collection sharpened my awareness of how detail intensifies form.
RP: Your works seem to have a certain magic with regard to the combination of materials and their suspension in space. Do you see them as charged with spiritual forces?
MR: Although I don’t think of my work in explicitly spiritual terms, I am interested in creating conditions that require attentiveness. The installation is meant to be entered. The sculptures unfold as one moves around them. The surrounding space and air infuse the suspended elements with energy, and the viewer becomes aware of proximity and scale. If there is a spiritual dimension, it resides in that heightened attention.
RP: Is some of that effect achieved through materials?
MR: Enamel and blown glass assume a central role in this exhibition. Enamel builds color through repeated firings; it demands patience and precision. Blown glass introduces transparency and contained air. Both alter how light moves through the installation and expand the material vocabulary of the work.
RP: You received special funding for the production of some or all of the works. What did this allow you to do?
MR: I fabricated most of the works by myself, and the process included learning and mastering techniques of metalwork, casting, enamel, and glass blowing. But the exhibition required resources beyond a single studio: bronze casting, access to industrial kilns, specialized glass facilities, and transportation of materials collected abroad. Support allowed the works to be realized at their intended scale without reducing their complexity.
RP: Could you describe Turquoise (2026)?
MR: Turquoise began as an experiment with copper and brass plates. Using asphalt as a resistance, I printed organic structures onto the metal and submerged the plates in acid. The acid consumed and exposed areas while preserving those protected by the asphalt, thinning the metal until it became lace-like. The etched plates were layered to create depth and permeability. Light passes through them, altering the work when viewed from different angles.
A green patina was developed gradually through repeated chemical processes. The color emerges through corrosion rather than surface application. Installed in the gallery, Turquoise reads almost as a suspended stain—a concentrated field of color within the installation. The work examines controlled erosion: how solidity can become permeable.
RP: How do the works respond to air circulation and the movement of visitors?
MR: The exhibition was conceived in direct relation to the proportions of the gallery. Visitors are invited to walk between the works; the installation operates as a spatial field. In my 40-square-meter studio, the suspended pieces were densely arranged, almost forest-like. In the gallery, they gain distance and clarity. Establishing the intervals between works was critical, since each placement shifted the reading of the whole. Air circulates subtly, giving life to the suspended forms. The logic of holding and of resisting gravity runs through the show. The viewer’s movement becomes a choreography that affects the space and the experience of it.
RP: What was the installation process like? When did you know it was finished?
MR: During production, my assumption was that my studio ceiling matched the height of the gallery, and that was how I designed the works. Only weeks before installation, I discovered that the museum ceiling was 70 centimeters higher. This miscalculation required redesigning the suspension system. I created steel extensions descending from the ceiling, tapering from thickness to narrow curved ends. What began as an error became a unifying structural element throughout the exhibition.
As in every exhibition, the transition from the studio to the gallery space is a surprising one and although I knew that not all the pieces I worked on would have room, I was surprised when I started installing and it became evident that the space between the works was crucial. The connections that I had imagined between them shifted as I realized this. In this way, installing the works became a process of paying careful attention to what the sculptures asked of me. It was a fascinating search for a rhythm and balance, with shifts and changes until it all felt right.
I knew the installation was complete when the overall composition felt resolved. Each line, form, and color had to hold its position from multiple viewpoints. As I moved through the space and sensed the relationships settle into clarity, I understood the exhibition had reached its final state, like a puzzle gradually solved.
