V–A–C Sreda online magazine completes its three-month programme dedicated to the interrelation of art, technology, and landscape.
This issue publishes a conversation between Daniil Beltsov, editor-in-chief of V–A–C Sreda, and the sculptor Roman Sakin. They discuss ways of exploring reality, why a work of art does not always need a viewer, and how to create an ensemble of soundless musical instruments.
Daniil Beltsov: Roman, our conversation is a continuation of V–A–C Sreda’s three-month programme, as a part of which I have interviewed Francisco Infante-Arana and Anna Koleichuk, the daughter of Viacheslav Fomich Koleichuk. As one might guess, all of this has been one long conversation about the interrelation of art and movement. It’s worth noting the importance of the artefact in Infante’s world, and that of the self-stressed construction in Koleichuk’s. So, to begin with, I wanted to ask you about your relationship to kinetic art and whether controlled sculptures can be spoken about alongside artefacts and self-stressed constructions?
Roman Sakin: Controlled sculptures, which I used to make only imaginatively, could be termed “kinetic art.” However, the theme of movement —the main idea in this field—is ultimately not as interesting to me as the change of an object’s pose or position. I made the first controlled sculpture during my final year at Stroganovka, where I studied sculpture. What I thought then was: how do people begin to study something new (and for me, the world of contemporary art was that something new)? They create tools and instruments to then use them to study the new. And I began to make the instruments I called “controlled sculptures.”
D.B.: How did students and teachers respond to them?
R. S.: They weren’t part of the curriculum, I created them at home. At Stroganovka, we completed strict academic assignments, though in the Composition course I was able to express myself more creatively. If we’re talking about teachers’ reactions, then the head of our course, Nikolai Nikogosyan, supported me and shielded me from all kinds of outside “attacks”, which meant I felt free in my experiments.
D. B.: Could you talk about the first controlled sculpture?
R. S.: The first sculpture was called УС-1 and looked like a primitive computer. I myself didn’t fully understand its structure as an instrument, how to use it and what it would help to study, but this uncertainty actually allows you to study the unknown I was talking about earlier. The series that came afterwards were made according to the same principle—it was important to me to have unmoving, changeable figures, where you could see the transformation of objects and constructions, their movement or immobility. I even formulated the five principles according to which controlled sculptures function.
D. B.: Wow! Could you cite them?
R. S.: Of course.
The five principles of a controlled sculpture:
1. It has moveable parts.
2. Its moveable parts can take on different, stationary positions in space, altering the shape of the entire object.
3. It can have a remote control, with which its moveable parts can be moved.
4. It can have a score, or a recorded sequence of positions.
5. The sequence of positions can be a separate work of art performed on the controlled sculpture.
Pay attention to the point about the sequence of positions, the object turns into a kind of soundless musical instrument. But in an exhibition, such a sculpture looks incomplete—like a piano that you’re not allowed to play. We can only consider the design of the object or imagine how it would sound.
D. B.: All five principles you cited address the movement and transformation of objects. Am I right in thinking that your work on a piece is founded more on the process of creation than on the final result?
R. S.: If you mean the work that can be performed on the controlled sculpture, then here both the process and the resulting form are important. For example, if we throw sticks and observe what composition they form, then what’s interesting is both the throwing and the observing. But, I repeat, movement is a secondary consequence of the transformation of objects.
D. B.: How important to you is the material you work with? I noticed that in the majority of your works you use wood.
R. S.: Almost all the controlled sculptures are made from wood, but the material doesn’t play an important role. Certain parts of the objects can be iron or plastic—it depends on the budget. I remember how I once hauled plywood and rods out from a rubbish dump for a work. The Forest sculpture was actually made from the simplest and cheapest objects. But, of course, material influences perception in a particular way, especially wood, which lends an enticing “clumsiness, ” “handmade-ness” to an object.
D. B.: This reminds me of the “ЛЕРУАРТ” Telegram channel, where the author disassembles works of art into materials available from Leroy Merlin.
R. S.: There’s a funny story about how I went to Leroy Merlin and assembled works from objects sold in the shop on the spot, then disassembled them again in order to pay for the objects at the checkout.
