Svea Lin Soll

Svea Lin Soll is an art consultant and curator with over 25 years of experience spanning gallery ownership, exhibitions, and sales. She began her career in community-based nonprofit arts organizations, developing exhibitions and public programs that emphasized accessibility and engagement. Known for her collaborative approach, Svea has built enduring relationships with artists founded on trust and a shared commitment to sustaining creative communities, particularly in the Bay Area. Today, she partners with clients, architects, developers, and artists to curate thoughtful, site-specific art programs for both public and private spaces. Her large-scale projects often draw inspiration from local landscapes and cultural narratives, showcasing regional artists to reflect and support the communities they inhabit.

Svea and her mom, Elsmarie Norby, on a trip to Chicago c. 1980.

Your career has spanned museums, galleries, consulting, and independent curating. What pivotal experience or mentorship first drew you into the art world and shaped your perspectives on art and your curatorial practice?

Honestly, my path into the art world wasn’t strategic at all — it just kept unfolding. I’ve always followed curiosity more than a plan. My mother was probably the first person to shape how I see art and work. She believed everyone had something unique to offer and that work should be a mix of purpose and joy. She was a classical musician and community activist, raising kids on very little in rural Northern California. But she was determined that we’d have a cultural education. She’d pile us into the car to San Francisco for the symphony or the museums, and when we visited family in Europe, she’d drag us through churches and museums from London to Stockholm. I couldn’t appreciate it then, but she was setting the foundation for this “unplanned” plan.

After college, I interned at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History. It was my first glimpse into the institutional side of art and culture. I’d spend every lunch break wandering through other museums. That experience made me realize I loved art, and I wanted to work directly with artists.

My first real professional mentor was Betty Kano at Pro Arts in Oakland. She was an artist, activist, and force of nature — someone who believed deeply in visibility for underrepresented artists long before that was common institutional language. Working with her changed everything. We did exhibitions about missing persons, war, AIDS — tough subjects that felt urgent and human. It was my first real understanding that curating could be about care, community, and accountability.

Not long after, I met Merritt Sher, a developer who did something pretty wild: he showed me around an empty building space in Oakland and said, “Well, do you want to create something here?” I was in my early thirties and had a truckload of energy and conviction. That project became the 3,500 square foot Swarm Gallery, which I ran for seven years and housed working studios for eleven artists. It was pretty fresh, not at all scrappy, and alive, and taught me everything about how to build something from nothing.

Since then, every chapter — from nonprofits to galleries to consulting — has just been a different way of asking the same question: how can art help us stay connected? Especially now, as I focus more on environmentally-centered work, that feels more relevant than ever.

Launch event for Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here at Bakar Bio Lab, UC Berkeley, September 2025

Your collaboration on Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here connects art, Indigenous knowledge, and climate resilience. How do you see art as a tool for communicating or transforming public understanding of climate colonialism and ecological crisis?

Art is both a lens and a language, and sometimes a mirror. It gives us ways of seeing and communicating that science or journalism can’t always reach. When it comes to issues like climate colonialism or ecological loss, especially in a place like the Marshall Islands, art can move beyond data. It shares knowledge. It gives space for feeling and interpretation. It’s a different kind of communication, and it’s powerful.

In Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here, my curatorial partner, Amy Kisch, alongside the organizing team from Cape Farewell, are working with artists who are translating lived experience. These are not abstract problems to them; they’re daily, lived realities. Art allows those realities to enter public consciousness through empathy, through knowledge-sharing.

I think a lot about what Carl Sagan said: that the limits of our understanding are the limits of our imagination. Art stretches those limits. It helps us imagine different outcomes, different futures. My background is actually in geology and paleontology, so I’ve always been drawn to long timelines—the deep time of the Earth, how fragile and fleeting our moment is. Art and science are both ways of trying to make sense of that. I think the solutions ahead will require both disciplines working together: art to expand how we see, and science to shape how we act.

Casey Jex Smith, solo exhibition at Swarm Gallery, Oakland, 2007

You’ve described the inspiration behind your curatorial practice as having an “angle on climate.” How do you balance curatorial aesthetics with ethical imperatives when working on projects addressing such urgent, real-world issues?

In this context, the question for me is always: Does the work feel honest? The skill or polish matters less than whether the work resonates and expands the conversation. Does it invite us to see or feel something we couldn’t before? 

This might feel like a non-answer, ha! But I think it’s nice to create space for complexity—for art that makes you pause, feel something, and maybe understand the world a little differently.

