Alexander Rosenberg and Maia Chao

Maia Chao: When I was a resident at RAIR, the dump had me thinking a lot about ecological collapse. As an artist working in glass, how does the question of environmental impact shape your practice?

Alex Rosenberg: As a material-specific educator, and a maker of objects entrenched in a studio practice that consumes resources at an alarming rate, I am constantly quantifying my carbon footprint, assessing the relative scarcity and availability of material, and otherwise measuring the environmental impact of my work. As the unintentional effects of my studio work eclipse the projects they once served, an urgent shift has begun to reorient my practice. Rather than participating in conventional gallery exhibitions or making objects requiring climate-controlled conservation, I am becoming propelled by more practical questions. How will the world repair itself after we are gone? How will humans and other species survive the conditions we have created? What does a posthuman earth look like?

There are a couple of things that have shaped my approach to material scarcity in the last few years. One is the experience of teaching at an art school for a long time. When you’re a student, it’s easy to write off all the times you buy expensive materials just to make something temporary. But when you teach, you see this unfolding in front of you weekly, on a much larger scale, and you start to wonder about the environmental impact of artmaking in general. Amazon.com has become huge with art students. You see the packing materials coming in every day, and all the waste at the end of each project and each semester.

Even though I like to work across media and disciplines, glass has always been an important material/process/methodology for me, and it is one of the most costly to transform, both in terms of environmental resources and dollars. From the perspective of a recycling business, glass is heavy to move, takes up a lot of space to store, and does not yield much money in its second life, compared to other materials. This is an interesting reversal for something that has been one of the most valuable materials in the world.

MC: I know you were working on a series of projects when in residence at RAIR. Can you orient us to those?

AR: This project began with the desire to make a comprehensive field guide that someone might use if the larger ecosystem looked like Revolution Recovery. I was thinking of a mix between a survival guide and an Audubon book, which would include the most useful and plentiful materials at RAIR and where to find them, identification of flora and fauna, and instructions for a type of bushcraft based around these resources. It was important to design a practical “uniform” for the fieldwork this book required, a uniform consisting of protective gear, and dictated entirely by environmental considerations and safety requirements relating to the site. I wanted to start with apparel used for historic fieldwork in similar conditions, and considered this adornment to be as much a tool as anything else. So I made a trash-camo jumpsuit, designed for the summer months, so the material is relatively thin and breathable. I collaged images of the pile, and had them printed onto yardage and fabricated into a jumpsuit. It made sense to try and blend into the background, in order to observe the wildlife. 

I also made a series of discrete tools for the work I was doing, following the strict requirement that the only tools and materials I had at my disposal were those already at RAIR. I made a modified Herman Miller Aeron chair that rolls out into the yard, and holds binoculars and an umbrella. There was some camo netting, too, that could be draped over the umbrella for additional cover while looking at the wildlife. The object is kind of absurd, but the materials are all sourced from the pile. I also prototyped a water filtration device using charcoal produced from the dimensional lumber pile, a device for starting fires, a couple versions of animal traps, et cetera. I can imagine some of these items being reused or appropriated by future residents. The outfit in particular could work as a standard RAIR garment, especially with the addition of high-visibility striping down the sides.

MC: I appreciate the way you create tools or research instruments as the work itself, which centers the research process. Can you share more about your process, questions, and methodologies? 

AR: At the heart of this project was the idea of fieldwork — the actual work was being on the site, learning about it through observation, and spending time with experts who had spent a lot of time there already. This included people and other species who inhabit the site. This is my favorite part of any project — when I get to learn a new skill or way of seeing through practice, repetition, and hands-on experience.

Part of the fieldwork I was doing was simply observing different species on the site, and how they had adapted to its particularities. I quickly realized that the best way to observe wildlife was to find whatever they might need for sustenance or comfort. On a hot sunny day, I’d find cats and raccoons in shaded areas, or where water had collected. To observe these species, I had to empathize with them — and it became clear, in an experiential way, that we needed the same things. In addition to cats and raccoons, RAIR is home to rats and other vermin, a skunk, and a hawk. I wanted to study all of them, discover other animal inhabitants, collect information about their behaviors and habits, and — in a reconstruction of preindustrial natural histories — use this information to navigate their ecosystem. I was also observing the diverse weeds, bryophytes, and fungi that colonize the green space adjacent to the dump, developing existing methods of cultivating and foraging for edible and otherwise “useful” species, and in doing so, expanding anthropogenic notions of value.

So, in my mind, the primary problem to be solved was: how do I physically thrive in this environment, and what tools do I need to do it? This involves the idea of bushcraft. It’s a design practice as much as it is a craft practice. It designs tools to help a person make efficient use of a site, and it’s focused specifically on basic aspects of human survival, like food, water, and shelter. I’ve also been thinking about bushcraft as a material vernacular based on what is commonly available in a certain environment. As “natural” materials become more scarce and industrial/consumer waste becomes more plentiful, it seems reasonable to think about designing for these specific materials. 

