Interview – Numéro Berlin

In Conversation with Benjamin Heidersberger

Anna Klusmeier — Tue, 29 Jul 2025 10:29:53 +0000

I meet Benjamin Heidersberger in his home. The calm piano sounds playing in the background aren’t just ambient music, they’re The Pentatonic Permutations, his long-term project. By combining a simple scale and a complex algorithm, he programmed a determined sequence of sounds in which no combination ever repeats.

We spoke about time, about being both an artist and the son of one, and about the quiet network of people connected through his life’s work.

If you want to become part of this network and stay connected to Benjamin Heidersberger, use the QR code below to stream The Pentatonic Permutations.

Benjamin Heidersberger: Is it okay that the music is running in the background like this?

Franka Magon: Yes, let’s talk about it directly. Right now we’re listening to your work: The Pentatonic Permutations, right?

Exactly. It’s a project I’ve been working on for 15 years now, and it’s increasingly become a part of my life. That means I live with it, it’s running basically day and night. It’s a bit of an attempt to assign unique melodies to the entire span of time, from the Big Bang until 16 trillion years into the future, and thus create a coordinate system for time. Every melody is unique, and I’m continually expanding it. For the past one and a half years, I’ve been streaming it worldwide with about 2000 hours listened to per month.

This is your art. What role does art play in your life in general?

I come from an artistic household, my mother was an actress, my father a photographer. I myself actually studied physics, biology, and computer science. So I come more from the sciences. At 30, I veered into art.

At first I always worked in collectives, that’s a completely different process, you’re never the sole originator. At some point I felt the desire to create something on my own, and that’s how this project came about. It’s perhaps a bit like a coming-out as an artist. Every artist wants to communicate in some way, to be seen. Suddenly you’re standing there alone in the world and have to take responsibility for what you’re creating. For me, that’s actually been a positive process.

In what way has your parents’ work influenced your own? You took a different path at first, was there a need to distance yourself from art?

I definitely benefited greatly from my parents, they gave me a lot of freedom. From my father I picked up a lot of technical skills, and I got to know photography in depth. He had a beautiful workshop in the castle in Wolfsburg, and I was able to experiment a lot there.

Yes, they’re two parents you really like to have as parents, whom you also like as people. That has an influence — in terms of intellectual freedom, inspiration. But if all is culture, all is intellectual, that’s almost too much of it. Of course you also have to push back a bit against that.

Today, among other things, I manage my father’s estate in the Heidersberger Institute, which I founded together with Bernd Rodrian and the City of Wolfsburg. That’s not always an easy confrontation, because you’re also promoting another artist in a way. But I’ve actually been handling that quite well, still, I’m now trying to gain a bit more distance from it and focus on my own work again.

Still, you remain spatially connected to your parents through your commuting between Wolfsburg and Berlin. What exactly is your relationship with these two places?

Wolfsburg is my hometown, but it’s a prototypical industrial city, and that brings a certain narrowness with it. At some point I wanted to get out. After Hamburg and Hanover, I moved to Berlin in 2010. Berlin is a really amazing city , with crazy possibilities, with crazy people, it’s very impressive. Of course, it also has many downsides , there are too many tourists, and Berlin is often cheap, not in terms of rent but in the sense that what Berliners like is often a bit cheap.

I could also imagine moving somewhere else at some point, maybe to India, which I feel closely connected to. For 20 years now, I’ve been spending my winters there in a monastery.

So spirituality plays a role for you?

Spirituality plays a big role in my life.

I believe that the biggest accusation one can make against capitalism is that it deprives people of the meaning of their lives. I believe that the true task of a human being is to find out who we really are. Not in the sense of doing therapy and approaching it psychologically, but rather to understand and discover this essential core of being that we all share, and to integrate that into life. And I believe that’s what we call a spiritual path.

Connecting this back to your work, The Pentatonic Permutations, with spirituality, questions of infinity or finiteness always come into play. Where does your work fit into that?

So, from the Big Bang until today, only one-thousandth of the total composition has been played. Sixteen trillion years is a pretty long time, but it is finite. That was very important to me, I could have written the program so that it loops after that, but I decided that it ends.

To see it in a more spiritual light: we have to use this finite time we’ve been given. At some point it’s over, or maybe it’s not but we still have to make use of the time we have here on this earth, in this body.

On the topic of time: You had the first idea for the algorithm in the 1980s, with the collective, with your friend Peter Elsner. It was a different idea, of course, but still something similar. What impact did this long period of time have on the final creative process or how the work exists today? It probably differs somewhat from the original idea.

I have to say, I was a different person back then, and perhaps it doesn’t have that much to do with the original idea anymore.

What has remained is the idea of an algorithmically based composition. Even back then, it would have had to run on a computer, otherwise it wouldn’t really make sense.

What’s also remained is the expansion of the composition into the world. That’s what I’m doing now with the streaming. My idea is to create a network of people listening at the same time. No matter where you are, you hear the same thing. And that sense of simultaneity is a very important moment in listening for me.

My intention is that the composition helps people find peace.. There are often phases between the notes where nothing happens, or where you have to really listen. It’s ambient music, it doesn’t impose itself on you, you have to listen carefully, actively observe what’s happening between yourself and what you hear. That’s a bit of the idea behind it.

This connection you speak of also emerges between your home and that of strangers. You are part of the network.

I’m part of this network and probably the one who listens the most. It connects me to the world. Art is also always about being seen. And that’s always a form of the artist communicating with the world. In that sense, I’m also creating a communication offering.

Communication also changes with technological progress. And that has enormously changed the way your work can be experienced today. Has the work itself also changed as a result?

What’s important is that it’s generated algorithmically, meaning there’s a formula behind it. It’s entirely deterministic. What it is not, and that’s also very important to me, is artificial intelligence. It’s just like a world clock.

Even though AI is not yet part of the work, it could of course open up new possibilities. Do you see ways of integrating it in the future?

I view AI very critically. I think it will change us. I think soon we won’t know what’s true and what’s false. And that will bring a huge upheaval, possibly even a tragic one, because we might lose our footing. So I’m very cautious about the use of AI. But I’m currently planning performances across Germany and abroad. There will be a visual extension of the work. I could imagine that it might involve something with AI, but I don’t know yet.

Armin Boehm: To revolt against myself is the most beautiful kind of fight

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 25 Jul 2025 11:02:00 +0000

When I first encountered Armin’s paintings, I was drawn into them as though entering a fever dream. His vibrant worlds teem with obscure personalities, subtle messages, and an undercurrent of unseen abysses. One could spend hours before them and still uncover new details. The same holds true for the painter himself – an entire novel could unfold in conversation with him. For this issue, I met him in his studio to discuss the theme of fighting, a subject he knows better than almost any other artist.

