Pinar Yoldas with HereIn

Video still from The Kitty AI: Artificial Intelligence for Governance, 2016, animated film. See an excerpt from the film here.

[Image description: An illustration of a white kitten with large eyes surrounded by light pink, mask-like fur. The cat is framed by a dark blue-black circular background that contains galactic imagery of stars and constellations. That circle is set against a gaseous celestial background in a range of browns, yellows, and blue.]

Pinar Yoldas’s practice traverses the territories of art, science, technology and design. Through kinetic sculpture, installation, performance, and video, Yoldas offers innovative approaches to understanding and addressing the most vital concerns of our time. She holds degrees in architecture (BArch), communication design (MA), computer science (MS), design & media arts (MFA) and received her PhD from Duke University. Yoldas is a 2015 Guggenheim Fellow and is an Associate Professor in the Visual Arts Department at the University of California, San Diego.

HereIn: Perhaps we can start with some discussion of your work in speculative design and speculative biology. You are addressing contemporary problems, but often with technologies that have yet to be developed, so one basic question is, where, or how does your work exist? 

Pinar Yoldas: Does it exist? This is actually a great start. At a talk I gave in 2009 I presented an organ I designed called Neo Labium™. NeoLabium ™ is a genetically modified labia, based on my interest in the physiology of the female reproductive system such as the functionality, the enervation, etc. On top of that I was thinking about sexual oppression in parallel to visual language around sexuality. There is a mainstream way of representing the female body—mammary glands, breasts are welcome, but the organ that gives women the most pleasure isn’t visually acceptable. It’s scandalous. I was also really intrigued by the fact that during embryonic development, fetal genitalia regardless of the sex looks female. It’s not until testosterone in the mother’s womb washes over the fetus that a kind of magical transformation happens to create male genitals. I started designing female sexual organs, that were very exaggerated. There would be multiple labia, and tentacles coming out. They looked like flowers—which are also sexual organs—but also human. 

NeoLabium™, 2008-present, glass container, fake eyelashes, water, air pump, tubing, polyclay, silicone sheets, latex

[Image description: An off-white sculpture in the shape of vulva is set against a dark background. The labia of the vulva form appear soft and fabric-like, and are lined with a feathery trim and surrounded  in off-white, ruffled material. The sculpture appears to be floating in water, much like a specimen in a jar.]

After this talk a couple of people approached me to ask “where can we find these? Can I have one?” Because my premise was that you would be able to grow this NeoLabium ™, attach it to your Vagus nerve, and it would work. I responded that I actually didn’t know where you could get one because I couldn’t convince a lab to work with me to produce them. But from that point on at pretty much every talk there would be at least one person to coyishly and quietly ask, “where can I get this?”

So, the word “speculative” is very important in that regard. I think of these as prototypes for the future. And I truly believe that one day I’ll be able to build them. And I don’t think this will be 50 years down the road. I think more like five years from now.

I am very inspired by the history of speculative architecture, or experimental architecture—I’m sure you’re familiar with starchitect Zaha Hadid? When she started, for instance, for about a decade, all her drawings were experimental. Just concepts she worked on. Lebbeus Woods is another example. He envisioned large scale city plans and devised all the architectural requirements—the plans, sections, elevations, renderings—without ever fully executing them. So, when I’m working on the organ/creature type of work, I make sure that I am thinking about everything: what’s the scale for this? What’s the sagittal view? What’s the axial view? What’s the coronal view? How does it work in 3D? Does this organ even make sense? Where does the blood flow in and out? Where are the nerves? If it’s a creature, how does it mate? What food web does it belong to? It’s a lot of speculative thinking of that sort, but I see them as future prototypes. So, they do exist, in that I build models, just like architects build models for buildings. But are they alive at this point? No—except one work. The rest is still dormant.

HereIn: Which work is alive?  

Yoldas: There is one that involves algae. It’s kind of like an algae farm and I’m building an architectural structure where algae can travel. It has some thermal regulation properties for people underneath it, and also helps algae grow. The algae are used to clean air because they capture CO2. I’m trying to convince my science group here at UCSD to look at ways we can modify them to collect VOCs (volatile organic compounds) from air, which are very bad for respiratory health. This was part of the proposal for the Guggenheim Fellowship I received in 2015. 

