Alberto Sassani

On several occasions you mentioned the “detachment” and the fact that your own works become materials for future creations. How do you live that tension between permanence and transformation?

It is true that there is a tension in what I do, and it is a way of surviving my work. I have no attachment to the works as objects. For me, even though they have transformed into a work, they remain matter. I see them as material that is available for future creations.

Have you ever regretted dismantling a piece? Do you feel that working with materials that were once part of other works is an aesthetic choice or a condition imposed by the context? How does this influence your creative process? In that constant recycling of forms and materials, is there any element or piece you would never touch, something you feel must remain intact?

I do not regret it because I always try to find a better place for that work, one that is better resolved, that identifies me more with the moment I am going through, and that is aesthetically more successful. It's like a quest to permanently improve what I am doing. Although I would love it if sometimes it were not necessary. This way of working is a response to the fact that I cannot accumulate the works; I need more space, I need the works to be in the hands of a collector or someone who wants them. This allows the work to be fixed in that moment and belong to someone else.

If the work still belongs to me and returns to my life, to the studio, to the working circumstances, it is very likely that I will modify it. A lot of time may pass without changes, and suddenly, maybe for an exhibition, I see it again and perhaps I take it apart, add something, remove something, or do an action on top of it.

But there is one work that was a click for me in my career, in 2017, which was more of an installation in the shape of a cube that I presented at the National Salon. I kept it for several years. But it went through periods of moving and people who stored it for me until a moment arrived when I had no way to preserve it. If I have to say which one I regret, it would be that one. I wish I could have preserved it. I have it registered, I have it in my head, but not physically.

Ideally, I would need a much larger space. In the future, I would love to have a workshop space where I could keep the works, because I believe that is also part of an artist's career at some point. But this is the way I found to work, and perhaps that differentiates me from other artists.

If your works are in constant possibility of transformation, what does “finishing” a work mean to you? When do you feel that a piece no longer needs further intervention?

My relationship with work is very physical, very corporeal. I usually work on the floor, assembling the joints, and I feel that they are finished when at a certain moment I realize that it is done, that everything fits. What I seek when creating a work is for my pieces to find an order. All my work has to do with that, with finding an order. Although, in parallel, my way of life is not orderly; I am not obsessed with order, but I am in the artwork. In it, I like to seek a determined outcome, like in Tetris. I have been talking about that game for a while and have become quite a fan. Tetris has this thing where when one piece fits, another disassembles and another comes in; it’s a permanent state of seeking a certain balance.

There comes a point where I say, “well, that’s it.” This does not mean that many of the works I make do not have the possibility of being disassembled because the pieces are screwed. I can remove the screws and take off the layers I have put on. I try to use materials that are not very abrasive, like the biodegradable plastic I use in 3D. To glue it, I use a silicone that I know I can later remove. I want it to be fixed, but also mobile when I decide to change it.

There is a fragile materiality in many of your pieces, and also a sense of imminent change. Are you interested in the viewer perceiving that state of transition? No, I first feel that the works are primarily for the artist. The work is first for oneself, because the dialogue is often internal; it is always a struggle with myself. Art produces a kind of mirror in others. So, when you know about a work or an artist, the resonates that move them, perhaps the viewer can empathize with the work and feel a bit more identified with it. Often at first glance, it may not be visible, but in the layers underneath, that pulse is there. In my case, I reuse materials, recycle, I am always looking for ways to create a work, what resources I have, which ones I do not. I really like recognizing the limits, mine and those of the work, and I try to expand them as well.

The incorporation of 3D drawing gave me the possibility to expand to a place that until that moment I did not have, which is much more mental, if you will, neater, more geometric. And I like that combo, that mix of the analog which might be related to recycling materials like the rods from the frames, with a fairly basic technology that I use for drawing and printing. But there is also a post-processing that is very manual, that brings closer the digital and the plastic I use for making the prints that at first glance you do not realize what material it is; it could be wood.

I like that material that comes out raw from the machine and work on it like a work, like a piece to improve. I have seen works by other artists in 3D. There is everything. Some, for example, do not leave the piece raw as it comes out, and I do not like that; it seems to lack something.

You mentioned that fire is a key element in your process. What interests you about that gesture of subjecting wood to heat? Is it a destructive act, a purifying one, or simply a way to intervene in the material?