D. B.: A good approach! I’m interested in the figure of the viewer in the context of controlled sculptures and of art in general. How important is it?
R. S.: It’s undoubtedly important, without a viewer or user this art is impossible. In my first exhibitions, I tried making sculptures that could be touched and moved, but without clear instructions this turned out to be quite pointless. Objects quickly break, and people don’t understand what to do with them. As I already said, without a musician, a piano turns into a museum piece—and the same is true of controlled sculptures, for them to work properly, a specially educated person is necessary. Initially, I created works only for myself, and couldn’t even imagine how they could be shown at an exhibition.
D. B.: It’s interesting to consider the gap between the changeable nature of these objects in time and space and their stasis, their inaccessibility to the viewer. In this case we can see only the aesthetic side—material, colour, texture—and imagine what these sculptures might be in movement and transformation.
R. S.: I actually came to like this contradiction, because inaccessibility sparks interest. Imagine, you go into a shop of musical instruments where you aren’t allowed to touch anything. Personally, the very fact of the prohibition begins to bother me—you want to secretly press all the keys, pull the strings, listen to how they sound. The incomprehensibility or inaccessibility of a work of art, in my view, gives rise to an inner anxiety and a desire to think about it.
D. B.: You said that with the help of certain instruments you can learn something new about the world. Does this method of analysis apply to contemporary reality, or are you more concerned with transcendental phenomena?
R. S.: Of course, my art is not detached from reality—I follow what happens. Compared to my first works of 2007, I address actual events much more often today. But I am more interested in the scientific field.
D. B.: What place does it occupy in your artistic practice?
R. S.: I am interested in science as the new philosophy. For example, when Kant or Voltaire or Sartre were writing, their works did not just influence philosophers, but all people living within the philosophical world—they were read, cited. Today, their place is occupied by scientific discoveries, which instantly flow into a wide, popular cultural field. Robert Sapolsky occupies the same place in the world that Kant used to occupy. A scientific approach allows the structure of the world to be studied, though not in the way science does it, but in the way it can be done by art. A scientific experiment is considered successful if, under the same conditions, it can be repeated in other laboratories, but an experiment in art cannot be repeated in other conditions with other participants: what happened with me will not happen for others. And, frankly, I don’t know which results are more true—subjective or scientific. It’s possible that art speaks about the world far more accurately.
D. B.: Controlled sculptures acquired an additional meaning with the appearance of the internet and digitalisation, when social markers began to blur and information became disordered and difficult to verify. In this case, programmed and precisely constructed sculptures accurately resonate with the demands of the times.
R. S.: It’s interesting, I hadn’t thought of that. If we consider the demands of the times, then it seems that many works of art were created out of their time. Some things should have appeared significantly earlier, other things only in the future. Forest, for example, the sculpture I was talking about before, could have existed in the baroque period, only instead of red sticks there would have been golden clouds flying. Controlled sculptures are objects with the simplest mechanics. It’s strange they weren’t thought of before.
D. B.: You often compare controlled sculptures to musical instruments. What role does music play for you beyond your artistic activities?
R. S.: I like musical instruments from the point of view of sound production, of the device itself. I didn’t go to music school, but I like to play on all musical instruments, not for the sake of music, but to observe their sound and the way in which it’s produced.
D. B.: Have you never thought of integrating sound into controlled sculptures?
R. S.: Many people talk about this, but sound completely alters the meaning of these objects. Each stick moves to a different height and occupies a particular place in space, it’s like soundless music. If you add external musical accompaniment, then the sculptures become a simple visualisation of sound. I even thought about creating an ensemble of soundless musical instruments.
D. B.: Tell us about it!
R. S.: Imagine: a big hall, controlled sculptures set out on the stage—they are soundless musical instruments, after all (though much larger, so that they can be seen from afar!), and people sit in their seats in sound-cancelling headphones. Musicians control the instruments in absolute silence, while the audience watches.
D. B.: That reminds me of the end of the film Hymn of the Plague by ATAKA51. You absolutely need to do this!
R. S.: I’m not giving up on the idea. There are still many plans ahead.