Distilling the Sky, 2016, algae tanks, cyclonic particle accelerator/filter, amphitheater, freedom of speech

[Video description: A digital rendering of an outdoor amphitheater with white stepped seating surrounded by a ring of gray trees. In the center of the amphitheater is a translucent spiral vortex that sucks in and filters air pollution from the sky. A semi-circular system of 18 algae tanks flanks the vortex on one side, and is connected to the central element by a system of white piping. The algae filters toxic fumes that evade the central vortex.]

HereIn: So this is part of the Distilling the Sky Project? It is ongoing? 

Yoldas: It has expanded into the Distilling the Sky group, but yes, it’s ongoing. I first developed the idea in 2013-2014 to address the ubiquitous problem of air pollution. It was mostly triggered by growing up in an air-polluted city in Turkey and later travelling to Beijing, where you can literally feel air pollution on your skin. The air is thick and you can feel a substance surrounding you. My initial idea was to build an amphitheater where people could come together and breathe fresh air, because the amphitheater is actually placed next to an air-cleaning complex. Just like in antiquity people could have a conversation about ecological matters, or the pressing topics of the moment. I wanted to incorporate this idea of an open platform for discussion into the public artwork. I am a big proponent of functional public art as opposed to just a mere gesture to art history. I also want my public art to directly serve the community. Most public art is only built in affluent areas. Distilling the Sky should be installed in low-income communities where the effects of air pollution are felt more intensely. So that was another thing I was after, public art for the actual public. 

I began work on another public art project during covid. It’s called DELIQUUS, and it developed out of my work with the Center for Renewable Materials at UCSD. We have access to this biodegradable polyurethane foam, and in compost and humidity, this biodegradable foam slowly erodes and disappears. I wanted to build something for the public out of this material, and thought that endangered species would be good subject matter, because they are also disappearing just like the foam itself. I am imagining large-scale sculptures of, let’s say, sharks and certain marine turtles, a rhino of course and an orangutan whose habitat is heavily impacted by the palm oil industry. These are large animals that kids would love, but over time they will change and shrink. You’d be allowed to go climb on them, but they will get moldy—because mold is also required for this material to degrade the way it does. I became really drawn to the aesthetic of decay, and I started to question why we ever build public art to last forever? As if our culture is static and never changes. Our ideologies keep shifting and the way we live is changing so fast because climate change is doing that to us. In that way it becomes a commentary on transient public art, that actually, literally disappears. 

Global Warming Hot Yoga Studio, 2016, 300 infrared lamps, mirrored panels, custom stage design, yoga mats, and yoga instructor, installation view of exhibition at Röda Sten Konsthall, Göteborg, Sweden

[Image description: A brightly lit white platform is set up within an industrial warehouse. The platform stands up against a mirrored wall on which the words "GLOBAL WARMING" are spelled out in red heat-emitting lightbulbs. Orange yoga mats are laid out in a neat checkerboard pattern on the white platform, and face the mirrors.]

HereIn: I want to return to some of the conceptual dichotomies in your work. One of the things that I keep thinking is that the stakes are very high. You are dealing with extinction, the survival of humanity, the future of the ocean, the stability of food supply chains. But at the same time there is, I think, a degree of humor in your work. I am wondering if you can tell us more about the dynamics of reality versus absurdity, and comedy versus tragedy in your practice.

Yoldas: To be frank, I never thought of it that way, but it’s true. The stakes are very high. Thinking about Global Warming Hot Yoga Studio…it is an installation in which you can practice yoga. There are 360 heat lamps which spell G-L-O-B-A-L W-A-R-M-I-N-G. It gets hot. You sweat. And as you practice yoga, you’re following this script about air pollution and pollution in general. So, yes, I think there is a lot of dark humor there, like practicing yoga at the end of the world, right? It also critiques the whole yoga obsession in western culture. And detoxing…as if it’s possible! If you’re living in an air polluted city eating food that has pesticides in it, surrounded by furniture that has fire retardants in it, no matter how much you practice yoga, you won’t detox. It doesn’t matter how much charcoal you drink, it’s not going to help. So, to truly detox, it can’t just be an activity, it needs to be a systemic change. So, in criticizing how ridiculous we are as a society, the artwork ends up being kind of ridiculous as well, right? 