Ann-Kathrin Riedl: What was the biggest fight of your life?

Armin Boehm: Without sounding dramatic, I’d honestly say the biggest fight was literally for my life – because I almost lost it in an accident. Between the ages of 16 and 21, my biggest struggle was simply to recover. The explosion set my body back by years. I couldn’t do the things others my age were doing physically. I had to reinvent myself, to build a new identity. I felt different – like an alien. For years, I lived with pain, fear, and near-death experiences. Becoming an artist was never my dream or goal. I had very different problems. Maybe you’re born an artist without even realizing it. But that fight for survival, and the confrontation with my own mortality, awakened something in me that had long been dormant.

AR: Was there any artistic influence in your background? Did you grow up in a creative household?

AB: Not at all. I come from a family of engineers, lawyers and businesspeople – art wasn’t a big topic in our house. I was a pretty rebellious child, so my parents only offered moderate resistance when I decided to apply to art school. I think they also just couldn’t picture me working behind a bank counter or in an office.

AR: How did you personally feel that artistic spark?

AB: I’ve been drawing for as long as I can remember. And when I was halfway recovered, I started working with oil paints. As a child, I used watercolors, but they dry so fast. Oil paint was different. There was this silky, beautiful sensation – you could build entire atmospheres with it and completely lose yourself in the process. I walked around like a young bohemian, always dressed in black, wearing a beret. As soon as I got my driver’s license, I started traveling to Paris. I’d go to the Louvre, photograph the paintings that spoke to me, and develop the photos at home so I could study them closely. During my recovery, I gradually got lost in this universe of painting. Maybe it helped that my body was still very restricted – painting didn’t require intense physical effort. My hands were intact, and my eyesight slowly returned. Painting became a world I could immerse myself in. I wanted to live and work in that atmosphere beyond the everyday. I was drawn to the darker, metaphorical paintings of the past, and to the unconventional lives of the artists behind them. After visiting the Louvre, I’d often head to Père Lachaise Cemetery to visit the graves of painters, poets and musicians.

AR: Would you say that art helped you fight your way back to life?

AB: No, for me, art was never therapeutic. It was the doctors, my friends and my family who really helped me through. Right after the hospital, I had to fight to regain my vision – I could barely see. Art only became possible once I’d fought for my health. But once painting became important to me, a new kind of struggle emerged. Entering the art world means stepping into a different kind of battlefield. I applied to art school thinking I’d get in right away. But they rejected me three times. “We see no artistic talent. We wish you all the best in life.” That’s what they said.

AR: Every time I hear that phrase, it sounds so brutal. Surprising it was never changed.

AB: It gets worse. I had just gone through a tough eye operation and was a total wreck – emotionally and physically. Then my girlfriend broke up with me. I came home from the hospital to our shared apartment and she was gone. It was devastating. And the very next day, I had an interview with Jörg Immendorff, who was already a big name in Germany. I wasn’t particularly into his paintings, but I was interested in him as a person. I wanted to join his class. So there I was, a young artist in a beret, showing up with my portfolio. He looked at my drawings, and the first thing he said was: “Why would a young person draw nudes? You’ll never get anywhere. Goodbye.” He thought it was too academic and uptight. So I gathered my things – papers falling out of my folder – and left. But even though I was at my lowest, I felt a fire inside. I said to him: “I’ll be back. You’ll see.” That was the beginning of a fight with him. I didn’t give up. I ended up spending two years in Konrad Klapheck’s class instead – which turned out to be a lucky break. It was a more intellectual environment, and the battles fought there were on a different level.

Later, I ran into Immendorff again – by chance, in an elevator. I said, “I’d still really like to be in your class. Could I show you some new work?” And in that elevator, with his deep voice, he said: “Let’s see.” I always photographed my work, so I had some pictures with me. He looked at them and said: “Yeah, the heads are good. I find what you’re doing interesting. Come join my class.”
He acted like he didn’t recognize me – but I think my face is hard to forget. His teaching assistant didn’t like me at all. He claimed I was more interested in women than in painting. But luckily, Immendorff didn’t let that influence him.

AR: But Immendorff himself was more interested in women than in painting.

AB: Immendorff was always surrounded by beautiful women and some pretty wild guys from Hamburg’s red-light district. Studying with him was controversial – he had a bad reputation. At the academy at that time, there was a very liberal, uninhibited atmosphere. At the same time, students were expected to take responsibility for themselves and take risks. I was searching for something anti-bourgeois and anarchic.

AR: And then you built everything from scratch. That takes determination. Did you ever think about taking the easier path?

AB: In the beginning, I was very insecure, fragile, and cautious in how I moved through life. I was still recovering and wasn’t ready to make radical decisions. At first, I tried to compromise and enrolled in art history and law. But after one semester, I realized I couldn’t live among normal students. The weed-smoking, the recycling obsession, that eco-collective mindset – it got on my nerves. I felt even more out of place in that academic environment than I had in the small town I came from.

Things changed when I got into the art academy in Düsseldorf. There was this sentence carved in stone: Only the best for our students. I liked that elitist flair. And those huge rooms with the Greek sculptures – that was the atmosphere I wanted to live in. I knew I belonged there, even if I couldn’t explain why.

AR: Was there a moment when you felt you’d truly arrived in that world?

AB: Right after I left the art academy – without a degree – I had an exhibition in a gallery that was pretty up-and-coming at the time. I also started taking part in art fairs early on. The gallerists told me they thought I was a good artist and wanted to work with me long-term. I felt like I had been welcomed into a family. I thought we were going to fight together for a position in painting. But then I had a year where I just didn’t make good work. I had a crisis. Suddenly, someone said to me, “Hey, look at your gallery’s website—you’re no longer listed as one of their artists.” The gallerists had just dropped me without a word. That’s when I realized what kind of shark tank I was in.

I eventually found another gallery that showed my work. And when a bigger gallery saw my paintings there, they asked if I wanted to exhibit with them. And the whole game started again. The moment you’re no longer interesting, for whatever reason, you’re discarded.

Despite all that, I believe an artist should stay true to their own genetic code – deal with the things that truly grip them, that they feel compelled to pursue. Promises don’t really count for much. One time, a major curator visited my studio and promised me a big solo show in his institution. That was huge. But later, his chief curator worked against me and the show never happened.

