Eldar Krainer
“Technology can verify us, define who we are, match us with our soulmates, and potentially give our lives purpose and meaning. But, honestly, it often feels somewhat detached from a real self realisation.”
Eldar Krainer’s sculptural work blends industrial materials with emotional depth, creating objects that feel both technological and intimate. Often resembling digital interfaces, loading bars, frozen screens, or half-loaded pages. His pieces explore themes of desire, optimisation, and suspended expectation. Rather than celebrating the seamlessness of technology, Krainer highlights its glitches and emotional weight, questioning how we form identity and connection within systems that rarely fulfill their promises. Fluent in the language of branding and design, his work neither rejects nor fully embraces consumer culture, instead operating within its contradictions. In this interview, Krainer discusses the personal experiences that continue to shape his evolving practice.
Could you tell us a bit about yourself and your background?
I’ve always been into making things. As a child, I used to cut up board game boxes and turn them into these makeshift, speculative video mobile devices, long before smartphones were a thing. Looking back, I realise it wasn’t just about creating gadgets out of random stuff, but about how these objects mediate human connection and the deep attachment we form to them. I also remember taking photos of every new pair of trainers or backpack I got before I used them. I wanted to capture that moment when they were still brand new, unable to let go of the idea that, like us, they are temporary too and will eventually wear out or be discarded. There was something about wanting to preserve that "forever new" feeling.
I think that early obsession with how things change over time really influenced my work. It wasn’t just about this romantic pursuit of art that could last forever, but about making works that speak to the fragility of our lives and the complexity of our relationships.
Your works incorporate familiar digital symbols and phrases like loading percentages and affirmative slogans. What draws you to these elements, and how do they speak to our relationship with technology and self-worth?
We are all navigating a world full of uncertainty. Whether it’s not knowing how the economy works, what’s going on with our governments, where our relationships are headed, or what the future holds. And then there’s technology, which offers the illusion of clarity and validation. Growing up as a millennial, I saw the internet becoming an extension of the self, helping us break free from the limits of the physical world. When I was a teenager, I shared personal thoughts on my blog, but today, my digital profiles reveal way more about me than I ever could’ve expressed back then.
I got really interested in the Quantified Self movement, where people are willingly collecting data about themselves in the form of numbers and charts to gain a sense of affirmation, even when it feels utterly simplistic. Technology can verify us, define who we are, match us with our soulmates, and potentially give our lives purpose and meaning. But, honestly, it often feels somewhat detached from a real self realisation.
These elements you mentioned, inspired by social media content and digital interfaces, are entry points into my work. Loading percentages, hashtags, and emojis are everywhere, yet we barely even notice them anymore. I use their familiarity as a way in for the viewer, while keeping the work open-ended and unresolved, much like life itself. I guess, by doing so, I’m trying to challenge the promises technology often sells but rarely delivers.
STAND OUT, Installation view, 2023 (Photographer Ollie Hammick)
Load (17%), detail, 2023 (Photographer Ollie Hammick)
Verified, 2023 (Photographer Gillies Adamson Semple)
Your work often draws on branding and advertising aesthetics. How do you see consumerism influencing not just visual culture but also how we construct our identities and desires?
A long time ago, I watched the film Pierrot Le Fou by Jean-Luc Godard, where there’s a scene in which the characters' dialogue is made up entirely of advertisements and slogans popular at the time. A similar thing happens in the first episode of the new season of Black Mirror, where the main character’s words are interrupted by sponsored ads from her brain implant. These examples show just how commodified society has become and how we all feel like part of one big media machine. Our desires, our sense of self, and the way we think, are all shaped by the logic of the market, pushing us into this never-ending pursuit of self-improvement, always chasing a “better” version of ourselves and never truly satisfied with who we already are.
