Luciana Lamothe in conversation with Mara Sartore: On and Beyond Boundaries and Identity

LL – Yes, I do. I identify with that reflection because I belong to a generation of artists who began their careers in the early 2000s, during Argentina’s deep crisis. That period had a profound impact on my work, my way of thinking, and how I perceive reality and art. At that time, I was working in my studio on a very constructive, detailed, labour-intensive project. Then, suddenly, the protests started. I participated in them, and even if you didn’t, you would still encounter them just by stepping outside.
I was particularly struck by the sight of the large, prominent marks on the asphalt from burned rubbish, which I photographed, the shuttered banks with their dented steel doors, or people banging on them. The landscape was bleak and grim, but visually rich, providing a wealth of ideas. That was when I decided to leave my studio and work directly on the streets. I began carrying out actions in public spaces, which led to some acts that could be seen as vandalistic. My idea was to continue using the tools I’d used in the studio and see how they behaved in public spaces. I realised that tools I used for building in the studio became destructive outside. For example, a screwdriver that I might use to build something could be used to pry off a door handle, or a box cutter, which I often used in the studio, could slash a chair in a hotel where I’d sneak in to perform the action.
This experience led me to develop the concept of a duality between construction and destruction, both stemming from the same operation. A single action or material can be both constructive and destructive at once. It’s not about opposition but about expanding the range of possibilities. That moment of crisis in Argentina was crucial for me and my work.

LL – The title comes from a poem by Elba Fábregas, an Argentine poet who wasn’t very well-known—I think she only has one published book—but her poems are wonderful. This phrase comes from one of those poems, and for me, two words stand out: “collapse” and “doors.” I work in this contradiction, this dialectic between construction and destruction, which creates tension in my work. I often deal with the idea of tension. There is always tension, and there’s a potential for something to happen, but it doesn’t quite occur. The materials are in a state of potential; some action could be taken, but it’s latent. The tension and flexibility of the materials convey that idea, especially in some of my installations. For example, I use a walkway made of phenolic plywood, the same material I use here, which you can walk on. But this walkway is supported on one side, while the other side is suspended. So, the part you walk on is suspended, creating significant instability. The material moves because the weight of the body flexes the board, leading you to question whether it will hold your weight. Can I trust this material? Will it support me? This creates ambiguity between trust in materials and the vertigo they generate. This idea persists in this installation, where everything is suspended, hanging from thin wooden plates. I did many tests before concluding that this wood could really bear such weight. The wood is very thin, only three millimeters, and soft. It feels fragile to the touch. I did countless tests in my studio, meticulously trying to figure out at what point the wood would break, but I don’t give that information to the viewer because I want them to feel that instability. So, here, I’m suggesting the possibility of collapse, though no real collapse occurs. That’s the potential I always work with. The space I create is open and fluid, without a single entry point or linear path. Each person can choose their own way through.

LL – For this project, I was interested in exploring identity as an open and dynamic concept. Traditionally, we think of identity as something fixed in advance. I was intrigued by the idea of seeing it as a space for change and transformation. I had been working with wood, but I had never really researched what a phenolic board is, where it comes from, or what it consists of. I wanted to trace its origin in search of identity. What I discovered was the many ways a material like wood can be: phenolic plywood is a multi-layered, industrially processed wood, commonly used in construction for its strength and durability. It’s not just wood; there’s a process of industrialisation behind it. It’s a completely altered nature, designed to perform specific tasks, like bearing a certain amount of weight. It has binders; it’s not just wood—it’s wood, glue, and varnish. We also did research on all the places where we could find different types of wood. We went to a boat scrapyard, a boat carpentry shop, and a recycling center. We took wood from all these different places. We even went to a nearby forest in autumn and collected branches. The wood piles you see come from pavilions of last year’s Architecture Biennale. The branches come from a forest, parts of gondolas, and wood from various places. What I wanted to show is how the same material can behave differently in different contexts and states.

LL – The body has always been important in my work. I’ve always worked with the body in relation to sculpture and action, creating a dynamic interaction. The sculpture itself is generated through an action. For the first time, I imagined the body inside the installation and moving through it. I think this is the first time I’ve used architecture in a more enveloping sense. I had done a previous work in Buenos Aires, almost as a preliminary step toward this idea. I liked the idea of combining architecture and sculpture. There’s a shift in scale, always determined by the relationship between the body and space. Architecture has a spatiality that exceeds the scale of the body. I was very interested in generating a feeling of both proximity and distance in the body through this difference in proportions. I don’t propose a separation between the sculpture and the viewer; instead, one can walk into and among the work. I was interested in including my body and an action of mine that simultaneously generates a reflection on materials and form. In one of the videos, I’m performing actions in the street, in public spaces, using different doors, locking branches and breaking them. I work with the flexion of wood to see how it bends, opens, and sometimes breaks. I needed to create a counterpoint in that sense. In the other video, I play with the joints of my fingers. There’s a sound of the joints cracking, which sounds like breaking branches.

LL – Because I set out to work on and search for the origin of a material’s identity and all its possible facets and ways of being, I sought to involve and include all those possibilities. I clearly needed to include the natural aspect—a material that comes from nature but isn’t fully transformed or alienated. At some point, we rarely question the origin of a material. When we use objects, we seldom ask ourselves whether they are made of wood, plastic, or metal. For me, knowing what material an object is made of is essential because it gives identity to that element. Also, it’s not just the material itself; it’s its history—the bugs inside it, the worms, the ants, its story, its lament.