Still, I kept working for myself and kept going. For many years now, I’ve had a younger artist working as my assistant – he’s like a brother to me. That’s loyalty. A kind of loyalty I’ve otherwise only experienced in family. That solo show eventually happened – in another city.

AR: Do you think success always comes when you follow your passion honestly and purely?

AB: Of course not. But if you’re doing something out of passion, if you truly love what you do, then you can endure the pain of the inevitable setbacks. Just keep going. That at least increases your chances of success.

AR: Was there ever a goal, or was the journey always the destination?

AB: The journey was always the destination. I never had a “strategy.” Since the accident in 1988, I’ve lived like an animal – always in the moment. That’s not meant to sound romantic, but it’s true. I don’t have a goal in the traditional sense – I just work, and then, from that work, a new goal emerges. In painting, you’re also working on a kind of human development. Art, in some way, is tied to becoming human.

AR: Could anything still shake you today? When you’ve been through so many battles, do you feel like nothing can really get to you anymore?

AB: Quite the opposite. The most important thing I’ve learned from my battles is how vulnerable I am. I don’t like “coolness.” To me, it’s more a sign of insecurity. Experiencing defeat, rejection and pain – and growing through it – that’s the real secret of struggle. It’s a choice whether or not you see yourself as a victim. I always refused that role. I never wanted to be a victim. Of course, you should always expect that something might happen, but you shouldn’t live in fear. I take care of my health. I try to stay in shape – mentally and physically.

AR: To be prepared for whatever comes.

AB: Maybe also out of vanity. I like when my suits fit well, so I eat healthy to stay slim. I don’t drink alcohol because I paint much better when I’m sober and well rested. When I’ve had alcohol, I can’t make good decisions the next day – like how to combine colors.

AR: Do you know the feeling of wanting to avoid a fight altogether?

AB: Sure, I know that. When Johann König recently offered me my first solo show at his large gallery in Kreuzberg, I agreed. But secretly, I doubted whether I could handle the space – especially with my dense, politically charged paintings. I wasn’t sure if they would work on those walls. I was terrified of failing. In the middle of preparing for the show, I was also dealing with very painful private issues. Naturally, I thought about relocating the exhibition to smaller rooms. But I transformed the weight of that personal crisis into something else through painting. I used the negative energy to create something positive – like in judo, where you use your opponent’s force to your own advantage.

AR: What’s your take on the growing overlap between activism and art?

AB: I find the blend of art and activism problematic because you’re not really centered in yourself when you join a collective movement. My temperament doesn’t suit that. As I’ve said before, I’m pretty stubborn and not exactly group-compatible. I’d constantly have to compromise within an activist movement, and that’s not my thing. I think activism in the art world often is little more than virtue signaling. Marketing, really. I’m tired of people who parade their good intentions “on behalf of others.” Usually, it’s just about their own egos – or money. I prefer to look at actions, not words. I’ve had bad experiences with well-meaning talk.

AR: Does great art always emerge from pain?

AB: Pain is just a state of being, like exhaustion or ecstasy, joy or lust, fear or boldness. As I’ve said, I can use all these states for my painting. But a painting can also cause pain – every painting demands something from me. I have to devote myself to it and sometimes put my own feelings aside for the sake of the work.

AR: People often say pain is the ideal state for artistic creation.

AB: I think pain has something isolating about it. Everything inside me contracts when I’m in pain – and that sometimes helps me focus better on painting. I might even see different colors or choose more extreme tones because of that pain. Of course, it depends on the kind of pain. Emotional pain – grief, despair, depression, heartbreak – has often led to intense works of art. It isolates you, draws you away from people and society. Personally, I’ve often started new chapters in my painting after painful moments in my life.

Sometimes, a painting can feel like an opponent – when I’m stuck. A painting has its own logic. I’ve often learned that I can’t simply impose my will on it. I have to understand where the painting wants to go. If that doesn’t work, it becomes the classic battle with the canvas. That happens. I’ve had to cancel exhibitions – even during peak times – because I just wasn’t getting anywhere. I couldn’t access the work, and that was painful. It can be paralyzing.

AR: Can you explain that more – how a painting can become your opponent? It’s still your own work, after all.

AB: I often compare paintings to children. You can control them up to a point, but at some stage, you have to let go and follow them – they develop a will of their own. And if you don’t let them go where they want, it causes problems. If, for whatever reason, I can’t engage fully with the painting, it becomes really agonizing. Then I start to see it as an opponent.

AR: How far are you willing to go in that fight? Do you ever give up on a painting?

AB: Yes, there are times when I give up and say, “I’m stuck.” But it’s more like a break in the battle. I’ll put the painting somewhere out of sight, and eventually, I’ll have an idea – it starts speaking to me again. Paintings hold time within them, like it’s been preserved. Years later, I can still see which parts gave me trouble – where I scrubbed things out or kept layering paint over and over.

AR: What kinds of battles are your figures fighting? Or are they even fighting at all?

AB: I don’t like explaining my paintings, because my explanation is just one of many. That would only narrow their meaning. I can only tell you what I see when I look at them. In my political, social paintings, I see types of people I recognize today – though they’ve probably always existed in different forms. The double faces and grotesque exaggerations are just my sober observations of contemporaries. The digital masquerade we take part in today is not so different from the hierarchical masquerades at 17th-century courts – or the moral masquerades painted by Hieronymus Bosch. I try to depict reality without aestheticizing it, and without relying on drugs or substances like the Expressionists or New Objectivity painters did. But I do use a kind of gesture that might recall those times. Maybe we’re fighting similar social battles again today.

AR: Is that something you feel yourself? That you’re more comfortable in the role of the observer rather than being right in the middle of things?

AB: I like the role of the observer because it suits my nature. I enjoy painting cats – they’re observant animals, too. As I mentioned, ever since that failed youth, I’ve had this feeling of being a guest. I never really wanted to participate fully. Once, my music teacher asked me, his face flushed red, whether I actually felt like just a guest in this world. I paused briefly and then said, “Yes. You’ve nailed it!”

AR: Yes, that might actually be crucial – if you didn’t have that feeling, your art would probably be entirely different. I think in general, a lot of people carry something inside them that they’re never able to express, simply because they never learned how to find an outlet for it. In that sense, the artist is, by definition, privileged.

AB: No, I wouldn’t say that. Painting shouldn’t be used as a kind of therapy. In art, everything is just material. Including myself – I’m just material, too. A substance, something I can process through painting. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll manage to add something to the history of painting. But that’s not for us contemporaries to decide – that’s up to the generations after us.

AR: Maybe that’s why so little of today’s art truly moves people – because it’s all ego-driven, everyone circling around themselves, without taking real risks.