The relationship that recently appeared with wood and fire has to do first with a search for an aesthetic result. I really like how charred wood looks, but when I started exploring this process I discovered an Eastern technique where the wood is not destroyed. What interests me most is to do that burning to achieve a specific result, that black color, and then work on top of that restoring. There is a process where the wood is cooled, glued, and the damage is halted, and I find it somewhat meditative because I am in direct relationship simply with the material, thinking about how I can restore it. It is not an action to destroy it, but rather to beautify that wood that is raw, that has already left its previous use.

In your practice, reusing is not only a material necessity but also a political position. How does this decision intersect with the critique of hyperproduction and consumption within the art world?

It is not a spontaneous thing that I reuse or recycle materials to be able to work; it is also a consequence of material and economic resources. It does not matter to me. I do not like, for example, to go to an art bookstore and say, “give me this, give me that” to take it to the studio and start making work with it. I prefer that the elements are more everyday, that I can access them, that I do not have to buy them, although obviously, I am not naïve and much of what I do is new material, which if I have to buy it, I will buy it. But, for example, I have worked for years with materials that were on the street, recovered, remnants of furniture; well, the frames that have already become a classic have been accompanying me for several years, and yes, in a way, it is a criticism of consumption.

This consumption that exists today, where we are all seen as people who buy, people who have to buy. There are many people who are left out of that possibility, a lot. And so, finding, at least from my perspective, a way to produce without depending on how much money I have or do not have to make the work is crucial. Obviously, a work to be exhibited in a gallery, in an institution, has many expenses to sustain itself. I am not saying that I do not spend money to make the work, but I do take care in choosing materials. I like to think from that side. There is an intention to say, “well, I can do things another way.” And it is also what comes naturally to me.

Each exhibition functions as a closure, but also as an opening to new possibilities. What expectations do you have for Instructions for a discard? Do you feel it is an exhibition that concludes a process or leaves the way open to new mutations?

I feel that exhibiting is giving closure to a period of work. Like when I exhibit here in the studio, for example, when we open the space to receive the public twice a year, I always like to have something new to show, that transition in which I have been working. I close it in some way. When the public sees it, in an exhibition it is more or less the same. It is like a conclusion. The exhibition “Instructions for a Discard” at Central Affair presents a series of works from the years 2020, 2023, 2024, and a specific one that I just finished this year. I feel that the culmination of the work must take place in that moment, whether in an exhibition, in a gallery, or in an institution.

But the works also feed back when they are seen by an audience, when they interact with the gallery owners, with collectors. That is, let’s say, the closure of the work. After that, what happens with it often does not depend on the artist. What I always offer is a commitment to the work. From that place, at 48 years old, I feel very calm when I go to exhibit. I know it is a concrete job that took me many hours, that occupied my mind for a long time, and then the result can be liked more or less because art is quite subjective, but no one will be able to say “there is no work here”.

Also, I am very interested in the idea of art and work, the idea of art and craft. That constant labor that often does not occur in the making of the studio, but does occupy my mind in the daily routine of my day. It is not that I am inspired all the time, not at all. I am developing the work almost all day because these are the topics that I am interested in discussing, talking about with colleagues, with anyone. But the work reaches a point where it occupies your mind, in some way.

In a work where the process is so central, what place does the public's reaction occupy? Are you interested in their interpretation, or once the work leaves the studio, does it no longer belong to you?

In general, exhibiting is a key moment, especially when the day of the opening arrives. I have always felt quite uncomfortable at first because somehow one is being watched. But once you relax, you receive an amount of energy that nothing else gives you. I think that is why, in some way, one looks to exhibit beyond wanting the work to grow and reach different places. There is also an issue that is not just about the ego because the artist's ego is very controversial. At times the artist is very high up, but that lasts very little. The opening is a nice moment to feel good, but then, the next day, you get up in the morning and you are an absolutely ordinary person, like anyone else. It is good to arrive at an exhibition supported by the work.

Regarding the public’s reaction, it is important, but once the work leaves the studio, in some way, it no longer completely belongs to me. The interpretation the public makes becomes part of the life of the work, and that is something I value, even though the creative process is personal and central to me.

How do you prepare emotionally to exhibit work that comes from such a dynamic and constantly transforming process?

