Daniela Bergschneider (Paderborn, 1986) is one of the most interesting voices in contemporary German sculpture. Through her practice, Bergschneider explores the relationship between textiles and ceramics, striving for sculptures that can express a universal corporeality that extends beyond the human body. Her works blur the boundaries between abstract and concrete, beautiful and grotesque, familiar and alien. In the process of creation, she handcrafts small modular elements from porcelain, which are then bound to a semi-transparent nylon fabric dyed by hand to construct larger forms. It is a sculpture that has made hybridity one of its founding elements, and not only in its subjects but also in its materials, for Daniela Bergschneider’s material hybrids are composed, for example, of hard and soft elements: the porcelain evokes the presence of bones, while the fabric acts as a skin for the sculpture. Together, they form a skeletal structure in which both materials create a cohesive whole, similar to the internal functionality of living things. Because of the dynamic tension between the two materials, the works give the impression of being alive, almost as if they are breathing, expanding and contracting. Bergschneider’s sculptures are designed to achieve an expression she calls “visual tactility.” This research is characterized by the use of her studio as a laboratory, where she develops forms and surfaces charged with enough tactile and visual information to stimulate the imagination and evoke an emotional response. His goal is for viewers to feel the work in their own bodies, feeling a resonance in the muscular system as they approach the sculptures. Here is a firsthand account of this work in this conversation with Gabriele Landi.
GL. For most artists, childhood is the golden age when the first signs of interest in art begin to appear. Was that the case for you as well?
DB. Yes, I think my interest in materials and making started very early. I grew up in a family where working with your hands was highly valued. My mother was a seamstress, so there were always fabrics, threads and tools in the house. She taught me how to sew and work with fabrics, and it was completely natural for me to create things with my hands. At the same time I was fascinated by the human body. I remember flipping through anatomy books as a child and being amazed to discover that there were such complex and fragile structures inside our bodies. That initial fascination with the strength and vulnerability of the body is still present in my work.
What studies have you done?
I studied textile and fashion design and linguistics in my hometown of Paderborn, Germany, and later earned a master’s degree in textile design at HAW [ed. note: Hochschule für Angewandte Wissenschaften, “University of Applied Sciences”] in Hamburg. Later I moved to Norway and earned a master’s degree in fine arts at the Bergen Academy. That was a decisive moment for my art practice, because during my studies I encountered ceramics for the first time. The combination of fabric and ceramics opened up completely new possibilities for me, and since then these two materials have become central to my work.
Did you have a first artistic love?
Yes, one of the first artists who inspired me was Eva Hesse. Active in the 1960s, she stood in contrast to the works of minimalist art, which were made from smooth industrial materials. I love the way she uses soft or flexible materials in her sculptures. He worked with unconventional materials such as latex, fiberglass, rope: materials that could sag, bend, wrinkle and often change over time. Because of these qualities, his sculptures often appear fragile, corporeal, and slightly unstable. His work also encouraged me to experiment with similar qualities in my own practice. At first I also worked with latex, exploring its softness and skin-like texture. From there I gradually moved toward very thin and transparent fabrics, which also possess a skin-like texture and can stretch and react to the forces of the materials they contain.
Were there any important encounters during your training?
An important influence was a workshop with Japanese textile designer Hiroyuki Murase, where I learned the Japanese Shibori dyeing technique. This technique involves knotting and manipulating the fabric before dyeing it, and I became passionate about the sculptural potential of knotting. I started knotting objects to the fabric and heating it so that it retained the memory of the form in it. Then, when I discovered ceramics, everything suddenly made sense because I was able to start creating my own forms to be knotted to fabric.
How has your work evolved over time?
My early work was mainly fabric-based. I experimented with burning, shaping and manipulating the material with heat to create sculptural surfaces. When I started working with clay during my studies in Bergen, ceramics became part of my practice. Initially I bound raw clay to fabric, allowing the elastic fabric to follow the expansion of the wet clay. Later I began to use fired porcelain elements that I bind to the fabric one by one. Over time the works became more sculptural and more clearly related to the body. Now I create large hybrid sculptures in which the porcelain elements act almost as bones, while the fabric becomes the skin that holds everything together.
What is the origin of the images you work with?
The images in my works often come from organic structures, the body, plants, or microscopic and geological forms. I am not interested in directly depicting something recognizable. I prefer forms that oscillate between abstraction and figuration. I like this ambiguity because our brain automatically tries to interpret what we see based on our memory. When a shape cannot be clearly identified, it activates the imagination and personal associations.
How important is the spatial relevance of your work?
Space plays an important role in my sculptures. I am interested in creating works that look almost like living organisms that occupy the same space as the viewer. Because of their size and the way they grow or expand on the wall or floor they can seem to compete with us for space and air. Many of my works are fixed to the wall, which allows them to defy gravity and expand into the room. In some of my more recent works, the sculptures rise from the ground and grow vertically into the space. I like this movement because it gives the works a corporeal presence. When the works extend to the height of the room, sometimes even above the viewer, they create a stronger physical relationship with the viewer’s body.
What is your conception of time in relation to how you conceive of space in your work?
