Anna Perach

Interview by Vivian Chui

Anna Perach weaves corporeal forms out of tufted yarn, in a nod towards folk crafts traditionally associated with women artisans and domestic interiors. Rather than simply replicating these lineages, the Ukraine-born, London-based artist’s practice subverts conventional notions of softness and femininity, taking aim at the ways in which patriarchal systems have sought to dictate and to define women’s bodies and minds.

Perach’s sculptures—neither human nor beast, simultaneously vibrant and menacing—hold court within installations often animated by live performance, during which they are donned by actors whose bodies move in mysterious, slow-moving pauses and spasms. An avid reader, the artist retells disturbing tales from ancient and modern times alike, in which female characters are subject to abject violence and suppression. Though she is clearly passionate about the plight of women within contemporary society, Perach abstains from creating works that offer easily discernible moral or social lessons, opting instead to relish in an ambiguity that allows for open-ended interpretation.

Meeting over a virtual call one morning this past February after Perach was shortlisted for the 2022 Foundwork Artist Prize, we dove into the intentions and inspirations that guide her artistic process.

Vivian Chui (VC): Let’s start with the beginning. What were some of your earliest or most formative memories in art? Did you grow up with a clear interest in art, or did that come later in life?

Anna Perach (AP): I wanted to be an artist since [I was] very young. I was the kid who was always drawing, but, in my background, there were not a lot of people in the arts. I grew up in the Soviet Union during the first seven years of my life, and that wasn’t so much an option—at least not where I was. I always made art, but I didn’t receive a message that it should be a career path. When I was a teenager, I thought about being an historian, and I enjoyed psychology as well. I think that I tried to direct my interest in art into thinking more generally about people’s stories, cultural stories. Then, things evolved in a way that I managed to include those interests within my art practice.

VC: You work primarily with sculpture and performance, often involving suits—I don’t know if you’d call them that—woven from yarn. When did you start working with this material?

AP: I call them wearable sculptures because, as you said correctly, they are sculptures that come alive during performances. I started to embroider and cross stitch before I started my MFA in London. I thought about those techniques as associated with domestic craft, with, perhaps, older women sewing flowers. I thought about how I could incorporate content that I was more interested in—subversive themes you usually would not see in that domestic medium.

Goldsmiths has many workshop options, one of which was constructed textiles. I found out about tufting, which is very similar to embroidery but it’s needlework on a larger scale. I saw a lot of potential in that. I did a few works that were wall-based, two-dimensional, which is what people usually do with tufting. Because I was very interested in the ideas of masquerade and costume with regards to identity, I explored the option of doing a mask. Initially I made a three dimensional head mask, then I tried a larger piece that covered not only the face but also parts of the body, and then it grew into various wearable sculptures. I wasn’t doing many performances at that point, but the performative aspect of the work integrated organically through the potential of the sculptures being worn.

VC: You mentioned subversive themes. Can you talk about what some of these are?

AP: It’s always tricky when people ask me that because I tend to jump between themes. One of the main themes that I often explore is femininity. Barbara Creed wrote a book called The Monstrous Feminine, where she talks about the feminine body as being psychologically regarded as abject. A body that constantly transforms and in opposition to the strict social boundaries enforced on women by society. I’m interested in thinking about femininity, the maternal body, as a portal between the self and the other. I’m also thinking about immigration in similar terms. In my installations and performances, what I want to create is a space which exists in between these realms. It's a subversive space that stretches the boundaries of the goal driven, phallic order.

“I’m interested in thinking about femininity, the maternal body, as a portal between the self and the other. I’m also thinking about immigration in similar terms. In my installations and performances, what I want to create is a space which exists in between these realms.It's a subversive space that stretches the boundaries of the goal driven, phallic order.”

Seven Wives, 2021

Performance documentation

Seven Wives, 2021

Axminster yarn & synthetic hair, beading, hemp rope and S-hooks

Various sizes

VC: In my mind, this relates to the positions and stances that your sculptures and performers take on. They’re often crawling or kneeling, and I see a duality when there are two performers. One is often stationary, while the other is more interactive. I’ve also noticed that sometimes your figures are decapitated.

AP: I had seven heads in my performance installation Seven Wives (2020), which was based on a story where an older gentleman called Bluebeard marries young women and then kills them.

There is a famous illustration that shows the women's heads, bodiless and hanging by their hair... I thought about the separation between the head—a space for conscious thinking, the cognitive and reason—and the body, particularly the female body, as an organism that culturally stands for excessive emotion and lack of control. There are multiple examples through Western culture where women were shamed for their reproductive systems, accused of witchcraft or claimed to be hysterical.

In all cases the message is that the female body is untrustworthy, lustful, mystical and potentially evil. In Seven Wives I examined what would happen if the decapitated heads were reunited with their bodies, metaphorically hinting at the union of emotion and reason.