AB: But none of this is new. These experiments with personal emotional states already happened in the 60s and 70s – with well-known results. Simply repeating all that today is the opposite of progressive art. Why should I bother with it? What interests me are radical artistic positions that communicate with me across time. A compelling artistic idea can be sent out in a century long past – like a letter – and you receive it, sometimes centuries later, and continue the work. A painter like Maria Lassnig, for example, really engaged deeply with her own physicality, despair and emotional state – and created radical painting from that. That’s the kind of thing I find compelling.

AR: What do you say to yourself internally, then?

AB: I know I’m a rather analytical person. That can actually get in the way of my painting. So I make a point of allowing foolishness and spontaneity. I let go of control and give chance more room in order to arrive at different images. I pick up things spontaneously – fragments from conversations, the internet, films, books, words, slogans, memes – anything. The result takes on something collage-like, playful. I often paint best when I’m on the phone or have people over and we’re talking. Because then I can’t overthink the painting as I’m making it.

AR: Foolishness? Isn’t it more like naivety?

AB: Both can help me. In the end, they’re just dismissive terms that suggest the painting has failed. But failure always involves risk and a sense of falling. As I said, I’m not a strategic painter. I don’t care for art that always plays it safe, that tries too hard to look like postmodern, international, glittery, design-like art – with no local character. That kind of art ends up being sleek and stylish, but it disturbs no one.

AR: That’s interesting – this willingness to risk doing something foolish. I think people do that far too rarely in life.

AB: I find it fascinating – this willingness to do something foolish. I think we do it far too rarely in life. Foolishness can be refreshing, especially for someone like me who tends to overthink. So, I often just start doing something first and think about it later. In my painting, I like to experiment with “stupid” subjects. Even if I end up discarding them, maybe a line or a bit of color remains – something that disrupts the image. It leaves a kind of crease, a kind of wound.

I’ve noticed there’s a growing need to control how one’s biography, work and persona are presented to the outside world. Less and less is left to chance. AI filters remove facial and bodily flaws. Maybe one day this will be called the Botox era. Personally, I’m drawn to the imperfections in people, and the awkward or illogical parts of a painting – those are what spark my interest. That’s how I find a way into a work, or connect with a person. I like the overlooked images, the fringe figures – both in painting and in life.

AR: What’s one of your favorite fringe figures – perhaps even from your childhood? I was recently talking about the things I loved as a kid, like fantasy novels, and realized I always sided with the villains – not the heroes – because the villains were more interesting.

AB: I tend to be drawn to the villains, too. Like in the James Bond films – the one with the eye patch and the cat. The villains are often portrayed with much more psychological complexity. The Joker in Batman is another example – he seems so heartbreakingly real. Film noir, or the characters created by David Lynch or John Ford, always remain morally ambiguous – just like people in real life. I don’t have much hope when it comes to humanity. But I do believe that art holds the potential for growth and becoming truly human, if one dedicates themselves to it.

AR: Did you ever feel like you had to fight to be loved?

AB: I had pretty strict parents and was a terrible student. My teachers didn’t like me, and my parents usually sided with them. I remember that drawing and my imagination already helped me as a child to be liked. Later, when I fought my way back into life, I had to fight for acceptance – to avoid being seen only as a victim. My accident happened right when I hit puberty, so on top of the usual identity crisis, I also had an existential one.

Wanting to be unconditionally loved through your art can be dangerous in this era of influencers and likes. There are so many temptations through market strategies – it can interfere with the work just as much as political activism can.

I think, contrary to Joseph Beuys, we need to re-enter art. Bazon Brock wrote beautifully about this. As I said before, I live in my own cosmos, a world that requires effort to enter and ultimately offers no promise of happiness. On the contrary – painting often leads to disappointment. You spend a lot of time alone, often unseen and even less understood. I don’t believe in reflecting on what makes you happy or what happiness even is. You work, you stall, you work some more – and then you die.

AR: The figures in your paintings often seem isolated. Do you feel that way, too, through your life story and your dedication to painting? Is it difficult for you to connect with others?

AB: It’s actually the opposite. I used to just want to be left alone. So many people messed with me – doctors, teachers. I wanted to get as far away from all of that as I could through art. Into a space where no one could interfere. I do enjoy being around people, but I rarely attend openings and avoid big events in the cultural scene. But the people I’ve met there who became my friends – I have very deep and intense relationships with them.

All I can do is encourage people: Just do your thing. Don’t orient yourself by what others expect of you. Courage is the sexiest thing there is. I love people who are brave. And in everything I do, I always try to be a little braver than I actually am.

AR: That’s beautiful. It really moves me.

AB: It’s much easier when you don’t take yourself too seriously and learn to play with your own identity. Who are we, really? For a few years, we wander around thinking we’re something special. Then we just vanish. Nietzsche had this fantastic metaphor in Zarathustra:

First, you are a camel – you load yourself up with knowledge.

Then you become a lion – you free yourself from rules, from duties, from all that you’ve learned.

Finally, you become a child again – who plays freely with all the broken pieces and reassembles them.

When I feel that almost childlike freedom in me to play – with what’s inside me and around me – through painting, that’s when I can work best. Having gone through defeat and pain is part of it. I even have to destroy my own certainties again – revolt against myself. That’s the most beautiful kind of fight.

TO WATCH: ”HUNDREDS OF BEAVERS“ BY MIKE CHESLIK AND RYLAND BRICKSON COLE TEWS

Anna Klusmeier — Wed, 16 Jul 2025 10:49:12 +0000

With his black-and-white slapstick adventure Hundreds of Beavers, American filmmaker Ryland Brickson Cole Tews is turning the indie film world on its head. After earning cult status with his wild DIY spectacle in the last 3 years, he is now touring Germany and Austria: a wordless, snow-covered tale of a fur trapper facing off against an army of beavers- for audiences who crave cinema that feels raw, inventive and refreshingly imperfect. In this interview, Ryland shares what drives his handcrafted approach, why nature and nostalgia inspire him, and how a hundred beavers might just be the perfect symbol for fearless indie filmmaking today.

Numéro Berlin: Thank you for taking the interview. I’ve heard this is your first time in Berlin! Has there anything weird happened yet that inspired you maybe for a new movie? I mean, Berlin is always a bit crazy and it’s your first time in Germany.

Ryland: Yes, first time in Germany and so far we haven’t experienced much, unfortunately, but we have a free day tomorrow and we’re still going to be in Berlin, so we’re going to get out and explore a little bit. We might get into some mischief, so hopefully there’s some great story that comes out of our adventures tomorrow. And maybe a future film, who knows.

