Recently, I had the pleasure of visiting Bill Claps at his studio in Long Island City—a sunlit space nestled among industrial facades, where traces of steel and story echo through every canvas. Known for his gold foil–infused abstractions and process-driven conceptual work, Bill is not only a visual artist but a thinker whose practice bridges continents, centuries, and spiritual traditions. As we spoke among his latest works—some shimmering with hand-applied gold, others coded in contemporary Morse—the feeling was unmistakable: This is an artist channeling something quietly powerful.
With my background in art business and cultural placemaking, I’ve had the honor of working with artists who not only craft beauty, but meaning. Bill’s work lives in that intersection—where symbolism meets surface, and ancient technique is reimagined for a modern lens. His journey moves fluidly between Italy, Japan, and New York, but the themes—light, memory, ritual, transformation—are universal. It struck me just how much his pieces would resonate in a community like Saratoga Springs, a place that understands the value of artistry, nature, and timeless craft.
What follows is an intimate conversation with Bill—on codes and gold, blacksmiths and Buddhism, wrestling and reflection. Whether you’re deeply familiar with conceptual art or just stepping into the world of visual language, I hope you’ll find in his words, as I did in his studio, a kind of quiet resonance. The kind that lingers.
NI: Your work often fuses language and visual form—can you walk us through what sparked the idea of using Morse code as a kind of abstract handwriting?
BC: In the past, my work was much more abstract. It was about energy and movement and feeling, so it was much more emotional than narrative or intellectual or conceptual. At a certain point I began to feel that I wanted to communicate more ideas and tell more stories with my work. I started playing with text in the work, but I didn’t like the work being so literal, and I wanted to leave some mystery and engage the viewer more and force them to participate, to have to figure out the work. So, I started thinking about the idea of code communicating an idea through symbols.
I researched a lot of different kinds of visual codes and was looking for something with an interesting history that would also work well esthetically with the images I wanted to use. I started thinking about Morse code, which I had learned as a child in the Scouts. Morse code was one of the first digital codes, developed in the 1830s, and it is the first universal language of the digital age. It is “modern,” but is no longer used, so it also has a retro aspect to it, which to me is really important, particularly with my series It’s All Derivative, which plays with art history. Also, it was developed by Samuel Morse, who was an artist and an inventor, which I also found intriguing (I also have several patents for an apparatus I invented and I was intrigued by this artistic/scientific connection).
And on a purely visual and graphic level, Morse code works very well, because it’s comprised of dots and its dashes. It’s simple, it’s clean, and you can also abstract the elements very readily; you can make them larger, smaller, distort them, and allow them to fit the background of another image.
Additionally, I was drawn to the fact that the code was transmitted manually, so even though it’s digital, there’s still a connection to the hand, which has always been a strong element in the art that I respond to the most.
NI: The gold foil in your pieces is so striking. What pulled you toward that material, and what kind of energy do you think it brings to your work?
BC: Gold has always held a powerful place in visual culture—across time and across traditions. It symbolizes immortality, divinity…even perfection. But what draws me to it most is how it interacts with light. As daylight shifts, it breathes new life into the piece and it evolves. That metaphysical quality feels deeply aligned with what I’m trying to explore in my work.
I was especially influenced by the use of gold in Byzantine art—how it was used not just ornamentally, but symbolically, as a representation of divine light. In Chinese and Japanese art as well, gold leaf was used to open up space and gesture toward something spiritual—like the concept of emptiness in Buddhism.
So, when I began the It’s All Derivative series, I wanted to take those historical references and apply them in a contemporary context. The gold foil in my work is hand-applied, layered, textured, and it becomes part of the narrative of the artwork. Texture is very important in these works, from both a visual and conceptual point of view. Texture is history; it tells a story of the object.
As I transitioned to my Natural Abstractions series, I continued using the same gold foil process on black and white images, but this time on images of the natural world. The works are very reflective: literally and figuratively. As you move around the work, the colors change, and the reflections change, and the work evolves over time as the light of the day changes, much as how in nature the light on a tree changes its appearance from the morning light until dark. This emphasizes the concept of the ephemeral nature of existence, and reminds the viewer that often what’s most powerful is what can’t be captured directly.