Global Warming Hot Yoga Studio (detail), 2016, installation view of exhibition at Röda Sten Konsthall, Göteborg, Sweden

[Image description: A woman stands on a yoga mat on the platform in the Global Warming installation. She faces the mirrored wall and stretches her arms above her head. She has blond hair and light skin and wears a denim shirt, black pants, and oxford shoes. To her right is a man with dark brown skin and short black hair, wearing a green and white striped shirt, jeans, and black sneakers. He lays on another yoga mat with his feet crossed and reads a pamphlet while facing the mirrored wall. Both people are reflected in the mirrors.]

Absurdity is important for me. I think we can trace it back to the Dada moment, these points in history when something truly terrible was happening in society. Like World War. Dark humor becomes a means of survival. You can’t just be very sad about this, day in and day out. You must have a different way—an elegant way—of approaching this. I’m trying to create a different affective tone other than, we’re doomed, we’re all going to die. Because that’s what’s going to happen anyway, right? Perhaps there are other ways of raising awareness or changing the way people think about these issues.

HereIn: Here is one last question along those lines. I feel like this is a question you really shouldn’t ask an artist, but in your case, I am just so tempted. We don’t necessarily think in terms of results or desired outcomes when making art. But in your practice, you’re designing not only for the present but for the future as well, and you’re tackling these subjects and issues that are begging for solutions, as much as that’s possible. So, is there some sort of desired outcome that you might hope to see? This also makes me think of something you said in a 2020 talk, which is that you sometimes consider your primary material to be brain matter.

Yoldas: Right, right—synaptic sculpting is the term I use. When I think of myself as a craftsperson, I am a sculptor. I draw too, but it’s very natural for me to take a two-dimensional thought into three dimensions. I love giving form. I’m always shaping things in my head. The idea of synaptic sculpting comes from Dr. Sebastian Seung of MIT and his notion of the “connectome,” which draws on the three-dimensional mapping of neuron connections in the brain. The brain is a very plastic unit. It can change, and the connectome is essentially what connections the brain has developed at a given time. You can think of the connectome as a sculptural moment in the brain when certain connections are made and become very stable. Like your memories, or habits you have. 

So, because it’s possible to shape the way we think and act and behave, it’s possible to change the connectome. Changing behavior is forming new connections and getting rid of old ones—rewiring is the term we use for it. It follows then that any cultural change, any change in behavior, any change in your affective state, is going to affect your connectome. So, when I call art synaptic sculpting, I am highlighting the transformative role of art. Because art really changes us. That’s why we’re drawn to it. 

Ecosystem of Excess, 2014, water, glass vessels, pneumatic elements, polyclay, various types of found plastic, custom plinths

[Image description: An overhead view of a backlit sea turtle surrounded by tiny white pebble-like beads. Its head, flippers and the outer edge of its shell are various shades of off-white. The turtle's shell segments are colored dark red, blue, green, and off-white, and are punctuated by four smaller white protuberances.]

You can achieve that transformation intuitively, or you can design which affect you want to get. In my work I am only slightly designing the effect. I can never fully know what will happen ad modum because anybody who interacts with my work comes to it with a different set of knowledge and experiences. I am trying to produce something that encourages curiosity. That is very important. Perhaps having a positive affect is important, but I also want audiences to empathize with suffering that is presented as we are dealing with massive loss. There is a lot at stake, as you said. 

As an artist, as a designer—I tell this to my students—we have tremendous power to make an impact on society. Even if you’re only making a blueprint of an idea. Even if it’s a flip-flop or a lemon squeezer. You can’t be clueless about the cultural impact of the objects you’re designing. You put warm colors in your design, you get a different affect. You put spikes in it, you get a different affect. You use steel versus cotton, you get a different affect. And you should be aware of this. You have tremendous power. You need to seize that power.

This conversation has been edited by HereIn and the artist for length and clarity.