Anai Salem
"By utilizing the fence again and again, reshaping it and making it into something else, I shatter the meaning of the fence and demonstrate how easily it can be bent, broken, breached, and even transformed into something new."
Could you tell us a bit about yourself and your background? Where did you study?
I am an Israeli-French artist, working in various disciplines including sculpture, video, performance, drawing and installation.
I grew up in Tel Aviv, with two musician parents and two big brothers. Our parents raised us in a free environment where music was always played, and we could draw on our house walls. As a child I spent most of my time running in gardens and climbing trees. In a way, I think that much of what concerns me today is embodied there- in the meeting of two materials – body and earth. I started connecting materials and exploring ideas at a young age, and pretty early on, I understood that I want to make art.
I started studying at Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem in 2018, and there it became clear that what I’m especially passionate about is sculpture and installation. Until then, I lacked the guidance to understand that what I was doing was in fact sculpture. All I knew was that I am drawn to diverse materials and the possibilities they offered for connections. For this reason my years in Bezalel were transformative, because suddenly my bizarre impulses received validation, and it set me free to try more ideas.
The theme of barriers, both physical and metaphorical, recurs in your work, notably influenced by your experiences in Notting Hill and reflections on divisions back in Israel. Can you discuss how you approach the concept of fences in your art? What do you hope to convey or challenge about the notions of separation and accessibility through this recurring motif?
In 2021, I participated in an exchange program in London and studied at the Slade School of Fine Art. While wandering around the city, it quickly became apparent that I found myself drawn to the locked gardens of Notting Hill. I was interested in them both due to their beauty and the fact that I couldn’t enter them. Growing up in the gardens of Tel Aviv, it seemed only natural that a garden should be open to anyone. I didn’t question my attraction and started working with these materials. As the fences were the signature look of the locked gardens, it made sense to work with this material, but I didn’t have a full understanding of my actions. In retrospect, I realized the fence recurred in my next projects in different shapes and for different purposes. I understood that it kept bothering me because I’ve been surrounded by fences since I was born—a transparent fence of socio-political division. By utilizing the fence again and again, reshaping it and making it into something else, I shatter the meaning of the fence and demonstrate how easily it can be bent, broken, breached, and even transformed into something new. My work is a testament to the pointlessness of the fence.
Convoy out of Wood Duck, 2022, Photo by Daniel Hanoch
Blue one out of Wood Duck, 2022, Photo by Daniel Hanoch
Wood Duck, 2022, Photo by Daniel Hanoch
Drums and a Firefly, 2023, Barbur Gallery JLM, Photo by Daniel Hanoch
You describe your artistic method as a journey with the materials you engage with, implying a dynamic process of creation. How does this philosophy of collaboration and discovery with your chosen media shape the overarching narrative of your work, particularly in the face of societal and environmental challenges?
With each project I do, my material palette changes, and I experiment with new elements. I like to think of the materials as companions I meet along the way. Different materials have different characteristics and qualities, so each time I learn new communication ways to deal with my collaborators, and together we reach the finish point. When connecting foreign materials to each other, I never know if they’ll get along because I have a tendency of choosing connections that don't necessarily make a lot of sense. I never had to ask myself why I’m attracted to these strange connections. When two materials meet and become something joint, I think it’s one of the most beautiful things in the world. When I verbalize it, I understand that it’s not by chance. Unfortunately, I have come to know all too well that humans can't always live together, and if there isn’t a guarantee for a connection between two materials of the same kind, then why not connect plaster and grass, wood with feathers, or drum set with synthetic grass. I suppose that when I’m connecting two opposite materials, but they stay and work together, letting each other be, it gives me hope that maybe more absurd combinations than this can be. It's proof that living together is a choice.
Your artistic practice embodies a deep connection to the sensory experiences of the world, from the tactility of materials to the visual narratives they create. How do you see your work engaging with the audience's senses, and what role does the sensory interaction play in communicating the themes of unity and the human condition that you explore?
I learned as a child the strength of touch and connection with the ground. Lying on the grass, sliding down the hills of the park, climbing up the trees- feeling the fragility of the body compared to the earth. As I mentioned in the first question, I think it might be the core of my artistic practice. Through the friction of the body with the earth, with the object and with others, we are awakened and responsive. With the sculptures and installations I am making, I try to find this clash with the audience’s senses. It doesn’t mean that the work needs to be big or physically block the viewers, but it does confront them, perhaps with the memory of touching a material of this sort in the past and now seeing it transformed into something else than what they’re used to associate it with. I think this is why I work with ready-made items, to take the familiar and shift it into something new. My studio practice is always thinking exhibition, meaning each work I do is part of a whole, to which I want to invite the viewer to enter and experience it from inside, thus interacting with my work physically.
No Place (Installation view), 2020
Duckweed (installation view), 2022
Duckweed, 2022
Tell us a bit about how you spend your day / studio routine? What is your studio like?
I see the studio work as a joint effort between me and the materials. It’s almost like I’m going to the studio to have a conversation with the materials, explaining my intentions and understanding what they desire. I believe the process has to be done with listening and cooperation. It has to do with seeing the material as a subject rather than an object. I do think the material has its own wishes, and it makes its own decisions in the creative process. So, although considered a solo artist, I don’t think I am working alone, and the credit belongs to both me and the materials. For example, one time I accidently got aluminum wire instead of metal wire, and it was as if my hands had forgotten how to work, because the aluminum wire behaves so differently.
The studio for me is a place where I can be free to make mistakes. Dealing with new materials in each project means I will need to learn how to work with them, and with my first attempts, there will be mistakes, but I’m happy to encounter surprises and unplanned results along the way. I think I understand the material’s qualities and chemistry most through ״mistakes״, it’s a part of getting to know it.
What artwork have you seen recently that has resonated with you?
I’ve been traveling lately, and I was fortunate to attend some wonderful exhibitions in London. Given the richness of the city's art scene, choosing one exhibition that touched me most is challenging. However, among all the exhibitions I saw, I find myself drawn back to Philip Guston at the Modern Tate. It was one of the first exhibitions I visited upon arriving in the city, and it lingers in my thoughts. There’s something about Guston’s paintings that one simply cannot stay indifferent too. His works are imbued with pain, humor, and love, and you can almost hear his voice or feel his touch through them. When I gaze at his paintings, I feel he had a deep understanding of human pain and misery but also a great appreciation for pleasure and the people he loved.
Another beautiful exhibition I recently attended was a group exhibition at The Sunday Painter Gallery titled “The Reactor.” It was one of those exhibitions that can fill me with energy, inspiring me to explore new things and play with materials.
Is there anything new and exciting in the pipeline you would like to tell us about?
There are a few exciting things coming up soon. Currently, I am creating sculptures for an exhibition set to take place in Tel Aviv this May. Recently, I achieved 2nd place at the MetaU Art 2023 International Art Competition, and I will be showcasing works alongside other wonderful artists who were recognized in the competition at future MetaU Art fairs in San Francisco, Los Angeles, etc. Furthermore, I am participating in the upcoming Fontana exhibition of the LADIES DRAWING CLÜB (14 February - 9 March 2024), an event that celebrates drawing and dialogue on paper, and which will be printed in the new edition of the CLÜB Magazine.
In addition, I am looking forward to participating in the PILOTENKUECHE International Art residency in Leipzig this summer.
Interview by Richard Starbuck
All images courtesy of the artist
Interview publish date: 04/03/2024
