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Tutu Gallery New York




 Tutu Gallery is tucked inside a brownstone in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, with no sign suggesting there is an art space within. When I first stepped into Tutu, I felt a bit awkward—as I was literally entering someone’s living room. Artworks were scattered across the wall, the wooden floor, and the fireplace mantel. Some even extended into the kitchen, next to a fridge covered in exhibition flyers and Polaroid photos. A black cat roamed the apartment; later I learned that the gallery was named after her—Tutu.

April Z started Tutu in 2019, during the time between completing her BFA and beginning her MA at New York University. The shows took place in her entire living space, which she calls a DIY gallery. Besides exhibitions, April—often in collaboration with curators and artists—has organized screenings, casual concerts, and communal meals. Independent spaces are not uncommon in today’s art scene, and Tutu, viewed in that scope, is perhaps a relatively modest one.

I first went to Tutu in 2022, when a friend told me that an interesting gallery had just moved to a new location and was having an opening. It was October—almost winter. April was busy making a fire in the backyard. That night, we gathered around the flames, chatting with old and new friends. At the time, I didn’t know I would gradually develop a strong bond with this place—just like many artists, especially international ones, while living in or passing through New York. For many of us, it became a nest for sharing new practices and thoughts, for unwinding from concerns and nostalgic moments in life.

Tutu has always reminded us that friendship is not in concept but in practice. I know I’m not the only one who has grown together with Tutu—the gallery has supported many emerging art workers on their paths. For this very first interview we did for countercurrent, we hope to share a few sparks about what it means to make a DIY art space, and to reflect on moments spent in such an intimate place—one filled with confusion, accident, struggle, joy, and freedom.




April Z, Yindi Chen, Yutong Shi, November 20, 2024

Yindi    

What was the first space of Tutu like?

April    

The first space has the same layout as the current one. The floor was a little bit nicer, and the space was a little bit larger. The kitchen and the living room were probably twice as big as the ones I have right now. 

Yindi    

Which area did you live in?

April    

It was Bed-Stuy. I always wanted to stay in Bed-Stuy.

Yutong    

Why?

April    

I had a lover living in Bed-Stuy when I was in college in another state, so I spent a lot of time in the neighborhood when I could. I feel like I have already moved so far overseas and don't like moving around more on top of that. 
        Bed-Stuy is also super diverse. It’s a historic Black neighborhood. There are also Hasidic Jewish people and Asian students around Pratt. I like observing them on my walks.

Yutong    

So you were already familiar with the neighborhood before you relocated to New York after college. What prompted you to open Tutu?

April    

It was really a combination of past experiences and chance. My college was a small town in the middle of nowhere. There were no art galleries and almost no music venues, so students had to organize everything themselves. If you wanted to see a band, you had to figure out how to invite them to town, what kind of lineup you wanted, and how to secure equipment and spaces. The event was usually happening at someone’s apartment in the basement, or in the woods. I wasn’t organizing most of these events, but I was always around, watching how people made things work. I really appreciated that kind of energy and DIY spirit.
        Oh, and I started making music back in high school. But one thing I didn’t love about it was how much you have to travel and constantly shift your environment. I still love music, but the lifestyle itself didn’t quite fit me. After I moved to New York, I felt like playing with a band wasn’t my foremost goal anymore. I have always admired people who create a space for others, and I wanted to try doing that myself. 
        At first, I started browsing apartments just for fun. Then I saw one that instantly made me imagine it as a gallery. A big plus was the backyard so my cat could go outside. But it wouldn’t make any sense if I were just renting a place this big and expensive just for Tutu to have a yard. So, it really was a combination of things coming together, and I did it out of a random impulse.

Yindi    

I think this feeling of being settled is kind of related to a DIY art space at home—you have a place that offers a sense of intimacy.

April    

I think another reason I wasn’t really doing well with traveling in the States was because of being on a Visa. I really need to have a sense of spatial stability. I think that’s part of the reason why I chose to start the gallery in a rather private setting, because it gives me a constant space of my own, and then people I feel safe with can come visit me here.