Photographer and bookmaker, Michael Light, documenting in Bravo crater, Bikini Atoll, Marshall Islands, 2023

The Marshall Islands project (organized by UK-based organization Cape Farewell) foregrounds collaboration among artists. What have you learned from navigating these cross-disciplinary and cross-cultural dialogues?

What I’ve learned most from this project is how much there is to learn. Working across cultures and disciplines has reminded me that collaboration takes patience and a willingness to be uncomfortable. You can’t rush trust, and you can’t assume you understand the context you’re entering.

In the Marshall Islands, the history is complex and ongoing. The United States used these atolls for nuclear testing in the 1950s, displacing communities whose land is still contaminated today. That’s not a distant past—it’s something people are still living with. And yet, what stands out most is the resilience and clarity of the Marshallese artists and leaders we’re working with. One artist involved in the project, Solomon Enos, an Indigenous artist from Hawai'i, was speaking about the importance of listening to the Marshallese experience because "they've already experienced their apocalypse. That line stays with me because it reframes the conversation—not around loss, but around endurance and perspective.

These exchanges have made me more careful about how I step into projects. My role isn’t to interpret their story, but to support it—to make space for the work and voices already leading the way.That's what my curatorial partner, Amy Kisch and I are focused on: coherence, not authorship. Our upcoming collaboration with UC Berkeley will extend that dialogue across disciplines—connecting art, science, and public engagement. 

For me, that’s the exciting part: when different ways of knowing start to inform one another and something larger begins to take shape.

Chelsea Pegram and Robin Johnston, exhibition at Swarm Gallery, Oakland, 2010

You originally ran a brick-and-mortar gallery under the name Swarm Gallery (Swarm Gallery) from 2006 to 2013. What inspired you to re-establish it more than a decade later, and how has your vision evolved since that first iteration?

Swarm Gallery was one of the proudest chapters of my life. I poured everything into that space — probably a little too much of myself. It was a place where artists could experiment with installations and be supported in a representational gallery relationship. But looking back, I can also see where I was learning on the fly. I didn’t yet know how to ask for help or build the kind of infrastructure that sustains something long term.

After I closed the brick-and-mortar space, I pivoted into residential and corporate consulting, which taught me a lot about client relationships and the business side of art. I curated a few hotel projects with Gensler and David Baker Architects, which were great experiences — but I missed the energy of exhibitions, of working directly with artists on exhibits. I tried joining another gallery, but it wasn’t right. Around that time I was also ending a seventeen-year marriage, and I decided to take a real leap — leave the job, rebuild from scratch, and trust that something new would emerge.

And it did. A major client came through an old college friend, and that partnership grew into a large, ongoing art collection. From there, new doors opened — my friend and colleague, Amy Kisch, invited me into the Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here project with Cape Farewell. And the coaching work I now do with artists. In a way, the idealism of Swarm Gallery didn’t disappear; it evolved. It is split into three branches of work that feel deeply aligned: art consulting, curating, and supporting artists’ professional growth. I’m happiest working for myself — with the creative control and freedom to choose projects that feel meaningful. I don’t take any of it for granted. I’ve also had to learn to expand my capacity to receive without shrinking. That’s something I now help other artists navigate, too.

Artist talk with Amanda Williams and April Banks, Swarm Gallery, Oakland, 2011

How did your thinking change from when you had the overhead of the gallery to when you moved into your projects that largely eliminate the overhead of a brick-and-mortar space?

Running a gallery was an incredible experience, but I don’t miss the overhead. Having to keep regular hours, manage staff, and carry all the operational costs limited how much I could actually focus on the work itself. When Merritt, my landlord, passed away and the new owners decided to replace the gallery with retail, it was disappointing — but ultimately, it pushed me to evolve.

Shifting away from a physical space gave me flexibility. I could work from anywhere, with anyone, and take on a much wider range of projects. It also let me spend more time with my son, who was a baby then, and build a consulting model that felt more sustainable. The decision wasn’t mine, but it turned out to be a real gift. It made my practice leaner, more adaptable, and ultimately more creative.

San Francisco-based artist, Windy Chien putting the finishing touches on her monumental works for a private corporate client. Top: Hitching Post (Parallax), Sunbrella cordage, walnut, brass, 6 x 25 feet; Middle: Knot Installation, Sunbrella cordage, wood, brass, acrylic, 6 x 25 feet; Bottom: Circuit Board (2024), Sunbrella cordage, walnut, 5 x 24 feet. Los Angeles, 2024

Downsizing, the closure of big-name galleries, and market shifts toward emerging artists being signed earlier in their careers are a few such changes you cite as transforming the art world. What do you make of such transformations? Who is bearing the burden under this weight, and what opportunities does this present?