My work has to do with my daily life. With my moves, with raising my children, with my relationships. I create works in a way that you would never say “this guy has the ideal circumstances to make work”. I mean, the economic resources, which are fundamental, are often not there. So that also begins to influence one's work. Whether you like it or not, you have to see in what way, how, when you can do it. The day fills up with a lot of other activities and leaves a sort of residue. And with that residue, for example, many times work is done. It can be fatigue, it can be bad mood, there can be a lot of issues. The circumstances we are living through as a country are never, let’s say, it’s not a very boring country or very calm to say “well, I dedicate myself to art and I am at peace,” not at all.

Emotionally everything reverberates. I am a quite sensitive person. The work and the pieces sustain me; they give me a sense. I believe that is the search for making art, finding meaning in things that, if you think about them beforehand, do not make much sense. Preparing emotionally to exhibit means accepting that this residue of life becomes part of the work; it is allowing all those emotions and experiences to flow and materialize. It is a sort of therapy, a way of processing and understanding my environment through art.

You have had different production spaces: Perro Verde, La Gran Paternal, Yeruá. How do you feel each has influenced your way of working?

Since 2008, I made a kind of decision to say: “Well, whatever it takes, I’m going to dedicate myself to art, in some way.” And I started by opening a self-managed space, a gallery space, that when I opened it, I didn’t even know what a gallery space was. I did not come from the visual arts world; I was already 33 years old. I had been taking some painting workshops, for example. And it was a very dynamic, very active process, opening a place, opening a space. And intuitively positioning myself as a person, as an artist, who invites other artists was very rich in the sense that I related to many people. It was also exhausting, always with the idea of sustaining the space, from every point of view, artistic, economic, sustaining it, so that the place could exist. I was in the Chacarita neighborhood; I had the place for about five years, and much later, in 2015, I stopped doing, sustaining, or setting up exhibitions for others and I started dedicating myself more to my work.

In 2017 I began working in Diego Bianchi’s studio; I was there for five years. It was a nice experience for me because I was next to an artist I value a lot and who works hard, so seeing how others work is also a form of school; we worked. Each of these spaces influenced my work in different ways: Perro Verde was a place of initial learning and experimentation, where I learned to manage a space and interact with other artists and the public. La Gran Paternal and Yeruá, on the other hand, offered contexts more focused on personal production and the development of my work in a more structured and professional environment.

Sharing a studio with other artists implies an exchange of ideas, materials, and viewpoints. How is your dynamic within the shared space? Is there a constant dialogue, or do you work more from introspection?

Now I am in a shared space, much more open, which is Yerua Taller, where there are 11 or 12 artists working here, and it has a dynamic that is like a family. In fact, we relate to each other that way. The kitchen, for example, is a place for sharing many experiences, and the works enter into dialogue with that. By sharing the studio, one, even if you are silent, is visually imbued with what the other is doing, and something always filters through because we are like sponges for what is happening around us. That idea of the artist being alone no longer exists; it is from another time. Nowadays there must be very few people working like that. Nor is it that I can come every day to the studio. I would love for it to happen, to come every day for 8 or 10 hours like a worker, but it is not easy to achieve that.

So sometimes coming to the studio is just about being in the space, seeing the works, looking at the tools, and dialoguing with others. There, that too is part of making art. Inside the shared space, the dynamics vary a lot. Although there are moments of introspection where each person is immersed in their creative process, dialogue is a constant. It is not always verbal; often, it is an exchange of visual and conceptual influences that occur in a more subtle and organic way.

How does the perception of your work change when the production space becomes public? Are you interested in making the studio an open place or do you prefer isolation to create?

It is a passage that takes place between what is here, in my workspace, to a place that takes on another dimension for the work, as it has another resonance. The public visibility of the production stages transforms the perception of the work, giving it a different, more finished dimension when presented in a formal space like a gallery or museum. In the studio or workspace, the works are in motion and are not hung up to be seen; they are not waiting for the gaze of others; they are in process. And when they are in a place, in a gallery, or a museum, whatever it is, yes, it has another aura. The work takes on another relevance. Many times you can have works that at first glance you see in the studio and they seem battered or sloppy, and when you see them hung, they radiate something that is... I don't know, they are luminous. And yes, my way of working now has to do with that, with relating to others. Even though there is always an internal, introspective dialogue, at the end of any work, like the relationship, even if the collective workspaces are open, there is always a primal dialogue between the work and oneself. But I think the experience of sharing space with others is richer than being alone.

It is not an easy task. So when it is shared, it takes weight off the things that are not good in this profession or task. In terms of preference, I am inclined to think that the studio as an open space enriches my practice.