As children we have all been inventive bricoleurs, using whatever was at hand to build our own little worlds in which to act out our own rules. In Phoebe Washburn’s work, those child-like activities have been channeled through repeated and simple tasks that generate hypertrophic architectural installations made of humble everyday materials such as cardboard, newspaper, and scrap wood. More recently, Washburn has literalized the metaphor of a self-regulated universe in which chaos and control can coexist by introducing live plants into self-sustaining environments. The next step, she says, will be to open these systems to interaction with the public.

Washburn is a graduate of the School of Visual Arts in New York, where she studied under Sarah Sze, another practitioner of bricolage. Like Sze’s installations, Washburn’s are site-specific, temporary, and yet labor-intensive in an anti-heroic, somewhat silly way. They are also true to the process, resonating with the great American tradition of Post-Minimalist process art, which emphasizes process over object, as in the works of Robert Morris and Eva Hesse. Specific to Washburn’s installations is that they take over the gallery space in a clumsy fashion: they may be monumental in size but never in spirit.


Anna Mecugni: Can you discuss the use of recycled materials in your work?

Phoebe Washburn: I became interested in collecting and using recycled materials, and that’s been a big part of my practice. A lot of my working practice is not done here in the studio. I spend a lot of time collecting materials. And I got into that in a really basic way when I was packing up an old sculpture and getting ready to take it to Staten Island to a recycling plant. It was a sculpture made out of paperback books, and I had sort of destroyed them. They weren’t readable, and I obviously didn’t want to throw them in the garbage, so I had to take them to a paper recycling plant. So I wandered around the streets outside my studio to collect cardboard boxes that were out in the garbage, and I used those to box up the books, which then I was going to take to the recycling plant. And just out of that simple task, I became interested in the idea that if I left my studio, there was a whole world outside, a whole system that I could tap into very easily, and this material was always readily available. And this was the cardboard collection that I had begun. So it came from a really simple chore, and I loved that it was something, a way to work outside of my studio, to bring the outside world into my studio, and also take my practice outside. It felt very natural and satisfying to work in this way. I have to be careful when I speak about it because it seems as though it was a pretty strong statement in terms of critiquing consumer culture and ideas of sustainability, waste, and the environment. And those things, I think, are an undercurrent in the work, but it really came from this simple chore and from recognizing [the material] as readily available and bringing it into my studio and pulling that into my process. Cardboard is an amazing material with structural and architectural potential. I was tinkering with it and realized that I could build something quite large out of it. It was nice to have this humble repeated task generate more and more material and more momentum [to build on a large scale]. So it was a slow way to creep into that, but that’s how I became interested in using recycled materials. And then while I was out on the street collecting cardboard, I saw that there was newspaper and wood, all of these other materials that were equally as generic, equally as readily available, that I could experiment with. So, I began to work with other materials as well [...]

AM: Do you recycle material from one project to another? Do you have a system of collecting and storing?

PW: I do kind of have a system of collecting, and it’s not one that I established immediately. There are three different ways that I collect materials, and this is probably more specific to what I’m collecting now, which is scrap wood. I collect pretty much every day in a very natural way; if I see something, I’ll pick it up. To me, that’s the most satisfying way to collect. And if I keep my eyes open, I’ll find something every day. Another way is a little less satisfying, but I have to do it if I’m rigorously collecting for a certain project. I’ll call up certain places where I know the dumpsters get filled and establish a relationship with someone and go to empty their dumpsters before they get emptied. So that’s not quite as much fun, but it accomplishes what I need to accomplish. The third way is nice because it has to do with installation in a more direct way. If it’s possible, I will speak to the gallery or institution and ask them to collect materials on site if there’s a show that’s come down that’s generated a lot of waste in some way. I’ll ask them to reserve it and collect it, and then I’ll pull that into the project and keep it after the show comes down.

AM: Could you give an example of your third method of collecting?