These examples also bring up the issue of authenticity, or the lack of it. The language we use, especially now with AI, feels more and more standardised, like ready-made content instead of real conversation. I get that vibe a lot when I’m chatting to new people on dating apps, feeling like a stock character of myself. But at the same time, I wonder if the rejection of authenticity could actually be a liberating thing.
From glossy plastics to industrial metal and soft fabrics, your material choices carry both emotional and cultural weight. How do you select materials, and what role do they play in shaping the emotional tone of your installations?
I’m really drawn to materials that are both familiar and unexpected. Some come from everyday objects we all recognise for their practical use, while others are materials that mimic something else, adding a humorous twist to the work. I also use 3D printing, which lets me shape materials to feel manufactured and handmade at the same time.
Industrial materials, like metal or concrete, often come across as cold and rigid, creating a bit of distance from the viewer. But what interests me is how I can charge them with warmth or vulnerability. I like how this contrast plays out in the work. It’s like a push-and-pull game when the work draws you in, only to push you back. When I juxtapose those polished and hard surfaces with softer and more curved shapes, an emotional tension comes through. I think that’s when the work starts to feel more human and relatable.
Blocked, 2023 (Photographer Gillies Adamson Semple)
Sleepover, 2022 (Photographer Eldar Krainer)
Goodbye Letter, 2024 (Photographer Ben Alon)
Tell us a bit about how you spend your day / studio routine? What is your studio like?
My studio is in Woolwich, South East London. It feels a bit like travelling to the end of the world to get there, which is oddly meditative. It’s a little counterintuitive, though, working in a space that feels somehow isolated, especially since my work is so tied to human interactions. Take, for example, the posters I made of a bin from Columbia Road on a sunny weekend. I was fascinated by the remnants of the flower market, the stuff that’s left behind once the crowds clear out and the market closes. There’s a certain nostalgia in that record of something that’s already happened, something we’ve just missed. A lot of the time, I’m torn between wanting to lock myself away in the studio for days and feeling the need to be out and about.
Once I’m in the studio, I tend to stay there for the whole day, as it takes me some time to get into the “art-making mode”. I often split my time between image collecting and 3D modelling. One is more linked to reality, and the other is more fictional and imaginative, but they tend to switch roles.
I’ve always wanted to have a more structured routine for making work, but I’ve found things rarely come together that way. I end up juggling a few ideas at once, writing, sketching, and letting things sink in before deciding what to do next.
What artwork have you seen recently that has resonated with you?
If I had to choose one work from Ed Atkins' retrospective at Tate Britain, it would be The Worm from 2021. It’s a video piece that captures an intimate phone call between Atkins and his mum during lockdown, while he’s in Germany and she’s in England. What I found really striking was the setting. Instead of something private, as you might expect for such a personal conversation, we are thrown into this CGI talk show set, where Atkins plays the host. It instantly made me think about how we are always performing or taking on different roles, even in the most intimate moments.
It also reminded me of that alienated feeling I get sometimes when I speak to my parents. When they ask me something and I’m not sure how to respond, I redirect the question back to them, like a sneaky moderator. There’s a bittersweet tenderness in the work, where sharing a meaningful moment with your parents feels distant, both mentally and physically. That tension between the desire for connection and the difficulty of it is something I always return to in my own practice.
Is there anything new and exciting in the pipeline you would like to tell us about?
I’m currently working on a new project that is going to involve a lot more of my personal writing. It’s a bit of a shift from what I usually do, but I’m really excited to see where it takes me. It’s also a great opportunity to share a more intimate side of my practice, while still thinking of the pervasive and impersonal language we come across every day.
I’m using marks and traces, whether digital or physical, as a way to explore the idea of “leftover language”, which feels like a natural evolution of my work. It’s about focusing on what’s left behind once all the noise of the city fades away. I hope this will add another layer to the sense of longing I try to capture, and maybe even open up space for a more nuanced take on technology, language, and emotions.
All images courtesy of the artist
Interview publish date: 23/07/2025
Interview by Richard Starbuck