These shifts we’re seeing — gallery closures, downsizing, and younger artists being signed earlier — are symptoms of a much larger economic realignment. The art world doesn’t operate in a vacuum. Inflation, cost of living, political uncertainty, and changes in how people spend their attention and money are all part of the picture. It’s always been difficult to run a gallery, but now the margins are thinner than ever. Most spaces either have major financial backing or are barely breaking even. One top-tier gallery I spoke with in San Francisco reported they are still doing OK, but those in the mid-low tier are reporting their sales have dried up over the last year. It’s a tough business to sustain, even in less-fraught times.

The upper end of the market has also contracted — blue-chip and auction sales have dropped by about a third in the past year and a half — so mid-sized galleries are pivoting toward lower price points, cultivating younger artists and newer collectors. That can be exciting, but it also means artists are being signed earlier, often before they’ve had time to fully develop. The pressure to produce and sell quickly can be intense, and it doesn’t always serve the work.

If we’re talking about who’s bearing the burden, it’s really shared. Galleries are squeezed between high overhead and shrinking sales. Artists, by extension, are impacted when opportunities dry up or expectations shift toward faster output. Curators and consultants feel it too — everyone is being asked to do more with less. The burnout is real.

And yet, I think there’s also renewal in this cycle. Every economic contraction creates space for new, more sustainable models to emerge. We’ve seen this after every major downturn — in the Bay Area after the tech busts, new artist-run and experimental spaces always surface. It’s part of the ecosystem resetting itself. The excess or “bloat” I keep reading about — too many fairs, too many galleries, too many artists chasing too few buyers — isn’t sustainable. Some collapse is natural.

The opportunity now is to reimagine what sustainability looks like in this field. Artists and curators can collaborate in more flexible ways — pop-ups, partnerships with nonprofits, online exhibitions, hybrid spaces. I think we are in-between a generation of collectors. The older ones are phasing out and emerging collectors are TBD. And I think audiences are hungry for something that feels more connected and less transactional. They want experiences. So yes, there’s loss, and also a chance to build and see what emerges next. Artists are going to create, and the art world will respond to that.

Wheel graphic I made for a presentation I did with artists about imagining a different kind of art world, 2024

You mention in the context of a recent article on Hyperallergic writing that the 50/50 split with artist and gallery needs to be rethought, as for too long the gallery system has held this power. You note that for some time, you have been telling artists, “You have more agency than they think.” How can artists exercise that agency?

A lot of the work I do with artists is about helping them understand how much agency they have. The art world is a power structure, like everywhere else. The gallery system has trained artists to feel dependent because of the natural hierarchy there — galleries provide opportunities, validation, they drive aesthetics, they have collector and institutional relationships — but the reality is that artists are the source of value in this ecosystem. Without the work, none of it exists.

When I talk about rethinking the 50/50 split, I’m not saying every artist should demand a new percentage. I’m saying they should know what they’re giving and what they’re getting in return. What is the gallery providing — production support, marketing, collector outreach, community, visibility? And what is the artist providing — images, artwork, expertise, their own community and connections… The split should reflect the reality of that relationship, not a tradition that’s gone unquestioned for decades.

Agency also looks like discernment — saying no to opportunities that don’t align with your goals, or negotiating terms that make creating the work sustainable. For artists working on complex installations or public works, it’s often reasonable to adjust the commission structure because their production labor is extensive.

Ultimately, I want artists to think of themselves as their own gatekeepers — to understand how the industry works, to know their value, to create sustainable careers. Confidence comes from information. Once artists understand the system, they can participate in it on their own terms and be more nimble.

Beth Piatote, Director, Arts Research Center and Associate Professor, Comparative Literature and English, speaking at the panel during the launch event for Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here at Bakar Bio Lab, UC Berkeley, September 2025

You mentioned in a recent video that artists are often seen as being at the bottom of the art world ecosystem’s power structure, and you want to change this. You went on to say this makes sense in some ways, but it also doesn’t in others. What can you share about the ways this both makes sense and does not?

When I said artists often sit at the “bottom” of the art-world hierarchy, I meant that the system was designed that way. It’s built on gatekeeping — who gets access, who gets visibility, who gets to decide what’s valuable. That structure makes artists feel like they have to wait for permission: nervous to approach galleries, afraid of rejection, hoping to be discovered or validated by someone higher up the chain. It’s a power dynamic that still shapes how a lot of people move through the field.