PW: When I was working on the project in Berlin at the Deutsche Guggenheim, they saved walls from the previous exhibition, and we also collected crates from the crating company that the museum had used for the previous exhibition, so there was a lot of stuff that was part of the recent history of the site that got folded into the project.

AM: You seem interested in collecting softer materials rather than harder ones like metal. Can you comment on this?

PW: For me, scrap wood and cardboard are humble enough and generic enough that they’re not specific in a way. I’m not interested in cast-offs from specific molds in the industry or anything else that’s going to steer the project in a specific direction. Things like cardboard and wood are already very well-known; they’re already everywhere. They’re not specific in any way; they’re already here, everywhere, serving a purpose. So it’s easy to overcome the material just enough to make it my own in a way. It doesn’t require a heroic gesture to transform these materials in any way, so they’re comfortable for me to work with.

AM: Your work seems to relate to the tradition of the readymade and the conflation of art and life, which comes from Duchamp, Kurt Schwitters, and on to artists like Arman. How do you see yourself in relation to these historic precedents?

PW: I don’t consider the collection of scraps readymades. It’s true that I prefer to find materials that already have a history of decisions that have already been made. And to me, that’s more interesting than ordering palettes of plywood. I prefer that someone else has already cut or painted the wood, that there’s already a history there. So, to me, that’s quite different from the readymade. I think that there are moments in some of my projects in which there’s a resonance with this idea of a readymade, and I think that those moments mostly come from the idea that some of the pieces are so supported, so self-contained, that sometimes they open up to having these external objects in them that seem to make sense or have dual functions in a way. For example, a lot of my sculptures now require maintenance because there are live plants and ponds in them and things that require real-life interventions into the pieces to maintain them. My whole practice is about not creating an illusion. In some way, the building structures are always open, so the audience can see how they are constructed and so that there is no illusion to them. So, any time there’s a moment when there has to be a maintenance intervention into the piece, that is also incorporated into the piece. So when there need to be hoses or things to tend to the environment, those things are aestheticized and become a part of the piece. So, I think that at those moments, you could say that the pieces touch on the tradition of the readymade because sometimes you see equipment in the sculpture and wonder if it’s part of the sculpture or just equipment. Sometimes there’s a dual function in the equipment that I think resonates with this idea of the readymade, but those are small glimmers [of the idea of the readymade, due] to the fact that the pieces are their own larger environments that support this and make this possible.

AM: Can you discuss the relationship of your work to process art? Can you also talk about the process of making your installations?

PW: Process is undeniably a huge part of what I’m all about. In many ways, process is a way in, a starting point, a way to generate an activity that can then sustain momentum enough for other things to happen. I see what I do as based on activities that can then spin off and create other activities or allow for ideas to sprout out of this. So, for me, process is definitely at the core of what I do. And it can be described in a very basic way. When I initially started collecting materials, that was the first set of chores and rules that I was setting up for myself. And even though, when I was out collecting materials, it felt different from working in the studio, I was paying attention to that part of the process and trying to find ways for that to open up and lead to other things all along the way.

AM: Can you explain how you start your projects? Do you have a system?

PW: Each project is quite different and has its own story that unfolds as I’m planning it or trying to bring things together to start a new project. I work from project to project, and in most cases, there are one or two significant things that happen in a project that I sense are the next step to the next project, and I think that [this link] goes back to the idea of working out of a process, out of a series of activities. That’s the thing that sustains me or leads me to the next project, the idea that the process continues and that there’s something that feels like it needs further investigation. Often in the middle of an installation, after mindless building and additive accumulation of small steps and nurturing, there comes a moment when I realize that the process is a means to something else. I’ve just been mindlessly pushing this thing along, and then something happens that opens it up, and it’s this new special little thing, and often that is the thing that I’m interested in for the next project. But for me, that can only happen if I can get into a process of building something that’s mindless, slow, and demanding. [After] days and days of adding to this spectacle that we’re creating, finally there’s a glimmer of a fresh idea, and I feel like I could only get to that moment if I put in all of those hours of slow grinding.