Is daily life in general an inspiration for your movies?

Well, I’ll say that I think the biggest experience through our movies, both Hundreds of Beavers and Lake Michigan Monster, is the fact that Wisconsin has a very big drinking culture, and so there’s a lot of drinking influences in the movies. I play a drunk in both films – I just think it’s just sort of ingrained in me and my friends, so we inevitably just make our characters heavy drinkers.

It started as a very small idea with sled chases and ball fights; And it sort of slowly grew out of proportion into the epic winter monstrosity you see today. But yeah, as far as influences, just drinking in the cold, yeah.

Speaking of that, the crew you had on set were mostly friends and no paid actors. Also with the weather conditions- the snow and everything, how was working in that environment and with those people?

Yeah, it was mostly just like friends. We had some actual film professionals who worked on the movie for sure, but as far as the people who were working and doing the majority of the shooting in the cold, a lot of it was just friends who we knew would be able to dress up in a beaver costume and be willing to get cold with us and who are used to lugging heavy equipment and props and costumes into the woods. We just got guys who weren’t complainers, who just had a good attitude, who could do a lot of physical labor. And that’s kind of how we got the crew. And then from that, you start shooting and everything moves slower. I mean, because it is so cold and the snow is so deep, everything is like slow motion. And I think it helped the fact that we did a good job on Lake Michigan Monster, and we kind of built that trust with them to be like, hey, we kind of know what we’re doing. If you just listen to what we say, I assure you that this movie will make sense. It’ll work out. And they had full trust in us, and because they worked their butts off, it came to fruition.

That’s nice. A little connection to fashion, because we’re a fashion and lifestyle magazine. I saw the costumes of the Beavers and I really liked them. Was there any background where you got them from- were they handmade?

The beaver costumes in particular, we actually got off a website. It was something like shopusa.com, based in China, and we just bought some beaver costumes from them that we thought looked pretty funny, and then we made a couple tweaks here and there to give them two teeth. Actually my mom and the director, Mike Cheslik’s wife, Ani, had to take bodyboards, surfboards basically, and then they had to wrap them in brown fabric and velcroed and glued them onto the back of the beaver to make them beavers.

That’s nice. Everybody helping out. I saw a funny letterboxd review- It said “AI watched this and started trembling in its stolen boots. We humans can make some pretty impressive stuff. Even with limited materials. We may not be so different from beavers after all.” What’s your opinion on AI?

Well, I just hope that AI doesn’t replace human creativity because I think the whole point of art is, it’s a human expression.

And of course, AI, it does come up with some wild, crazy ideas in terms of images and stuff. And it can really get your imagination going to what’s possible. But at the end of the day, it still just needs to be humans doing the thing. You know, to me anyways, there’s no point in creating art if we’re having robots do it.

No, I get it. Last question, maybe a tricky one. Would you rather make another movie with zero budget or get hunted by a hundred beavers? What would be a bigger challenge?

Well, just in terms of budgetary restraints, I would say we’re definitely trying to get a bigger budget for the next movie because we just want to scale up accordingly. The next movie we make, we don’t want to make it a $50 million movie, but it would be nice to scale it up accordingly where we get a little bit bigger budget, just so we have a little bit bigger crew and we’re able to pay people a little bit better next time. But we still want to keep it relatively small. I mean, even if we’re able to get a budget that’s half a million dollars or one million dollars, that’s still pretty small, even in the indie film world. But if we are able to do that then we can scale up accordingly and still make a big giant fun movie within our means, without having to rely on a studio. Because if you start to rely too much on the studios, they might strip you off your creative freedom and we don’t want that. It’s about the kind of movies that we’ve always made with our creative voice.

So you see a low budget as a challenge that sparks your imagination?

Yeah, absolutely. I think having a smaller budget definitely makes you think outside the box in new, fun, creative ways. And again, part of the reason why Beavers looks the way it does is because we didn’t have the means to make it look like Spider-Man or Avatar. So we tried to go in the exact opposite direction and try to make it stand out by having this sort of grainy black and white style with cheap effects. At first we didn’t know how people were going to relate to that but thankfully people have really gravitated towards it and maybe it is because it is so lo-fi and very human made and it doesn’t rely on a bunch of CGI and stuff like that.

I really agree with that. I feel like people are maybe drawn to that because I personally felt that. I liked seeing and thinking about how it was made, it was really fascinating.

It definitely takes a longer time. Beaver’s took almost four years to make. And thankfully, we had investors who just gave us a little bit of money and they just kind of left us alone and let us make the kind of movie we wanted to make, and that was really helpful. Thankfully for us they believed in us and we had a plan and we just sort of lucked out that people gravitated towards. We‘re just super thankful for all of our fans. It’s been amazing the kind of ride it’s having and that people continue to come out and see it in the cinema.

Thank you for the interview. This is my first time watching the movie, but I’m a big fan now and really excited about what‘s next to come.

Well, thank you so much, really appreciate it.

If Ryland’s beaver madness has you curious, you can catch Hundreds of Beavers live on the big screen in Berlin once more, one of the next stops of the European Beaver Tour will be at Freiluftkino Hasenheide on August 5th. Don’t miss it! Klick here to get a ticket.

DAGGER & Moritz Iden: Two upcoming brands to watch from RAUM.Berlin

Anna Klusmeier — Mon, 14 Jul 2025 15:57:59 +0000

The format was organized by the Fashion Council Germany, aiming to offer an alternative to the traditional runway show – a space for expression, where designers could present their full creative vision in individually designed environments. A format that allowed for a completely new perspective on emerging talent. Numéro Berlin was on site and particularly impressed by two brands that should now be on your radar: DAGGER and Moritz Iden. Here, we introduce the two labels in short portraits.

DAGGER

Luke Rainy, founder of Berlin based streetwear label DAGGER, offered an intimate glimpse into his teenage years through his exhibition at RAUM.Berlin. His visual language was shaped by a small-town upbringing in Ireland, deeply influenced by the local skate scene and the imprint of financial hardship. As he puts it, “You’d maybe get one hoodie for your birthday if you were lucky, and then another one the next year. So your clothes would be very washed out, and you’d have holes in them — but you would love this hoodie to death.” This sense of attachment and worn-in authenticity is woven into his own designs. Each piece is meant to feel as though it has already lived a life, while still being a high-end product. We had a chat with him to get a deeper sense of his inspiration, background, and more.

Franka Magon: What thoughts went into the creation of this installation? What message or feeling did you want to convey?