In some ways, it makes sense. Galleries and institutions take on risk, invest time and resources, and have networks that can significantly impact an artist’s visibility. But that doesn’t mean artists should accept a position of disempowerment. None of this exists without them. They’re the creative engine that drives everything else.

I’ve started thinking about the art world more like a wheel instead of a hierarchy, with artists at the center. Every spoke — galleries, curators, writers, dealers — radiates outward from them. When artists begin to see themselves that way, it shifts how they navigate their careers. They start valuing their work differently, making decisions from confidence rather than fear, and entering partnerships — with galleries or others — on more equal footing.

The 50/50 split is a good example. It’s not that it’s inherently wrong. The real question is: what is each party contributing? Is the gallery truly providing marketing, collector relationships, exhibition opportunities, and sales support? If not, the artist should absolutely feel empowered to negotiate a different arrangement. The same goes for nonprofits that often take smaller commissions — those models show there’s flexibility when the relationship is clearly defined.

Climate Envoy to the Marshall Islands, poet, performer and educator, Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner, Mejenkwaad, video still, 2023

You mention part of this doesn’t make sense because everyone in the art world depends on the artists to make work yet you accurately note that artists are often seen at the bottom, why is it that the artists are historically at the bottom of this structure and what can be done to empower a group of people so romanticized for being the working class at best. 

The art world has always benefited from the perception that it’s glamorous. The major market players and the media to some extent help stoke that story. And it is a fun place to be — you get to see incredible work, meet interesting people, you can travel anywhere, there’s obviously a concentration of creativity. But underneath that is a much more complex reality. Being an artist (and independent arts worker!) is hard work. It’s constant hustle: creating work, promoting, applying, staying visible on social media, staying in touch with people…

Having a strong gallery partner can make a huge difference for an artist — they handle sales, relationships, and logistics so the artist can focus on making the work. That’s a dream for many, and it’s also what feeds the power dynamic. I’m really talking with artists about not handing your career over to the gallery, to actually approach it like a partnership, and be really clear about who does what in the relationship.

That dynamic has always existed, and to some degree it will always exist — it’s the nature of a market built on representation. But like any system of power, it gets distorted and becomes harder for those at the bottom. The ideal structure isn’t a ladder, but something closer to a flat network — or at least a more balanced ecosystem — where everyone’s a peer working toward the same goals. Because they are. The more we can normalize transparency, fairness, and shared responsibility — whether that’s through clearer contracts, more equitable splits, or open dialogue — the more sustainable this entire field becomes.

Installation of Cyle Warner’s textile piece in New York, “Chasing a Second Sunrise; It's No Fun Running Alone” (2024), Fabric, cotton twine, cotton rope, 76 x 66 inches, New York, 2025

You have written that [some] corporations see art as more than mere decoration; they see it as a strategy. What is that strategy?

For many of my clients, art has become an extension of strategy — a tool for communicating values and shaping company culture. When done thoughtfully, a corporate art collection operates much like a brand statement: it reflects what a company stands for and how it shows up in the world.

The approach I bring to clients is rooted in representation and regional connection. We prioritize artists working in the same communities where the company operates, and we intentionally include artists who have been historically underrepresented — women, BIPOC artists, veterans, under recognized older artists, artists of different abilities and those from diverse cultural and faith backgrounds. This kind of collecting doesn’t just diversify the visual environment; it tangibly invests in local economies and supports artists.

There’s also measurable impact. Research shows that art-rich workplaces foster higher employee engagement, stronger retention, and greater job satisfaction. When people see their company investing in creativity and cultural equity, it reinforces a sense of belonging and purpose.

So when I say art is a strategy, I mean it’s a way for organizations to live their values — not just articulate them.

Artist gathering at Windy Chien’s studio, San Francisco, 2024

You are going to publish a masterclass as an online course to guide artists through navigating the commercial Fine Art world. Can you talk about what people will learn in your masterclass?

Yes, I’m really excited about this masterclass. It’s designed to help artists understand how the gallery system works — the realities, the opportunities, and the pitfalls — so they can make informed choices and feel more confident navigating it.

I will build on the idea — articulated by artists and theorists like Andrea Fraser — that there is not just one art world, there are many. Each has its own logic (of what art is and what art does), its own values and pressures and access points. This reality can be both validating and overwhelming for artists navigating their paths. I’ve had a front-row seat to the industry from multiple sides: running a gallery, consulting for private clients, working with galleries, and supporting artists directly. That perspective gives me a grounded view of what’s happening in the commercial art world right now — especially as galleries tighten resources, rethink programs, and adapt to shifting collector habits.

