Interview: Brigette Hoffman Explores Freedom and Control in Dreams Without Riders

With German and Nicaraguan roots, Brigette Hoffman has established herself in Miami as one of the most distinctive emerging voices in contemporary art. Trained at the Academy of Fine Arts in Hamburg, her practice moves fluidly between painting, sculpture, installation, and physical animation, always guided by a visual language charged with symbols and contrasts. She has participated in artist residencies across the United States and Europe, and now presents Dreams Without Riders—on view through October 4 at homework—a solo exhibition that marks a new chapter in her career.

We sat down with the artist to talk about the project, and one theme kept resurfacing in her words: the pursuit of balance between control and freedom. Hoffman explained how the theories of Carl Jung and Dolores Cannon inspired her to explore self-integration and the possibility of building one’s own path.

In Dreams Without Riders, that tension takes shape in bicycles without cyclists and empty circus tents, symbols of movement, possibility, and resistance against imposed scripts.

Through childhood memories, spiritual reflections, and a critical lens on systems that condition our choices, Hoffman shares a vision that challenges us to rethink freedom and authorship in our lives.

Your exhibition “Dreams Without Riders” explores the idea of control and the absence of it. What first drew you to this theme?

The inspiration behind Dreams Without Riders comes from a mix of psychological, philosophical, and personal reflections. One of the biggest influences was Carl Jung’s theory of the Self—particularly his idea that we are constantly working to integrate all the parts of who we are: our conscious thoughts, our desires, and the deeper layers of the psyche that shape our identity. That process of integration really resonated with me, especially the idea that we spend so much of our lives trying to find balance and alignment with ourselves. The exhibition explores that tension—between direction and freedom, between the life we’ve been taught to live and the life we’re truly meant to build.

I was also inspired by the way people either claim their path or abandon it. Some people wake up every day doing what they love,  building lives that reflect who they really are. I’ve seen that firsthand, and it’s powerful. But I’ve also met just as many people who  feel stuck—stuck in jobs they hate, stuck in routines that drain them, stuck in this belief that they can’t leave or start over. That frustrates me to no end. It bothers me that so many people are living only to survive, feeling like they don’t have permission to follow what lights them up.

And I say that with experience—I’ve felt that way too. I’ve felt stuck, cornered even, by what I thought I was “allowed” to do with  my life or what I believed I had to do just to survive. For a long time, it felt like I was choosing between doing something I loved  and being “realistic.” But that narrative is false. We all have the power to shape our lives, even when it feels like we don’t. That realization changed everything for me, and it’s a big part of why this exhibition exists.

I was also influenced by the ideas of Dolores Cannon, especially her thoughts around how our lives may be mapped out in some  ways, but we still have the power to shape how we move through it. We’re not powerless. We’re not stuck. We have the ability to  choose a different path at any moment, even if it’s not the one that’s considered “normal” or “safe.”

What I want this exhibition to say is: don’t be afraid to take your own path. Don’t be afraid to walk away from the script or the  ‘’circus’’ of things. The world doesn't need more people fitting in—it needs more people doing what they love. If more of us were living in alignment with who we really are, doing the work that excites and fulfills us, I truly believe the world would feel completely different. We hold more power than we’re often led to believe—and it's time more of us started using it.

Bicycles without riders and circus imagery appear as central symbols in this show. How did you arrive at choosing these  elements, and what do they mean to you?

The bicycles and circus imagery in the show are actually kind of a mix of an old idea and new inspiration. I’ve wanted to create a  diorama of bicycles for a long time now—it's one of those concepts that’s been floating around in my head for ages, something I dug up from way back. The bike thing really resonates with me because I spent a lot of time in Germany, a place with a huge bike culture. It’s just part of the lifestyle there, and for me, it always felt so freeing. I never felt stuck when I was on a bike. It’s simple,  but it’s also like a constant reminder that we have the power to move, to explore, to be free. And I love that.

There’s also this deeper connection to the idea of a wheel. I’m drawn to that imagery, like the wheel of a bike or even a train hopper’s wheel. To me, a wheel kind of symbolizes home—it’s always in motion, but it’s also something that stays with you wherever you go. No matter where life takes you, you’ve got that stability and flow, all wrapped up in one. It's freedom, but it’s  also being whole and rooted, even when you're constantly moving. That idea really stuck with me.