Luke Rainy: It was very important to me to show the clothes on real models instead of mannequins so that the press and buyers coming could really feel the vibe.

I think the reason why I go back to my teenage years is because there are both good and bad memories there. At that age, you’re really like a sponge – trying to find out who you are, experimenting with lots of different things, trying to figure out where you fit in. And I think that teenager lives within all of us, no matter what age we are.

With the installation at RAUM.Berlin, I wanted people to come and really feel that again – maybe also a little of the uncertainty of that time.

You started a brand after losing your job, a moment of insecurity. But you flipped that experience into a creative process. For how long had you been thinking about starting your own brand, and why was this the moment you finalized it?

I lost my job during COVID in 2020. I had like 300 euros from unemployment benefits, and I spent that on T-shirts. It was just a moment of, like, fuck it – all or nothing. The world nearly fucking ended. If not now, when was I going to do this? The last line of my job dismissal letter was, “We wish you all the best with your professional future and personal well-being.” I printed that on the back of my very first T-shirt, and that’s literally why I’m here talking to you. “All the Best” became the brand slogan, and you see it across everything that we do.

I know that Ireland’s skate scene inspired you a lot. But now you’re in Berlin. What are the cultural differences, and how does Berlin now influence you and your brand?

The biggest difference I noticed from London, where I was living before, is the pace at which people walk in the street. I couldn’t believe how casually people walked. After a week of being here, I found myself starting to slow down and breathe a little more. That kind of relaxed energy definitely goes into the clothes and into the brand.

And what would you say is special about Berlin’s creative scene?

Berlin can be your best friend or your worst enemy. If you come here without any kind of purpose, it’s so easy to fall into a vortex of drugs, drinking, and clubbing.

But there is a lot more to Berlin than just techno, and nightlife. That’s an amazing part of the city and so vital, but it’s not everything. People don’t go out seven nights a week. We work hard, we have jobs, we care about business and supporting creatives.

But you know, the danger is exciting, no? From danger, excitement, and risk comes creativity. I think that’s why we make some of the best music in the world, why we make some of the best clothes in the world. And also because, although the cost of living has gone up, it’s still nothing compared to other major cities. There is still space for artists to come here, create, and build their brands. Which is why it’s so important that the Fashion Council Germany is supporting upcoming artists.

What can we expect from you in the future? What are your plans for DAGGER?

My plans are business-focused. I want to represent German fashion on a global scale in a successful way and show that brands from Berlin can sell. DAGGER is already selling internationally in the best stores like Dover Street Market in Paris, but I also want to bring that energy back to my own city, too. Berlin has given me so much – I want to give something back as well.

MORITZ IDEN

Moritz Iden discovered the internet as a place of refuge at an early age. Digital aesthetics and the overwhelming abundance of communities and subcultures continue to shape his work to this day. We spoke with him about his inspirations, his aspirations, and the ways in which Berlin influences him.

Franka Magon: How did this collaboration with RAUM.Berlin come about?

Moritz Iden: I was the last designer who got in. But I’m super happy they asked me, because I’ve always wanted to work with the Fashion Council Germany but my brand is still relatively small, relatively young.

I don’t want to rush into doing a show at Berlin Fashion Week. That’s definitely still written in the stars. But RAUM.Berlin is the first step in the right direction – making contacts, seeing people, finally putting faces to names. I’ve been very active on Instagram, and most of my work happens online. So it’s nice to finally have something in real life – a proper exhibition.

You address the digital world in your work. What exactly inspires you about it, and how do you choose your references?

I’m a child of the first generation that grew up with the internet. It was so accessible for us – the good sides and the bad. You could find community there. And for me, it was kind of a place to retreat.

I’ve always been obsessed with digital aesthetics and with faces. So I started drawing faces and translating all that into 3D. It’s my way of expressing emotions, my way of bringing my art onto paper – or rather, onto the screen – and turning my digital worlds into something real.

What role do queerness and gender play in your work?

Queerness and gender are so deeply rooted that we don’t even really think about it anymore. Sometimes I hear things like, “Oh, it’s nice that you put a guy in a dress,” and I’m like, yeah okay, we did that – but actually, it’s not even a question anymore. My work is not genderless, it’s just what it is. And it’s just very me.

Do you wish for a change in the dialogue about these topics?

The right people should be the ones talking about it, let’s put it that way. I don’t think everyone has to lead the dialogue, but there should be people doing it.

I don’t think I’m the only person who felt, when they moved to Berlin, like they could finally express themselves. I moved here from a small suburb of Hamburg, and suddenly the big city was there, and you could do whatever you wanted. The city has its dark corners, but it also has its beautiful ones. Just like the internet back then. It’s kind of similar.

Berlin still has subculture. People still do things on their own initiative. And it’s not all just business. It’s not all just money. That always comes after. And I really like that.

What influence does Berlin have on you?

Berlin still has subculture. People still do things on their own initiative. And it’s not all just business. It’s not all just money. That always comes after. And I really like that.

IN CONVERSATION WITH LITTLE SIMZ

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 13 Jun 2025 15:02:00 +0000

Few artists in contemporary music manage to blend introspection, lyrical mastery, and genre-defying sound as seamlessly as Little Simz. Hailing from North London, the rapper, actress, and storyteller has carved out a space entirely her own, earning critical acclaim and a loyal global following. With a voice that’s both fierce and vulnerable, and a catalogue that pushes boundaries with each release, Little Simz is not just shaping the future of UK hip-hop—she’s redefining it.

Numéro Berlin spoke with Little Simz about her freshly released sixth album Lotus, her personal growth and creative struggles.

As a person, but also as an artist: At which point in your life do you see yourself right now?

I’m just a person who is having a human experience and doing my best to live a happy, abundant life. Even when things get hard, I’m still trying my best to just keep going.

Do you see yourself as separate from your art, or do you think it’s impossible to separate the person from the artist?

It’s all encompassing me, but I can definitely tell the two apart. There are certain parts of my artistic personality that I don’t really show in my everyday life. I’m quite introverted, but I’m different on stage. Two things can absolutely be true at the same time.

Let’s dive into your music. Could you share a few moments from your new album that you’re especially proud of because they show how far you’ve come as an artist?

As an artist, working on a project is never a straight path – especially in the middle, when you start to question everything: Is this any good? Should I even be doing this? There’s a lot of self-doubt. So honestly, I’m most proud of simply seeing it through and finishing it. There are so many times you start something and never complete it because you get in your own way.