Another work where I decapitated the head and the hands was for an exhibition called Gasp (2021). In her book After-effects after-images, the author Grizelda Pollock describes how she encountered the famous Bernini sculpture of Apollo and Daphne. Her attention went to Daphne’s gasp—the open mouth. She wrote about how she, as a woman, felt empathy towards Daphne. Apollo is often described as a hero and warrior, but the author describes experiencing the agony and fear Daphne is going through while transitioning into a tree to avoid Apollo’s unwanted courting. For my exhibition, I thought about the metaphor of Daphne becoming a tree as a mechanism for self-preservation. When you don’t want to feel something or you can’t feel something because it’s too much, you transform into something else.

In more current sculptures, I have the opposite. Additional organs grow out of the body. It’s the opposite idea, where the body cannot contain its own substance. I think my sculptures are bodies in states of transformation. They rebel with their form against the concept of the "normal" body.

“I think my sculptures are bodies in states of transformation. They rebel with their form against the concept of the "normal" body.”

VC: Do people ever tell you that your sculptures remind them of armor? Do you feel like, especially in your performances, they represent shields in some way? You mentioned the mask at one point, which, of course, has become very topical over the last few years.

AP: Because the sculptures often cover most of the body, especially the head, the performer becomes the character, in a way. There is an interesting synergy between the performer and the character they wear, and themselves. When you encounter the costumed figures in a performance, you’re not quite sure whether there is a person underneath. There is some sort of uncanniness there, where it’s not as clear as someone might want it to be.

I don’t necessarily create them with armor as an intention. I think about them more as representations, like in tribal cultures where there are rituals in which shamans wear special garments that allow them to connect and communicate with the sky and the land between the people and the gods. The performer wears the garment, which allows them to transform into something.

VC: Animals also appear a lot in your work, though they are very anthropomorphic. What do these animals represent in your mind?

AP: In my research I often look into different mythologies. Initially, I focused on Slavic mythology because that’s my background and I felt intuitively connected to these stories and imagery. There was also less risk for abusing other cultures and traditions. As my research developed I noticed that certain symbols repeat across different mythologies. You would almost always have the symbol of virgin, mother nature, or the warrior. These symbols often take the form of an animal as a source for their power.

For example, I made a sculpture called Alkonost (2019), which is based on a story about a young woman who was supposed to be married. Her future husband runs away, and she drowns herself in the river because she’s so sad. She comes back as the creature called Alkonost, which is half woman, half bird. It sits on the trees and sings beautiful songs that lure men, before taking revenge.

Or, I had a project called Spidora (2022), inspired by an image I encountered from those traveling carnivals in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They had a device called Spidora that looked like a spider, but a woman would put her head inside, appearing as a very sexual, attractive character that is also monstrous and intimidating. On the one hand, the woman appears as this scary spider reminiscent of Louise Bourgeois, but, on the other hand, she is in a position of vulnerability. I started to explore this, and eventually created a lair where this creature lives and weaves other Spidoras. So, it’s more about the narratives these animals represent through their forms.

Spidora, 2022

Axminster yarn & artificial hair, pine frame and metal

140 x 120 x 85 cm.

Spidora, 2022

Installation view

VC: I was going to ask you about how you approach each project. It sounds like it’s a lot of research and reading that shapes each body of work, before you even get into it. Is that right?

AP: Yeah, I constantly read. I try to go deeper and deeper within what I feel, constantly opening more and more doors. It's almost like I'm trying to reach something which I could never quite reach, like I'm just about to understand something. There are the little ‘eureka’ moments where I'm like, "That's where I was heading. That's it." Then I get through that, and there's another door that opens.

In the last few years, I was fortunate to have a lot of projects through the craft itself, or through the continuous development of exhibitions. There is the research part of it, and the physical work that leads to the new developments. For example, there are wooden stands within the sculptures that hold them in installations. I’m gradually exploring the option of having these wooden stands as part of the sculpture. I also really want to work with glass and metal, so I started experimenting with that. Sometimes the research leads to a new material, and then the material leads to a development in the research. For example, in my recent project, I’ve made three maternity corsets based on a story called Mother of Monsters by Guy de Maupassant.

Mother of Monsters (White), 2022

VC: Corsets you wear when you are pregnant?

AP: Yeah. In Victorian times, they loved the ideas of a mother and a virgin. Everything in between was a reminder of sex and hence of the animalistic and socially uncomfortable. If one was from the upper classes and pregnant, they were advised to go to their country house and to take walks in the evening, away from the eyes of others and rejoin cultured society as a mother. Although privileged, their social status and events were all these women had. They desperately tried to hide their pregnancies as much as they could, to live their normal lives and to be in their social circles.