As for the circus, it sort of came in as a clue, not something I set out to do. I started with stripes—something about them felt like they belonged in the work, so I began to imagine a space full of them. That led me to circus tents. A circus tent is kind of a facade, right? It’s not a home, but it has that feel of being a place where things happen, where you’re invited in, but you don’t really know what’s going on inside until you step through the entrance. And the tents I made are empty. Like an empty circus ground with bikes roaming around, no riders. It’s like a space for movement, but nothing’s fixed—it’s all in a state of constant flux.  That emptiness, that feeling of open possibility, felt right.

So, the bikes and the circus—they’re really about movement, freedom, and possibility. They’re not about having everything figured out or defined. The bikes are moving freely, the tents are standing empty—they’re both about being on a journey, one that’s always in motion but also always grounded in the idea that you’re moving toward something, even if you don’t know exactly what it is. It’s that balance between feeling rooted and being free to roam, between structure and chaos. That’s the kind of tension I wanted to explore.

You’re an artist with German and Nicaraguan roots, currently based in Miami. How does your multicultural background shape your work?

My multicultural background definitely plays a big role in how I approach my work, even if it’s not always super obvious at first  glance. On a visual level, I’d say a lot of the color in my work is influenced by my Nicaraguan side—my mom’s side. The colors of the homes and cities in Nicaragua have always stuck with me. Everything is painted in these rich, bold tones—turquoise, coral,  yellow, green—it’s like walking through a painting. Even in the smallest towns, the colors are so full of life. Then you have the  festivals and parades, which just take it to another level—there’s this playful, chaotic energy that’s so inspiring. But for me, it’s really the colors of the homes that hit the hardest. There’s something really personal and grounding about them—like everyday  people expressing themselves in simple but powerful ways through color.

On the flip side, I think a lot of the darker elements and dry humor that show up in my work come more from my German side —my dad’s side. That’s where the more serious tone comes in, sometimes the structure, and definitely the sarcasm or weirdness that shows up in subtle ways. It’s kind of like my mom’s side is the warm, friendly surface, and my dad’s side brings in the edge, the mood, the questioning underneath it all. That contrast definitely shapes how my work looks and feels—colorful and playful at first glance, but with something more complex going on underneath.

And I don’t mean to say Germany is dark or cold or anything like that—actually, I find a lot of joy and inspiration in Germany too. I’ve spent a lot of time there, and there’s a deep sense of thoughtfulness and precision in the culture that I really appreciate.  There’s also a quiet kind of beauty in everyday life there that’s stuck with me. So both sides of my background really show up in my work—in color, in tone, in the way I build a visual language that’s both light and heavy at the same time.

Your work engages with theories from figures like Carl Jung, Dolores Cannon, and Guy Debord. How do these philosophical and psychological references feed into your creative process?

The gallers thought that Debord’s ‘’Society of the spectacle’’ sits nicely in the tension with Jung and Cannon that I was exploring, as it depicts a world where appearances and roles replace real experience… much like the world we live in today. It ties into the critique of external systems that keep people stuck, distracted or passive. True freedom begins when we refuse to be entertained into passivity and instead choose lives that are lived, not just watched.  

You completed an artist residency in Little River, Miami, where much of this exhibition took shape. How did that time contribute to your growth as a creator?

My time in Little River was truly magical. It felt like time stood still while I was in the studio, completely absorbed in the work.  The space gave me such a sense of freedom—something I think every artist craves during a residency. Having room to think and create without distractions made ideas come to me so much more easily. Alongside that, I had the joy of welcoming wonderful visitors—friends, fellow artists, and dreamers—who would come by, share their thoughts, and reflect on the work with me.  

A big part of what made that time so special was the team at Homework Gallery. Their support was beyond what I could have hoped for. We built a real connection, and over time, they got to know me—not just as an artist, but as a person. That kind of relationship felt incredibly meaningful, and I loved seeing them often. They made me feel like I was part of something bigger, and  that sense of belonging added so much depth to the whole experience. It’s a residency I’ll carry with me forever.  