My favorite song from the album is Lotus, the title track with Michael Kumanuka and Yusef Dayes. It just feels like the album is such a journey and then it gets to this really climatic place. It’s just a really beautiful song. There’s so many nice moments within it, it just stands out – musically, lyrically, where it travels to. I’m really proud of it.

Is creating also a fight with yourself? Or is it more an act of pleasure and joy? Or both? How do you look at that?

I’m really just trying to be a kid and create – it feels like play. And sometimes, it’s therapeutic, especially when I have things I need to get off my chest. There’s so much I want to say, and making music is a way for me to process my emotions. I often find it hard to open up to people, but it’s much easier for me to write things down and record them. So, it’s a bit of both – depending on how I’m feeling.

How important is it for an artist to keep their inner child alive?

It always has to be there, even when the it’s about heavy or more grown-up stuff. In many ways, it does the real work. It reminds you why you do what you do, why you started in the first place.

How much hardship are you willing to endure when something truly matters to you? Would you say having the patience to let something unfold over time is a distinctive part of who you are?

I think so. I definitely took the long and difficult road, but along the way, I’ve learned a lot about myself, and I’ve met so many amazing, interesting people. It’s truly been a journey, and I’m deeply grateful for it. You must really love what you do – because you don’t go through all of that without a reason.

How do you handle success and fame today, and how do they shape your art?

No one knows how long anyone will stay relevant because everything moves so fast. Of course, if you’re established and have built your place brick by brick, you can feel confident in that. But I also believe there’s value in making the path easier for the next generation. Not everyone who comes into music has to struggle the way I did. If there’s a quicker way, that’s amazing. I don’t think struggle is always necessary.

It’s strange how being famous almost feels like a career in itself. It’s not always about being recognized for your music or earning respect through your craft; sometimes, you’re just famous for the sake of being famous. Honestly, I don’t think many people truly understand what fame really means. With fame, you can’t go anywhere without being stared at. If people really knew what that was like, I’m not sure they’d want it. Not all attention is good attention.

Lotus is also deeply about renewal. How many times have you reinvented yourself throughout your life, and in what ways?

Every day, I reinvent myself—sometimes as simply as putting on a new outfit. Each album brings its own set of challenges, and I try to approach them differently because I want different results. If you keep doing things the same way, you get the same outcomes. So, I make an effort to keep myself excited throughout the process, to challenge myself, to explore new themes – and sometimes revisit old ones. Reinvention is essential. As an artist, you have to find new ways, not just for others, but for yourself.

I get bored easily, which is probably why my albums have such different vibes. I have so many directions I want to explore – maybe it’s my ADHD pushing me to try different things. It keeps my music fresh and exciting. There’s electronic sounds, Afrobeat rhythms – it all comes together to create a real journey where I can tap into different sides of myself.

Do you think it’s important to master each genre before being able to mix them all together?

I don’t have to master it, as long as I don’t fuck it up. I didn’t grow up living in Brazil, so If I make a bossa nova song, there may be elements I’m missing. But I have listened to enough music from that genre. And also, it’s more just a feeling. I trust my ear, and I trust my taste, but I also just try to put my spin on it.

For all of that, you must know yourself really well. What does authenticity mean to you?

I believe it all comes down to trusting yourself. Sometimes, it’s not about knowing exactly what you can do – it’s about having the courage to try. Especially now, when people in the music industry tend to avoid risks. I get it – it’s scary to face criticism and judgment. Taking risks and being brave feels harder than ever. But I try not to let that hold me back.

Could you share your perspective on the current climate in music? I get the sense that the pressure is coming from multiple sides. The ongoing discussions around vocal culture in recent years seem to have had an impact on creativity, making it feel somewhat constrained. How do you see this?

It’s tough for artists these days because there’s this constant expectation that you always have to know exactly what to say. The more pressure you feel, the more limited you become creatively. What excites me most about art is when I don’t fully understand it. I don’t have to like every piece in an exhibition – I can stand there, unsure if it’s for me, but appreciate that it’s challenging me.

Maybe some of that freedom is getting lost nowadays. The world just doesn’t feel like a safe space anymore. It’s harder to be vulnerable when you don’t feel safe, and that definitely affects an artist’s mindset. You hesitate to share your true feelings because you know they’ll be scrutinized. I get that too. So yes, it’s a difficult balance. I just try to create what feels authentic to me.

Great art, as you said, comes from vulnerability and pushing boundaries. I’m curious – what does it feel like to create something truly authentic and recognize it in the moment? Like when you have a piece of music and you just know it’s something really special.

Music is such an invisible art form – you can’t see it, yet when I create a piece and can almost feel it, it’s like it takes on the color red or some vivid sensation. That sense of bringing something intangible into existence makes me feel truly creative. Music isn’t just a feeling; it’s a vibration, and I believe there’s a reason it moves us emotionally.

When we made the song Blue with Sampha, he was just freely creating, and I found myself crying because what he was expressing touched me deeply – on a level even he might not have been fully aware of. It’s moments like that that remind me how music connects us. It’s not just about me; collaborators bring so much to the process, shaping what the music ultimately becomes.

“The whole process was a crazy, crazy, crazy experience, crazy.”

Your name actually means “brave woman,” doesn’t it? I’m curious—what does bravery mean to you personally? Have you ever thought about what truly defines a brave woman in your eyes?

It’s someone who really owns their truth and isn’t afraid to speak up for themselves. I haven’t always done that. I’ve had moments where I look back and think, Why didn’t I say no? Why didn’t I stand up for myself? But with time and growth, I’ve really stepped into my name, if that makes sense. I’ve grown into that person – into what being brave really means to me.

“SPINE BOUNDARY”: IN CONVERSATION WITH LIANG FU (FEAT. PASSAGE)

Anna Klusmeier — Fri, 13 Jun 2025 11:37:48 +0000

Art is subjective and always political. With his latest installation “SPINE BOUNDARY” at Hermannplatz, Berlin, Chinese born Artist LIANG FU cleverly portrays the concept of the absent presence of the body and evokes memories tied to a fading way of life. Through the absence of physical form, it reflects both human and animal bodies retreating into shared oblivion, while contemplating the displacement of traditional agriculture by industrialization. What was once a space of labor and life now stands as a silent shell, confronting us with the absence it contains. PASSAGE is a Berlin based curatorial platform, that partnered with LIANG FU to bring his vision through his installation to life. Read more about them later in the interview.

In a few words: What is your personal connection to Berlin?

I kept hearing friends talk about the differences between the art scenes in Berlin and Paris, so I visited a few times, met some artist friends, and also stayed in Berlin.

What does (creating) art mean to you?

Engaging, questioning, living

Tell us about your usual approach when creating a sculpture. How does it differ from the process of painting?