If you were poor, that was much worse, as always. They didn't have the laws that we have today. If a woman worked in a factory, as a maid or a similar working class occupation, and became pregnant, she would be fired as she was considered a hazard. These women were thrown into poverty, so they also wanted to hide their pregnancies, which created a market for these corsets. The medical professions used to criticize those women—because obviously it would harm the babies—for caring too much about their appearances and prioritizing that over their babies’ health. It was a tricky position to be in. There was no way to win.

Monster of Monsters was a story written by Guy de Maupassant about a working class woman who becomes pregnant by her employer. She’s raped and tries to hide her pregnancy. She gives birth to a child with disabilities, and lives in horrible poverty with her child. She hates this child and her life. The woman then gets an offer to sell her child to a traveling circus. When she figures out there is a way to make money out of the situation, she starts to plan hideous pregnancy corsets to create more children for sale. The circus sales lead her to make a substantial amount of money and thus afford a bourgeois life. It’s a horrifying story of social critique.

I created my own pregnancy corsets. They were tufted, and I wanted to bring the confinement to the outside. Usually, with corsets, you have the boning on the inside, but I wanted the structural bones to stick from the outside so it would be a rough encounter. I worked with a metal maker who hated me (laughs), because it was so tricky to work with the material that keeps on moving. You have to shape around it somehow. That was a new thing for my practice, to have constructed metal structures that were outside of the garment, the wearable sculpture, rather than inside.

Although mainly I work within tufting, I don't consider myself as a textile artist. I feel very comfortable within this medium as I feel it’s layered with some of the themes I’m interested in (femininity, domesticity, craft), but I’m less interested in the technical properties of yarn. For me the idea is what leads to my materials choices.

That was a really long answer, wasn't it?

VC: No, it was interesting! But dark also.

Mother of Monsters (Blue), 2022

Axminster yarn, synthetic hair, fabric & steel

56 x 38 x 63 cm.

Mother of Monsters (Pink), 2022

Axminster yarn, synthetic hair, knotted yarn & steel

46 x 36 x 60 cm.

AP: A lot of the stories I deal with are quite dark. They often have an element of horror in them. Going back to what is subversive, for me, what I like about tufting and carpets is that they give you an immediate association to the domestic. Then, within that, I explore the horror of the domestic, which is often the horror of the woman.

VC: You’ve mentioned the words ‘unsettling’ and ‘uncanny,’ which hit the nail on its head with regards to your practice. Do you perform in your own work?

AP: I never perform. I have a team working with me—a movement director who helps me construct choreographies, performers, a person who creates the sound for each performance. The performances always grow from me working within my studio, creating images, sketching, creating sculptures. Then that grows into a more collective sort of process. It's always a bit tricky to trust others, but I'm gradually learning to do that because I started working with people who have skills that I don’t. It's a lot of communication, but it's also amazing to see how they can translate your ideas and how they connect to them.

“What's important for me is not necessarily for people to cognitively understand these ideas. What I want to create is an immediate, sensory experience. I just want people to feel, and to respond in a primal way. When you’re left with an experience and with more open questions—you’re not quite sure what happened but you felt something—that’s the experience that I cherish.”

VC: Speaking of other people, are there particular artists, or people in your life, that you're really inspired by?

AP: In terms of artists, there are a lot of people whose works I really love. There is a big group of women artists currently in London interested in similar concepts, and we refer to one another quite a lot.

I used to work as a counselor, an art therapist, and I’ve done that for a number of years. Part of my work was meeting with parents and guiding them through their experiences with children or through their own emotional hardships. You often meet women. Most likely, you will meet mothers. You very rarely see fathers involved. A lot of the trauma that women go through are repetitive stories, ones that recur throughout history. Although my work touches on mythology and there are larger-than-life characters, I am very inspired by those stories that were shared with me.

VC: How do viewers typically react to your works? What are peoples’ takeaways, or what do you hope people take away from?

AP: I do quite a lot of research, so there are some intellectual ideas that are embedded within the work. But what's important for me is not necessarily for people to cognitively understand these ideas. What I want to create is an immediate, sensory experience. I just want people to feel, and to respond in a primal way. When you’re left with an experience and with more open questions—you’re not quite sure what happened but you felt something—that’s the experience that I cherish.

Vivian Chui

Vivian Chui is the Director of Exhibitions and Special Projects at Pioneer Works, a non-profit cultural center in Brooklyn, New York. She has curated Alex Harsley: The First Light From Darkness (2021), Sally Saul: Blue Hills, Yellow Tree (2019), and Maia Cruz Palileo: Meandering Curves of a Creek (2018), in addition to helping organize many others at the institution. Born in Hong Kong and raised in Los Angeles, Chui received her MA in Modern Art: Critical and Curatorial Studies from Columbia University. She is also an independent writer, whose essays and interviews have appeared in Cultured, GARAGE and Ocula.