Time plays an important role in my work, both conceptually and physically. The sculptures are composed of hundreds of small porcelain elements that I model by hand and then tie individually to fabric. It is a very slow process. Through this repetition and handwork, time becomes a physical presence in the works. I also like the idea that the works seem to be in a state of growth or transformation, as if they are still evolving within the space and that their final state has not yet been reached.
The techniques and modes of expression you adopt are reminiscent of the feminine. Is it a matter of identity or a political issue for you?
For me it is not primarily a matter of identity or a political statement. I am aware that textiles are historically associated with femininity and domestic labor, but it is not something I focus on in my artwork, nor do I intend to reproduce it. Rather, my interest in textiles stems from its textural qualities. Of course, viewers might still discern these historical associations in the work, and that is perfectly fine. But for me the starting point is always the material and the sculptural process.
What is your conception of nature?
I don’t see a clear separation between man and nature. I see them as part of the same system. In my works, nature appears less as a direct representation and more as a set of processes: growth, tension, pressure, gravity or decay.
Are you interested in the idea of landscape?
Yes, but again in a rather abstract way. Some works lying on the floor can evoke geological landscapes, cracked desert earth. This can be seen in my work A moment between (2019). At the same time, the work can also evoke skin or living organisms. I like this shifting scale in which something can appear as both a landscape and a body surface.
How important is color in your work?
Color plays an important role in my work, both in shaping emotional responses and in guiding the associations that emerge around the sculptures. I often choose colors related to the body, such as pink and flesh tones. Recently, different shades of green have become part of my practice, expanding the associative range of the works toward the botanical. I am very interested in how color and form interact. The same color can look very different depending on the shape it is paired with. For example, a pink on a shape that resembles the human body can look strange or eerie, while the same pink on a flower-like shape can have a completely different effect. Form and color go hand in hand, and the meaning or feeling of a work comes from how they are combined.
Are you interested in the spiritual dimension in your work?
I would not call my work spiritual in a religious sense, but I am interested in experiences beyond language. I hope that the viewer can feel the work in his or her body before fully understanding it on an intellectual level. This kind of sensory or emotional response is important to me.
When you start a work, do you already have a clear idea of how it will develop or is there room for change along the way?
I rarely start with a completely defined idea. I like to say that I think through making. My studio is like a laboratory where I experiment with materials and forms and create many sketches. Through these experiments I discover forms that fascinate me enough to develop them further into larger sculptures that take shape in my hands. I remain open to the small encounters I have along the way that can change the direction of the work.
Do you work in series, do you focus on one work at a time or do you make several at once?
I usually work on several works at once. The sculptures are composed of many individual elements and sometimes it takes months to complete them. I like to develop variations in parallel because it prevents me from getting bored or fixated on one thing. Working simultaneously on different sculptures also allows ideas to circulate between them, and often new variations emerge unexpectedly during the creation process.
Does the idea of setting up the work in relation to its exhibition matter at all? What kind of dialogue do you seek with the viewer in front of your work?
I hope the viewer experiences the work bodily. I am very interested in “visual tactility,” the idea that we can almost feel the texture and physicality of the sculpture just by looking at it. If we see an object we can imagine how much it weighs, what its surface feels like, how warm it is, how it would behave if it were lifted or moved. I like to use materials that, on the one hand, are easy to identify, but that turn into something foreign to the viewer. By creating in the audience a desire to touch my works, I also create a gap between eye and hand. This gap must be bridged by the bodily experiences of the viewer, the experiences that come from our sensations and our physicality with the material.
What happens to the works when no one is there to observe them? Can the existence of a work of art be independent of the presence of an observer?
This is an interesting question. I think a work is complete when viewers relate to it through their gaze, body and imagination. The works need the viewer’s perception to be activated.
Some artists stand at the sides of their work, others, such as performing artists, are often at the center of it, then there are those who look at their work from the top down or vice versa... How do you stand in relation to your work?
There is no hierarchy between me and the works. I don’t look down on them or up at them, but I see them as counterparts, standing in front of me, with their own autonomy. In the creative process, I have a strong physical connection with my works, shaped by the size of my hands in the porcelain, the repetitive process of knotting and touching the sculptures hundreds of times. I invest so much love and energy in them. Sometimes I feel them as extensions of my own body. A change happens when I take them out of my studio: they become more autonomous and independent and develop a life of their own.
The author of this article: Gabriele Landi
Gabriele Landi (Schaerbeek, Belgio, 1971), è un artista che lavora da tempo su una raffinata ricerca che indaga le forme dell'astrazione geometrica, sempre però con richiami alla realtà che lo circonda. Si occupa inoltre di didattica dell'arte moderna e contemporanea. Ha creato un format, Parola d'Artista, attraverso il quale approfondisce, con interviste e focus, il lavoro di suoi colleghi artisti e di critici. Diplomato all'Accademia di Belle Arti di Milano, vive e lavora in provincia di La Spezia.Warning: the translation into English of the original Italian article was created using automatic tools. We undertake to review all articles, but we do not guarantee the total absence of inaccuracies in the translation due to the program. You can find the original by clicking on the ITA button. If you find any mistake,please contact us.
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