The Brooklyn Rail

There’s an almost obsessive quality to Marc Handelman’s “Terra nullius” series (2024– ). At first glance, the paintings—uniform in size and bearing earthy hues, sometimes with barely visible imagery—resemble monochromatic abstract compositions that are often arranged in similarly colored grids. Emblematic of Handelman’s research-driven practice, the series draws inspiration from the herbarium that explorers Lewis and Clark collected during their famous Corps of Discovery Expedition of 1804–06. With the aim of supporting President Thomas Jefferson’s conquest for territory, Lewis and Clark were tasked with mapping the vast expanse newly acquired by the US through the Louisiana Purchase and the unceded land leading to the Pacific Northwest. At the same time, they surveyed natural resources and collected botanical specimens, compiling an archive to bolster the so-called doctrine of discovery laws. Used to justify colonization and seizure of Native territories, the laws stated that the “discovery” of land previously unknown to European nations gave the discoverer possession, which Handelman alludes to in the series title that translates from the Latin as “land belonging to no one.” While a useful scientific tool, their archive is inextricably linked to the systematic displacement of peoples and destruction of ecosystems that came with expansion, lessons that reverberate in today’s climate of conflict and crisis.

“Terra nullius” consists of 239 paintings, a selection of which are on view in West After West at Sikkema Malloy Jenkins. Each measuring 20 by 30 inches, their uniform size is at the same ratio of the specimen cards created for the expedition. The paintings draw inspiration from this archive, borrowing the naming system Lewis and Clark used to identify each specimen, including the location and date they were collected. Handelman furthers this scientific approach through the display of the works themselves, their grids and pairings of similar colors suggesting a system of categorization, perhaps a hierarchy. The first grouping visitors encounter contains hues of brown and black, some a washy, near-white color as if weathered over time and others seemingly pitch black. Upon closer inspection, hints of the specimen appear, ghosts of flowers and silhouettes of long-gone plants. For some, like Vermillion River, open prairies, August 25, 1804 (2024), Handelman used walnut ink, furthering the ethereal quality of the imagery. For most, he used oil or a mix with watercolors and ink, at times allowing paint to accrue, as if remnants of specimens are stuck to the surface, seen in Council Bluffs, September 14, 1806 (2024).

The apparent uniformity of the series belies the content of the work as unexpected glimpses of imagery appear. Subtle at first, a closer look reveals objects in some paintings, like a rectangular shape and lattice-like design in Near Kamiah, May 29, 1806 (2025). Handelman also hints at weather events and cosmic imagery. In Dalles Wasco, April 17, 1806 (2024), a work displayed alone on a wall, an outline of a small stick lies toward the bottom of a light, peachy background. Fragmented and horizontal, it recalls a prostrate body or the last lonely remains of a pillaged forest. At the center of the composition is a whitish circle that seems to radiate like a hazy sun. With the overall pink-orange hues of the work, it’s hard not to think of the otherworldly effects of wildfires on the sky. Creating stunning contrasts of color, the smoke from these increasingly frequent and disastrous events has become a common sight across the northern United States in recent years as Canadian wildfires become increasingly widespread. Beautiful and somber, the work is a reminder of the ongoing and worsening consequences of climate change.

Another grid of canvases, this one primarily grayscale with some hints of brown, hangs nearby. A second work entitled Vermillion River, open prairies, August 25, 1804 (2025), situated among this group, further evokes smoke with smudged black pigment outlining an unidentifiable shape, like evidence of a fire. In Near the mouth of Makhízita wakpá, September 15, 1804 (2025), a charred, tiered form recalls the foundation of a burned building, not unlike any number of images taken during and after the recent devastating fires in Los Angeles. The exhibition’s accompanying text offers little clarification, a welcome invitation to interpret and reflect on the work without context. Perhaps the piece has nothing to do with Los Angeles, perhaps it speaks to images of war. For me, its power lies in this ambiguity. As this grouping progresses, so too does the char of the surfaces, achieving complete darkness with Bitterroot Valley in the Vicinity of Traveler’s Rest, July 1, 1806 (2025).

While visually subtle, Handelman’s commentary underscores the intertwined legacies of taxonomy, empire, and ecological decay. Handelman points to the insatiability for annexation in the show’s title, West After West, a quote from “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” an 1893 essay by Frederick Jackson Turner. In it, the author underscores the cyclical nature of America’s appetite for conquest in which one “west” follows another as expansion continues endlessly. With man’s Sisyphean drive to dominate other men and nature, West After West is a poignant—albeit beautiful—reminder that while studying and categorizing species are undoubtedly important endeavors to better understand the natural world, the history of botany is inseparable from imperialism.