AM: Do you remember a specific time when you got that glimmer?

PW: In the last project that I finished in Berlin, we were building this factory, and it was a huge structure to build. There were all these details, multiple rooms, and this machine that had to be built and running. We were creating another world in a certain way. So, I was working in the waiting room in this factory, and I realized that I wanted to put a fountain in the waiting room. It was this silly idea that visitors are on this factory tour, and they get to this waiting room and get this sort of cheesy welcome fountain. It didn’t make much sense, but I was trusting this tenuous idea I was having. So, the fountain, I was thinking, would be a champagne fountain, but because this was in the context of a factory, it wouldn’t be champagne, but instead it would be Gatorade because this was a workman’s fountain. So I installed this weird little quirky fountain in the waiting room, and I remember thinking, “Ah, I’ve finally made a sculpture here!” I remember feeling like I had mined everything down. It was like a forced breakthrough. I had created this whole false world, and I was finally trusting the logic that I had built. So the idea of that fountain is now what I’m interested in pursuing. So, sometimes those moments are pretty clear to me. It’s just a matter of getting to them.

AM: Are you working on any new projects right now?

TB: I’m working on some new ideas. And they do come from the last project. I was creating this factory world, and it had its own logic and its own set of rules, and viewers to the gallery were interacting with this world but were still viewers nonetheless. The step I’m taking from that project is that I’d somehow like to create something that has its own set of strange rules but that viewers are now interacting with in a more direct way. This new thing is possibly going to be a soda shop or some sort of context that viewers can pass through and understand a set of rules and understand it’s a different world, but they could also interact with it and have an exchange with this world. I don’t know if it’s actually going to take place in a soda shop, where there’s an exchange of a beverage, but it seems like the factory was really interesting because it was quite fleshed out and had a really clear logic [even if] it was irrational. For me, the thing that was a bit unsatisfying was that it was hermetic, still contained. If there’s a way to break through that a little bit, I think that would be interesting.

AM: Do you keep track of the number of hours and days it takes you to put these installations together?

PW: I do a little bit, just to get a sense of planning for projects and to get a sense of how many people I’m going to need on a crew. Each project is really different and really depends on how many people are working and how skilled they are or how difficult the setting is. One of the most difficult installations I did was at the ICA in Philadelphia. The ramp project that I did there was really challenging because of the space. It was a really steep ramp that required assembly of a scaffolding, and taking it down and reassembling it every time, we needed to move up the ramp. For that project, I was there for two weeks with the crew. We worked normal museum hours, 8am to 6pm or something like that. The projects are labor-intensive but also simple in many ways. It’s a simple way of building, not completely free-form, but once the skeleton structure is assembled, there’s not a lot of measuring that bogs people down. It’s often something that with a ten-minute demo, I can get everyone set up to do, and people can just cruise along. So it’s nice that the work isn’t highly technical.

AM: Do you use sketches and maquettes?

PW: I do sketch a lot. I sketch in a couple of different ways. I sketch weird dream-like questions and problems. I doodle and try to push ideas forward. I will also make sketches that are quite different. They’re like plan sketches. I’ll photograph the site, get floor plans, and sketch over them. I’ve never used a maquette, but I sketch out pretty clearly, especially depending on the institutions. If they need a clear plan, I photograph the site and really sketch it out, right into the space. Sometimes that’s really important because people need to know exactly how much material we need and how much time it’s going to take. So, I can sketch things out really clearly, but I also like to keep things open as well, and sometimes for my own protection, I like to not overly explain things. Working on site can be really stressful and time-consuming, so if I’m not sure if we’re going to accomplish everything, I don’t want to promise too much and then not be able to accomplish everything. So, sometimes I keep certain things to myself. But in terms of the structure, everyone on the crew needs to know what’s going on, so I’ll sketch out the structure in that respect. It really depends on the project and the space.