In the class, I’ll break down how galleries operate, what’s changing and what’s staying the same, and how artists can approach representation from a place of agency and understanding their place rather than dependency. We’ll cover contracts, red flags to look for, and what it means to think of your art practice as a small business. I’ll also share strategies for setting your own professional standards, valuing your time, and building consistent, sustainable relationships. 

Participants will walk away with a clear picture of how the gallery system functions, what’s standard to expect, and how to negotiate with confidence. They’ll also receive a practical resource — The Gallery Playbook PDF — which includes an exhibition-ready checklist and tools to apply what they’ve learned. I’m developing it as a living document, because the art world keeps evolving, and I want the material to evolve along with it. There’s a lot! And maybe more.

Camera Bunker on Aomen, Bikini Atoll, Marshall Islands. Photograph by Mark Klett, 2023

Looking ahead to the 2026 UC Berkeley exhibition, what do you hope audiences will carry with them, emotionally or intellectually, after engaging with this work on climate, history, and resilience and if you could have the audience take action on any one thing as inspired by the exhibit, what would you like them to do?

What I hope people take away is perspective. The climate crisis isn’t something happening “out there.” It’s everywhere. This work is about memory, inheritance, and how we live with the consequences of what’s already been done, and what continues to happen. If someone experiences the work and walks away with a deeper sense of connection — to their environment, to other people, to the past — that’s meaningful.

At UC Berkeley, we’re situating this project within a place that already has extraordinary scientific and policy minds at work. The art adds a human language to that. In an ideal world, the artworks in Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here become part of a much larger conversation — one ingredient in a collective recipe for climate solutions. UC Berkeley has a lot of climate work across its departments right now, so this exhibition sits within a much bigger context of learning and action. Also, David Buckland’s film (titled Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here, the same name as the exhibition) documents the artists’ voyage to the Marshall Islands and shows how direct experience there shaped their practices and perspectives. That kind of understanding stays with people. And it is very exciting to be engaging with the academic community. Our ambition is that this project will continue to evolve and expand with more scholarly engagement, curriculum integration, student participation, public programs, etc. This institutional involvement has the potential to reach so many people.

If I could ask audiences to do one thing, it would be to stay curious and pay attention. Pay attention to the systems you’re part of, to the ways you consume, to the places you call home. Pay attention to the stories that are missing. Attention, at its best, becomes care — and care leads to change.

Kõmij Mour Ijin / Our Life Is Here team, Cape Farewell and UC Berkeley visiting campus before the launch event. From left to right: Shannon Jackson (Cyrus and Michelle Hadidi Professor of the Arts & Humanities, Department Chair of History of Art), Amy Kisch (Curator and Cultural Strategist), Michael Light (Artist), Svea Lin Soll (Curator and Art Consultant), David Buckland (Artist and Founder of Cape Farewell), Pia Sazani (Artist, educator, and researcher) and Jihan Loo (Ph.D. Student, Performance Studies)

HL: With your entrepreneurial venture, Svea Lin Soll, now encompassing art advising, curating, and artist coaching, what is your greatest ambition for this next chapter, and how do you hope your work will impact the next generation of artists and cultural practitioners?

This is a great question. I’ve been doing a lot of my own future planning lately — not just for projects, but for how I want to live and work — and it’s something I help artists with, too. Thinking about the future isn’t just about goals; it’s about orientation. When you set an outcome or imagine where you want your work to take you, it gives shape to how you move through the present. It doesn’t mean you’ll end up exactly there, but having a direction matters. It anchors your purpose and gives you something to aim toward.

There’s a general consensus that art has value — culturally, emotionally, even economically — but there’s still a huge gap between society valuing creativity and artists actually making a sustainable living from their work. I want to help close that gap. My goal is for artists to feel confident running their practices like the small businesses they are: to understand their worth, manage their time and money, and make decisions from a place of clarity, not scarcity.

I have idealism in my DNA, but it’s tempered by experience. I’ve seen how messy, unpredictable, and cyclical this field can be. I do hope I can model a way of working that’s both idealistic and grounded — to show that you can care deeply about the work and care about making it viable. The art world is changing fast, and that’s okay. Things fall apart, new things take shape. I just want to stay part of the building process — hopefully in a way that makes it a little easier for artists to thrive.