Yindi    

You also mentioned your cat Tutu. Why did you choose to name your gallery after her?

April    

First of all, she’s very important to me. And I’m really bad at naming things, so her name was the first thing that came to mind. In college, I also had the impression that a lot of people named their galleries after themselves. But isn’t the artist supposed to be the most important? It perplexed me why the gallerist’s name also needs to be in the mix. I always thought that was maybe a hypocritical norm, but also kind of funny. I just named the gallery after a cat—so it’s still someone’s name.

Yutong    

We all share a similar background—as immigrants or international students in the States—trying to navigate the art world on the East Coast. You’ve spoken a lot about what it was like when you first started this Tutu Gallery, and how much you appreciate the neighborhood, the sense of community, and the feeling of safety and home it gives you.
        I’m curious—what kind of space were you hoping to create for artists when you started? What was the ideal gallery you had in mind? And now that some time has passed, do you feel like there’s a gap between that ideal and the reality?

April    

I think it has changed a little bit. When I first started Tutu, I was simply sharing the DIY spirit I cultivated from my college community, and I wasn’t that impacted by my identity as an Asian female, or immigrant. I wanted to show a lot of fun stuff—not necessarily high art but something that felt refreshing and little-nonsense.
        Ideally, I want to create a memorable experience for people. You’re stepping into a sketchy, unknown, very humble space, and you get to socialize with artists at the very beginning of their careers which might even turn pretty prominent later, or you get inspired and go home to start your practice right away—that’s the kind of space I wanted to build.
        But after a couple of years, my own immigration anxiety was really sweeping in, and I started to see people paying a gallery to have an exhibition or buying press in New York. The immigration lawyers cost a lot of money too. There are rarely grants available for people like us. It just made me feel so bleak; it’s such a zero-sum game. One way I found to ease my anxiety is to gather people in a similar position; we all have limited resources but we pool them together and try to figure it out. 
        The most fun part of art is making something seemingly impossible happen in a surprising way. Around Tutu’s third year, it started to pivot more towards immigrant artists who use that approach in their practice.

Yindi    

Tutu is six years old now; I wonder how you see its future? Will you continue with the same mindset—supporting immigrant artists and those just starting their careers?

April    

Actually, at one point I considered going fully commercial—like getting a storefront in Chinatown. I was looking for potential partners and low-rent spaces. I didn’t feel like I could do it alone. But unfortunately, I couldn’t find a long-term partner to come up with a commercial version of Tutu.
        After last year, I started asking myself: Why did I even want a commercial space? I think, as the gallery got older, I wanted a sense of legitimacy. But then I realized—it would be kind of careless to equate legitimacy with upscaling. If I believe that reaching a certain scale or having a storefront will earn the project more respect, sure, that might feel good for a moment. But that kind of respect isn’t internal or lasting. 
        Later in the year, I forgot what kind of event I was doing at the gallery, but I was sitting there thinking, “God, I fucking love doing all these things from an apartment.” I just love that if someone’s in a bad mood, you can get up and make food for them. If someone’s tired, they can go into the bed and rest a little. You don’t get that in a commercial space. 

Yutong    

It’s very much about the care and kindness you can provide and receive from the community.

April    

I never started out with the community in mind. I think it’s more about comfort. And I wish the space was a little bit better—cleaner or maybe brighter. It doesn’t have to be fancy. 
        Right now, there’s this minimalistic, high-class kind of aesthetic that I see everywhere—even in porn. Porn has started to look increasingly standardized—a white room with white sheets. It’s super clean and presentable, but there’s no detail or aesthetics. The aesthetics of the last 10 years feels so barren, with less humanizing or unique design, in my opinion. I’m not really into that. Most galleries aren’t very human—they’re just white and empty. I also think a lot of the spaces we see now—bars, restaurants—are the same. It feels like a trend, like apartment buildings. It makes me feel really uncomfortable. 
        I always like the sense of wonder, and this goes into the inspiration I was talking about—things that are fun and more grounded, down-to-earth in terms of material or theme, with a lot of random elements. That’s why, for some exhibitions, I want something like a cartoon you would watch as a kid. You don’t have to have an art major to know about cartoons because it’s something universal. 