AM: Given the centrality of process in your work and its temporary and site-specific aspects, how do you deal with collecting, both by institutions and individuals? Do you provide them with clear, detailed sketches for future reinstallations?

PW: Because I work in a site-specific and hands-on way, it’s a tricky balance when I’m considering how to recreate the projects a second or third time. So, that is a problem with my work. The process of installation is often documented, which really helps. Sketches are made ahead of time, and during the installation, things are photographed, and sometimes, short videos are taken of installing different components of the piece, but it’s really just a matter of being as thorough as possible. Obviously it would be wonderful if I could be a part of every reinstallation, but that’s not possible. So it’s a matter of being thorough and capturing every aspect of the installation. Having said that, the site steers the form and scale so much, so even if things are clearly archived and documented, if the space changes dramatically, that’s going to change the sculpture. So that’s a huge factor. It really depends on the project and the site and figuring out a way to pull all of these elements together.

AM: In what ways has New York City influenced your practice?

PW: Where I live has a direct impact on what I do, and I’ve come to realize that and appreciate it more and more. It wasn’t until I did a project outside of the United States and tried to collect somewhere else that I realized how much where I live and work completely affects my practice. It’s stating the obvious, but New York real estate is so expensive that no one has any space, and no one has any storage, so stuff gets thrown out all the time so quickly and in so much quantity. That completely has effects on what I do in a direct way and has, I’m sure, steered my process completely. It was really strange and beautiful to be working outside of this environment, outside of the United States [and come to] really appreciate that.

AM: Can you speak about your transition from installations with inert, recycled materials to ones with live elements? Was there a moment at some point when there was an opening up?

PW: It often seems that there was this radical jump [in my work] from collected cardboard and wood to the sudden incorporation of live plants. But to me, it was such a series of small steps that it felt appropriate. I had spent so long skimming off the other system, the recycling system and everything that’s going on around where I work. Kind of without paying attention to it, I drew from that and folded it into my practice. I wanted to create something that had its own set of rules, its own system, and its own life [...]

AM: It’s striking that a number of artists today are practicing bricolage and working with accumulation. I’m thinking of American artists of our generation such as Jean Shin, Tara Donovan, and your former teacher Sarah Sze, but also older male artists from developing countries like El Anatsui and Ai Weiwei. How do you see yourself in relation to these artists, specifically the American women?

PW: There’s certainly a resonance and an affinity. I see it as a very hopeful gesture, when someone corrals and wrestles with something so that it’s transformative in some way. So I feel a resonance there. I guess I’m specifically thinking about Tara Donavan when I say this: I think that what I see as a marked difference is that she is able to do something—and this is going to sound strange—to do something spectacular with the material and she accomplishes that in an amazing way. More than just being transformative, she has complete command over the material. That is the sort of amazing beauty of it. I don’t think that I’m interested in doing something spectacular with the materials I deal with. My work is about the slow, prodding process and what can come from that more than it is about overcoming something or doing something brilliant with the material.

AM: I think your work is less about the final results than about the process.

PW: I’ve been asked this before, and it’s interesting to think about. I feel like you come close to it when you say that it’s less about the result and more about the process and what comes out of that rather than having some amazing command over something. Often there are moments of surprise and discovery in my installations, but sometimes you’re looking at something that’s not that beautiful or transformative.

AM: Do you think about beauty and visual impact when you work on a project?

PW: I absolutely do. To me, the visual experience is the most important thing ultimately. Maybe my definition of beauty is different, but I’m most excited about discovery as part of the visual experience and things changing over the course of that experience or the course of an exhibition. That’s what I prioritize the most. Right now, I’m really excited about this idea that you could never see the same thing twice in an exhibition. I know that may be an impossibly tall order, but I think discovery and change are the most beautiful things.