To stand in front of El Anatsui’s Black River is to face a shimmering and rippled wall, its effect immediate and sublime. But this majestic tapestry is not made of precious metals; these are used bottle caps and wrappers from beer and liquor distilleries near the artist’s studio in Nsukka, Nigeria, stitched together with copper wire by dozens of studio assistants.

Anatsui was inspired to use bottle caps after finding a plastic bag full of them by the side of the road, and has since created many works similar to Black River. These pieces are changeable, not meant to be static or even final: every time they are draped, they look different. The artist leaves it to others, usually curators, to decide how his sculpture should hang on a wall or be placed on a surface. This trust in collaboration is a rare and humble conviction.

The first time I saw Anatsui’s work, I was hooked. There is so much here: Anatsui himself has made the historical connection between liquor and the transatlantic slave trade; I think of quilts, their making and how they hang in a gallery, like curtains; traditional African textiles, like kente cloth from Ghana, where Anatsui was born; consumerism; alcoholism; transforming trash into something exalted.

And then there’s the connection between all the people who handled, used, and worked with these materials, from the people who made the liquor to the people who drank it to the studio workers to Anatsui and you and me.

We can’t see one another in person right now, but Black River reminds me of the ways we are still connected. Think about the people who made the objects in the room you’re in right now. The person who brought them to a shop or your doorstep. The families who owned a piece of used furniture before you. And Anatsui and his studio assistants, who bring these luminous forms with their own layered histories to us. Though we are pining for life to return to normal, it’s hard to be down when beauty like this exists.