Your pieces invite viewers to become active participants in the story, almost like “silent narrators.” What do you hope visitors feel or discover when engaging with this exhibition?

It’s true, I do want the viewers to become the storytellers. As a visual storyteller, I’m much more interested in seeing what others bring to the work and how they interpret it in their minds. I find it especially fascinating to hear from people who aren’t necessarily immersed in the art world—those who don’t have much art in their lives. Their responses always intrigue me the most.  Sometimes the things I hear are so unexpected, and that’s what keeps me curious. 

If I could tell stories with words, I would, but that’s just not my natural medium. With this work, I hope to awaken that little part  of the brain—the part that’s linked to creativity, the part that usually stays dormant unless it’s called upon. It's the same part that activates when we learn a new language. When people engage with my work, I want that creative side of their brain to come alive.  If I were always to tell the viewer exactly what they’re looking at, it would take away from the experience for me. It’s like, what's the point of making the work if I’m just going to hand them the story? I want the viewer to feel like they’re a part of it, too.

Many critics see your work as an exploration of spirituality and childlike imagination. What role do memory and your own childhood play in your art?

My childhood was a mix of extremes—like a playground where you swing so high you feel like you could fly, and then you get a little scratch or a boo-boo from the gravel when you fall off, but you always get back up and keep going. There was the thrill of soaring, and then the reality of a minor scrape, but both were part of the experience, shaping how I see life today—a balance of beauty and bumps, bliss and bruises.

I wasn’t just the dreamy kid sitting in the corner—I played tag and ran around with everyone. But I also had this deep connection to stories, like how much I loved Matilda as a child. I wanted to be her so badly. To this day, I think, "Why was I so drawn to that  movie?" It wasn’t just about the magic—though that was a part of it—it was the way Matilda, a little girl born into a life she didn’t choose, took control of it with her own sense of power. I believe that as humans, we all have some kind of magic hidden deep within us, a power that’s often forgotten or suppressed. The idea that we have the ability to shape our own path, even when life doesn’t hand it to us, really resonated with me.

I had a pretty ideal childhood in many ways—love, stability, a big house, and a full family. But I also saw the other side, losing much of that, and it made me realize how fleeting everything can be. I think that contrast made me a wise and resilient kid— someone who understood that life wasn’t always a straight path and that joy and pain were often woven together, just like the ups  and downs of that playground. After losing both my parents, I’ve become even more curious about what happens when the soul leaves this earth. It’s like I’ve been handed a backstage pass to the mysteries of life after death, and now I’m just trying to figure out what the hell’s going on over there.

I’ve always believed that big ideas can be expressed in simple ways. Like when a 3- or 4-year-old paints something raw and unrefined, but it tells you more about them than they could ever say in words. That’s the kind of purity I try to capture in my own work—where the meaning isn’t always obvious, but it’s there, under the surface. It’s what makes life feel more magical, like there’s always something else to discover.

I don’t often consciously pull memories into my work, but when it happens, it’s like everything clicks in a weirdly synchronized  way. My memory’s horrible, so it’s not something I plan or search for, but occasionally, my work will take me back to a moment or feeling I hadn’t thought about in years. When it happens, it’s almost like the universe is giving me a nudge, making me realize  that, somehow, I’m more connected to all of this than I realize.

Since losing my parents, I’ve never felt closer to them. Sometimes I get the feeling that they understand my art now more than ever…even more than I do. They probably know why I make it, or why I choose the things I do, more than I can figure out for myself. It’s like I can almost hear them up there, watching over me, shaking their heads and saying, “She’ll figure it out...  eventually.”

After this exhibition, what projects or creative territories would you like to explore next?

First, I’d like to take a vacation. A real one. One where I don’t accidentally end up in a hardware store or ceramic supply shop  “just to look.” I think after pouring so much into this show, I need a bit of stillness — or at least some distance from my own  brain.

After that, I’d like to return to claymation. It’s something I’ve worked with before, and it’s been quietly waiting for me while I’ve been in full painting-and-sculpture mode. This show has been such a purge — a deep, physical release — that now I feel ready to shift into something more controlled, more obsessive. Animation is slower, more technical, but it lets me explore a different kind  of storytelling. It’s like giving breath to small, strange things — and I miss that.

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