In Conversation with Tadashi Kawamata

Since my conversation with the Japanese artist Tadashi Kawamata, I have been thinking about “Verortung”, one of those German words that only find limiting translations. It somehow demands language to form itself around it, like a spatial framework. It describes the act of placing something or someone in a specific context, location, or framework – physically or conceptually.

The act here is the crucial part – something is in motion, not fixed, temporal. All things that play a huge part in Kawamata’s installations, which can range from small and intricate to room-filling, and ultimately to taking over whole buildings and urban structures. Always with wood, always organic forms that feel like foreign objects, unapologetically not blending in. Yet, through their organic form, they feel attractive; one wants to get close – the haptic quality – and, in a way, they often become an obstacle that slows the fast pace of our society and offers a moment to pause, see, think, and feel – whatever is provoked.

In our conversation, Kawamata shares how important that process is – the conversation between him and the site – and how he plans things, drawing his ideas meticulously in the studio, only to then be led by the material and the site when installing the work. He is not beholden to the artistic vision, but rather offers a proposal and lets the site direct. At Ruinart’s residency, which runs for a whole year, Kawamata has joined the conversation with nature and presents three installations that extend the concept between art and site in a philosophical and beautifully simple way.

As he shares his creative journey with me, explaining his work in philosophical and abstract ways, his answers are often simple – not because of simplicity, but because of the nature of things, which do not need to be dressed up. They are exactly right in their raw form of material and thought – refined and changed over time through the composition between artist, site, and visitor.

Tadashi Kawamata Hello, my name is Tadashi Kawamata, Japanese artist. I live in Paris and Tokyo, and I’m seventy-three years old. My first international participation was for documenta in Kassel in 1987, which was my first time in Germany too. That was, of course, before the collapse of the Berlin Wall, and then I came back again in 1992, after its collapse. So everything was totally changing – a really interesting time. And I remember that I worked with a lot of free material back then, but after ’92 all the scrap material was gone, because it went to the Eastern part instead. Kassel was like a showroom for Western Europe, and it had to present itself.

Nisha Merit What is your relationship to nature, specifically in terms of the residency at Ruinart, but also in terms of the interplay of temporality and permanence, which seems to be really important to your installations.

TK I’m Japanese. Automatically, we are connected to nature because we have so many natural incidents happening – disasters, tsunamis, everywhere; nature is a force. So we cannot go against nature, or natural beings. Instead, we always follow nature. At Ruinart, I was invited to think about their nature. But I was also thinking about what the meaning of nature is in general; the concept of nature is quite recent. In the Roman age or the Middle Ages – they never talked about nature at all. They didn’t have any category like that. So once industrialisation happened in Europe, when it became dirty and smoky everywhere, a philosopher said, “back to nature”. That was the starting point of this very modern concept and categorisation.

But of course, for me personally, the concept of nature is quite different. I’m using natural materials, which is also a very physical way of working – I don’t use many factory-made things or computer-based processes. I use wood, which doesn’t last very long; its temporality is embedded and depends on the environment of my projects. So there is no real meaning of permanence. Permanence is kind of a fantasy of people who want to stay forever. Everybody is dying anyway; we are just temporary beings. So in my dictionary, permanence is nothing – there is just temporary. Maybe this comes from a kind of Buddhist philosophy.

NM You said: “I like the idea of miniaturisation. Big things become small; in-situ installations become objects. This changes the relationship with scale and the hand. An object is autonomous, closed in on itself, whereas an installation is in constant dialogue with the site, climate, and scale. They are complementary and enrich each other. Small formats enable me to test balances and tensions, and can later become monumental. It is important that the spirit remains the same, focusing on the hand, wood, and time.” Can you talk me through the idea of scale and the relationship between body and work?

TK I actually used to study painting. But I did an installation in the atelier of the school, in which people were moving, walking through big canvases that were dividing the space, creating a tunnel-like structure. At first my inspiration was just dividing the space, but it became really interesting how people were not just walking around the canvases but through the work, going inside the installation itself. So this was like a starting point for me.

And I really like to work with other people. Everyone has some ideas, I have some ideas, we fight – but eventually we find a good solution, so I really like the discussion process of the work. Scale also works like that; it is a kind of negotiation of the project.

NM Is it about creating community through practice?

TK Yes, very much. I’m like a carpenter – cutting wood, making something simple for the house. But once I have to plan the project, I really need to be alone – to stay in my tiny atelier, and to look at it from a bird’s-eye view, like a miniature. So it’s a very good balance for me – between the idea and the physical work. And again, the scale comes from the site – if it is a public space, big park, forest, or a museum. That is another layer shaping the work, the community, and the scale, and it always depends on the time, weather, and the situation on site.

NM It’s an interesting psychology of space, because in public spaces we interact differently. And your installations are intriguing in the way you said – they communicate, they sometimes become an obstacle, but also an offering to pause.

TK It’s kind of disturbing everyday life for them. The first reaction is very strong – against it. But with time it becomes more normal and turns into a part of everyday life – and then suddenly the installation disappears again. So they get a bit confused. Then they start questioning: what was that? Why did he make that? Now it’s gone – what do they feel? It’s like scratching on the surface of their lives. First it’s disturbing, then something happens and changes in the public’s perception, then something is gone – but the question remains.

NM Your main material for your installation is wood – when did that focus shift from painting?

TK You see, the canvas is on a stretcher made from wood. So my first installation was taking the fabric out of its frame and only leaving the stretcher standing in the atelier. That was the starting point.

From that moment, I never changed – I always use wood. It’s like an international language, because I can get it everywhere. It’s cheap, and if I need more I can buy it. Compared to metal or stone, you need special skills, heavy tools – but wood is easy to cut and assemble. And wood reacts to its environment – sun, moisture, rain – it’s like a human being, it’s like the skin of the installation, it is always changing shape.

NM Your installations also have a kind of rhythm – they almost seem to move, to morph into existing structures. How do they evolve in situ?

TK It’s quite spontaneous. Of course I plan, calculate with engineers – gravity, wind – but after that, on site, it depends on what happens in the process. Especially when using scrap material, you cannot imagine how exactly it will behave. It is one piece at a time, which is very important – it’s never ending, never finished. If I get more time or material, I will continue. If there is too much rain, I stop and finish. For me, it’s only one objective – to continue. Different countries, cities, people, time, sites – but always the same working philosophy.

CREDITS

Image 1: Tadashi Kawamata’s studio. Photography by Florie Berger.
Image 2 & 3: Photography by Florie Berger.
Image 4: Image Courtesy of Ruinart.
Image 5 & 6: Photography by Florie Berger.
Image 7: Tadashi Kawamata’s studio. Photography by Florie Berger.