NI: You spend time in both Italy and Japan—two countries with a deep respect for craft and quiet beauty. What does each place leave with you artistically?
BC: Italy has been a part of my life for a long time. I’ve lived, worked, and done exhibitions there, and I have dual US/Italian citizenship. The history, the architecture, the way of life—it all contributes to a kind of reverence for craftsmanship that’s deeply influenced the way I approach making art. You’re surrounded by centuries of layered beauty, and that naturally seeps into your process.
Japan, on the other hand, has been a more recent focus, but it’s been incredibly formative as well. My interest in Asian culture actually began through martial arts, which I started practicing when I was twelve. I was obsessed with kung fu movies, which led me to explore Chinese and Japanese philosophy and art. After college, I spent a year traveling mostly through Asia, and it was there that I really connected with the traditions of Asian landscape painting.
What struck me was the simplicity and spiritual dimension—how much Asian artists could convey through simple brushstrokes and empty space. And the idea that humans are integral parts of nature, not separate or superior to it. I started incorporating this sensibility into my own work, and it eventually led to my Natural Abstractions series. This body of work is my way of paying tribute to the lineage of Asian landscape traditions, which are less about capturing a specific place and more about the relationship between humanity and nature. Traditions that also laid the groundwork for so much of 20th century abstraction.
Recently, I’ve been spending more time in Japan as I help develop a martial arts school and artist residency on Tsushima Island—the birthplace of Samurai culture. It’s an incredibly beautiful, mountainous place filled with ancient Shinto and Buddhist shrines that holds a profound sense of history and introspection. Like Italians, the Japanese value attention to detail, respect for tradition, and a kind of elegance in restraint. All of this finds its way into my work.
NI: For readers who might be newer to conceptual or process-based art, what’s something you hope they feel—or even just notice—when they stand in front of one of your pieces?
BC: I want viewers to experience a quiet reverence—a feeling for the mystical power of nature that transcends the image itself.
NI: Your work seems to hold space for both personal history and universal symbols. How do memory and meaning weave into your art—and how have your frequent travels to Asia shaped this visual language?
BC: My first trip to Asia was several decades ago, and that experience has stayed with me ever since. It marked the beginning of a long relationship with the region—a relationship that continues to shape my thinking, my aesthetics, and my approach to symbolism.
Lately, I’ve been playing with the idea of symbols in contemporary art—how they carry layered meaning across time and culture. Take the sword, for example. In my recent work, the sword isn’t just a weapon—it’s a symbol of tradition, discipline, and transformation. It holds weight in both Eastern and Western contexts, which gives it a powerful dual resonance.
I’m also working on a project that involves designing a mawashi—the ceremonial belt worn by sumo wrestlers—for a professional Japanese Sumo wrestler. Wrestling was the sport that shaped me as a young man and taught me discipline and focus. I wrestled competitively for many years, through college, and I’ve also wrestled and won sumo matches in Japan. That piece is particularly meaningful because it ties together my past, craftsmanship, ritual, and identity in a way that feels both ancient and completely alive.
These gestures, whether visual or material, allow me to weave memory into form and history into presence. That’s where meaning lives for me—in the intersection of my personal experience and shared cultural language.
NI: What’s on your studio wall (or mind) right now? Are there new ideas or materials you’re itching to experiment with next?
BC: I have a studio in a 500-year-old iron forge in Bienno, Italy, a village in the Italian Alps that is known for its 2,000-year-old iron industry and for producing armor for the Venetian empire. On the walls of my studio are images of knives that my grandfather, who trained as a blacksmith in Italy, made as a young man. He emigrated to the US and worked as an ornamental iron craftsman, and much of my extended family has been in the steel business for several generations. I also worked in steel yards during summers in high school and college. So, I feel very much at home here in Bienno.
Until now I’ve never made sculptural works, or worked with iron or steel, but since coming to Bienno I’ve been planning projects that use steel forging processes. For one project I’ve invited a Japanese master blacksmith who makes Katana swords using 1,500-year-old traditional processes to Bienno to work with an Italian master sword-maker who uses medieval northern Italian techniques. By combining their two processes, we will produce a new sword that mixes the designs, traditions, and DNA of the east and west, which is what I have been aiming for my entire artistic career.