Yindi    

Tutu is usually very packed during openings, and people have to walk through your bedroom to get to the backyard. How do you feel about blending private and public spaces? 

April    

I think it’s totally fine. Mainly because people who come here usually have an insane intuition of boundaries. What often happens is that the bedroom becomes kind of a VIP area. I think people who come for the first few times try to navigate away from it a little bit and are usually in the backyard. People who are close to the artist are talking in the front room. And there are people who tend to bring beer, put them in the fridge, just stand in the kitchen, and talk to others. Honestly, I think if you set it up in a way that isn’t so rigid, things tend to fall into place in a very natural way, so I’m not worried about it. 

Yindi    

You are the only person running the gallery, and now you also have a full-time job. I wonder how you balance your projects and your work? 

April    

Because I’m not relying on gallery revenue to live, I think that gives me more freedom in choosing what I will work with. I’m also trying to adjust my expectations a little, changing my work pace with the gallery. I think about money and labor a lot. Ironically speaking, running this gallery is the only time when I don’t have to think about those two things that much.

Yutong    

What's the next thing that you really want to do with Tutu Gallery?

April    

I think I’m just maintaining the status quo a little bit. But I’m realizing certain things. For example, as I grow older, I’m not going to know as many artists who are just graduating. I’m not going to be in that world forever, so there has to be some change to the gallery.
            Another thing is that I got really sick last year and this year, and I’m realizing maybe my cat isn’t going to be here forever either, though I know this isn’t related to the technical running of the gallery. I’m in a weird state where I know things will eventually move on, but they haven’t yet. Even in my personal life, with my family. I know things will move, but I just feel so tired after the past 10 years.
            I’ve tried little things, like thinking, “Why don’t I start making art?” “What if I start doing more social experiment-type stuff with performance artists?” There’s already a certain kind of social experiment element to the space, and I think that would make me really happy. 

Yindi    

I feel Tutu is always somewhere we could go to, somewhere for friendship. I know you’re not consciously thinking about community, but I feel you have created it around your space.

April    

I don’t like the word “community” that much. I think the community here has a certain soft meaning—it’s about altruistic giving, with no agenda behind it, or it’s a space where people are just surviving. They’re not excelling, but the community is there as a safe net when they’re low. Tutu is more like a network, because I don’t believe people here, including me, will keep scraping by.
       Sometimes I’d like to think about it as a political body. We as a polity should be able to make things happen together. That’s the key: the more agency we feel like we have, the better. I don’t want to be a government, but I like the idea of this space being more than just a safety netor maybe it can be a space with magical powers.
        However, that magical feeling isn’t always there: Maintaining the status quo is what I’m doing right now, but I know it’s a kind of dangerous thing to do. If you don’t go through the motions thoughtfully, you easily end up losing your time and inspiration. I’d like to think everyone starts in art because they’re genuinely interested in it, but after a while, it’s easy to forget. It’s like a marriage to me—sometimes I think about my relationship with art as a marriage. I’m trying not to make big changes to it right now, but I know if I don’t stay engaged a fallout will happen down the road. I’m not sure I can stay engaged. Nowadays I spend time on new hobbies, like fishing, or I clean and take walks in the city and make sure to do my chores. I started going to the sea at night this week and I got a sleeping bag and I plan on sleeping by the sea some nights this summer.

Yindi    

Are there any independent spaces you recommend?

April    

Paul’s Pocket (保罗的口袋), a bookstore in Hefei, China. It was the first alternative space I got to know, my first best friend Amber took me there. It has closed down. And Accent Sisters—they just moved to Union Square, but I miss their New Jersey space.


April updated this conversation on May 29, 2025.

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