ill Magid works in a light-flooded studio in a converted factory in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The room is stuffed with her research—books on Barragán, a postcard from the mausoleum in Jalisco, a black-and-white photograph of a young woman to whom Barragán once wrote love letters, pictures of a chair he designed. Conceptual artists have a reputation for being cerebral and theory-laden, but Magid comes off as curious, self-deprecating, quick to laugh and pantomime. She has a disarming charisma, of which she is well aware and even a bit leery. “Listen,” she said after a few weeks of near-constant conversation. “I know how I come across. I make lots of jokes and seem to take things lightly, but that’s just how I talk. I want you to know that I am very, very serious about my work.” Now forty-three, she has exhibited internationally at galleries and museums, including the Tate Modern and the Whitney. Magid was born and grew up in Connecticut, and her artistic talent was recognized early. In first grade, she had a solo exhibit at her school with drawings of animals that she had copied from her father’s Encyclopædia Britannica. She studied art at Cornell and, not long after graduation, worked as an assistant and a researcher for the poet Frederick Seidel. A year and a half later, she entered a master’s program at M.I.T. In 2002, as an artist in residence at the Rijksakademie, in Amsterdam, Magid began noticing the large number of surveillance cameras in the city—anonymous gray boxes, mounted on everything from the corners of buildings to coffee-shop awnings. One February morning, she went to the police headquarters and explained that she was an artist interested in decorating the municipal cameras with rhinestones. She was directed to the appropriate police administrators, who told her that they did not work with artists. She thanked them and left. A few weeks later, Magid returned... [https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2016/08/01/how-luis-barragan-became-a-diamond] undefined

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