MC: It’s important to note that you were carrying out fieldwork at an operating waste recycling facility/business. I’m curious how this fact shaped your process.

AR: Because of the work going on at Revolution Recovery, the very makeup of the site changes daily, or even hourly. Tons of materials are coming in and out. This is unique to the site, and it took some getting used to. There were certain materials that could be found regularly — construction materials, dimensional lumber drywall — but other things came in waves. It’s interesting to think about the species that live there, how this constant shift figures into their daily lives, and how they adjust for excess and scarcity. 

In a way, RAIR is two different sites, depending on the time you are there. When it’s open for business, it’s less apparent that there is wildlife there. It’s dangerous and loud. You see lots of people and fewer other species. But at 5:00 PM, or closing time, the feeling changes dramatically. Everything gets quieter. It becomes a static landscape. The constant shift of piles suddenly stops, and whatever materials are on the surface seem like they’ve always been there. This moment was exciting and meaningful to me. 

I was thinking about how you could focus on the quieter things that took some effort to observe, and make them more visible to an audience. This relates to a lot of work I’ve done in the past, using materials and tools to “see” the unseen, or make the invisible visible. It’s something I think about a lot: how an artistic practice can help others to see differently. And how humanity’s perception and understanding of the natural world is shaped through material. This is something that’s native to glass specifically, and its role in the history of science and technology. 

MC: The dump is a great example of a place that doesn’t necessarily get seen by many, which can help us avoid the reality and magnitude of our waste. What was it like, emotionally speaking, to be there? 

AR: I was unprepared for the emotional effect of being around RAIR each day, and seeing the sheer quantity of material moving through the site — I’m not sure I’ve fully processed the implications. You’d see piles of electronics still in their packaging, completely brand new furniture and clothing, et cetera. It’s mindboggling. One day, I was driving home after walking through the piles, and someone in front of me threw fast food trash out their car window into the street. I completely lost it. I’m sure I had a big vein popping out of my forehead and a single tear of frustration. 

At the same time, you question everything that you know about trash. There’s so much of it, just being moved around from place to place. Why should one place be practically better than any other? There are feelings of frustration, confusion, and inefficacy, but there are also moments of hope and inspiration. There is a sense that a lot of people and resources are working on the problem. That’s hopeful, to be surrounded by so many resources dedicated to the same thing.

There are also unofficial rules among the people who work in the yard. People put things they’ve picked from the pile in certain places. After things are put in these places, it would be inappropriate to take them. You learn that certain things will be especially valuable to certain workers — like if someone has kids and there’s a smaller bicycle, or new sneakers — you learn to watch out for this stuff, and pass it on to the proper person. 

It’s also surprising that so much of the trash doesn’t really look like trash. I had an expectation that what I’d make would have a certain worn look, and that materials would show signs of their previous lives — I think I was romanticizing the idea of recycling. But many of the materials and objects at RAIR look brand new. It was challenging to accept the look of what I was producing, to accept the honesty of the process rather than to manipulate the materials into looking how I thought they should.

MC: Your work speaks to a calamitous present/future, while also possessing qualities of absurdity, humor, and play. How do you make sense of this, or how do these qualities emerge in your process? 

AR: Almost every research-based artist I know well is deeply concerned about the seemingly imminent destruction of our global environment. It’s interesting to suddenly share a single interest across such otherwise distinct artistic practices. In my mind, there is something absurd about staring into the face of this very real problem and answering it with a playful practice. If you look at the “solutions” that have arisen from this body of work, they are answers to serious questions, but are totally silly or ridiculous in their realization. Maybe that’s just a part of my process. I think I have a unique ability to execute really trivial or stupid ideas, well beyond their logical resolution. Sometimes there can be poetry in that.

MC: What’s next? How do you plan to continue these lines of inquiry? 

AR: I took a lot of notes in a journal when I was at RAIR with Billy. I had another residency lined up in Canberra, at the Australian National University, where I was going to learn about bushcraft from experts and enthusiasts in the area. That residency was postponed indefinitely, but I just heard from them last week — and I'm going to try and get there later this year! This is to say that the longer project is ongoing.

Part of my original plan was to learn traditional survival skills from experts around the same time that I was working in the yard, so that I could compare and find overlap in the two systems of knowledge. I wanted to see if some of the conventions of one would naturally make sense in the context of the other. 

Now, it’s a couple years later, but I’m getting ready to travel to Australia, to learn about some regional bushcraft traditions. I’m hoping that experience will help me organize some of the information I collected from RAIR, and resolve the field guide that I initially wanted to produce.