In sculpture, I tend to approach the work by considering the materials and their historical context, while in painting, I focus more on the perspective and language of the image.

You were born in Sichuan, China. In what way did your upbringing influence the work you do today?

Of course, I have been reflecting on this question especially after moving to France, because French and Mandarin are vastly different languages. I see painting and sculpture as separate languages, and this has made me think about how to communicate the meaning of my work through the artwork itself, so that people don’t need a specific cultural background to understand it. This has been the language I’ve been trying to refine in my creations this year.

“As a new generation chinese artist, being influenced by different cultural backgrounds allows my work to resonate and connect with diverse audiences, and that is what I find most meaningful.”

Since you live and work in Paris, what is your connection to Berlin, especially its art scene?

I make time to visit Berlin every year. It seems to have more underground spaces and a strong influence from underground culture, which gives experimental artists greater room to survive and create. In contrast, Paris offers fewer such spaces. I believe this is closely tied to the art ecosystem and economic factors. Although Paris has become more international in recent years, the rising rent makes it increasingly difficult for many artists to sustain themselves—especially those in the experimental phase, who need more space and resources to take risks and make mistakes.

How did you end up partnering with PASSAGE? What is your take-away from working together with them?

Victor Auberjonois first reached out to me on Instagram with an invitation to exhibit, and after some discussions between him and my representing gallery, Nicodim, we began exploring the uniqueness of both the space and the project. I’ve always been drawn to historically charged or atypcal spaces—they inspire me deeply. I believe that artworks dialogue with different meanings depending on the space they inhabit, and I’m constantly seeking new contexts and interpretations, which often lead to fresh insights and reflections in my practice.

Tell us a little about the background and philosophy of PASSAGE as a curatorial platform:

PASSAGE was founded one year ago, inspired by Lucio Amelio’s legendary Parisian space Pièce Unique which was conceived in 1989 together with Cy Twombly. Reviving that radical concept, PASSAGE reimagines the act of exhibition as a distilled encounter, presenting a single artwork at a time to invite focus and reflection while offering a brief escape from daily routines.

Each presentation revolves around a single artwork, offering a lens into the artist’s practice. We create highly considered, often scenographic environments for every show, pushing the presentation of contemporary art into an immersive, experiential direction. The exhibition space itself becomes an artwork, a kind of sculpture in the public sphere.

PASSAGE is instinctive and independent. We are medium-agnostic and exhibit both emerging and established artists based purely on our curatorial interests. We don’t represent artists in the traditional sense, but sell on commission, allowing us to maintian freedom to collaborate with whomever we admire. Each show is a collaboration with the artist in which we treat all aspects such as writing, documentation, and archiving as integral to the project.

We hold a vernissage open to all on Hermannplatz for every of the monthly exhibitions in the space on the U-Bahn platform below.

Why did you choose the U-Bahn station Hermannplatz as a space to showcase the artworks? What reactions or emotions do you hope to evoke in passersby?

Hermannplatz is quintessentially Berlin – raw, eclectic, and full of energy. The mayor of Neukölln once described it as home to the most diverse population in Germany.

Architecturally, the station is striking. The interplay of grey-green and yellow tiles, the generous ceiling height, and the echoes of a complex historical past give it a unique presence. Symbolically, it is a powerful location, connecting the U7 and U8 lines, which run East-West and North-South, linking many major neighborhoods of the city.

This station is a place of motion and repetition but also solitude and sometimes even despair. We are interested in how contemporary art can quietly interrupt that flow, offering a moment of contemplation or emotional resonance amid daily transit.

Art doesn’t require prior knowledge. It lives in the perception of the viewer. By placing it in a public, unexpected setting, we invite anyone, even someone who has never stepped into a gallery, into a brief moment of introspection. We are not trying to elicit specific reactions. We are creating conditions in which something, however subtle, might unfold.

What are your future plans for the platform?

PASSAGE will carry on its monthly rhythm at Hermannplatz, while extending its presence beyond Berlin. For the first time, we’re sharing that PASSAGE is expanding to Mexico City, where a former taco stand will soon become our second exhibition space.

In September, we will present a very different project: a group exhibition featuring around 40 artists in one of Berlin’s most iconic locations.

Looking ahead, we hope to invite fellow curators to shape exhibitions within our spaces, building a multi-city, international platform that brings contemporary art to everyone – through windows, in transit zones, and always in unexpected ways.

Tell us about the meaning of SPINE BOUNDARY. How does it convey a political message?

This sculpture further explores the transformation of the relationship between humans and nature through metaphor. The horse stall, once a space of labor and close interaction between humans and animals, is now reimagined as a hollow shell — symbolizing disciplined nature, the erased body, and the alienation brought by industrialization. By reinterpreting this structure, the work turns a once-living space into a symbol of control, loss, and historical rupture.

The coal-covered floor and rusted walls are not only material choices but also symbolic expressions — they carry the traces of time, the corrosion of power, and the slow collapse of traditional structures under modernization. Through the use of discarded, repurposed materials, the artist transforms forgotten remnants into metaphors of memory, history, and political inquiry into existence.

In essence, SPINE BOUNDARY does not convey political messages directly, but through its use of material, metaphor, and spatial reconstruction, it raises profound questions about domestication, control, forgetting, and disappearance.

“The political message lies subtly within the structure and materiality — a poetic critique and spiritual resistance to the mechanisms of power embedded in our contemporary reality.”

How should people feel when walking past / looking at SPINE BOUNDARY?

I never want to impose how I think people should feel. What I find more interesting is listening to what they tell me they feel.

PASSAGE is a curatorial space inside a train station. How does the public display of your art change the way you went about creating it?

Yes, I would consider the size and safety of the artwork since it’s in a public space. Other than that, I feel quite very free to create.

We couldn’t help but notice the piece’s resemblance to symbols of femininity/motherhood, such as the depiction of a pregnant belly or something emerging from a vulva. Did these topics play any role in your process of creating the artwork?

Of course, I noticed these elements and felt excited because they add more layers of interpretation and complexity to the work. They also allowed me to step away from painting practice and think about other issues. Last year, I worked with ceramics, a different material, and this year, in this sculpture, I used animal skin, which is also related to the body. This gave me a new understanding of bodily perception and is part of my exploration of the relationship between materials and perception in my creative process.

What are your hopes for future dialogue between humanity and art?

I hope to see many works that explore different aspects of humanity. Human nature is complex and ever-changing, which is probably why we are always fascinated by it. But I believe the simplest reason is that a good artwork is one that moves people.