Zac Hacmon

Interview by Isabel Flower

Israeli-born artist Zac Hacmon’s sculptures harness modernism’s presumed neutrality to expose the messy realities of how our built environments correlate with power, oppression and crisis. His elegant, semi-abstractions, which combine mass-produced elements such as ceramic tiles and grab bars, offer the perfect foil for deeply referential subject matter that engages both the theoretical elements of architecture and the incredibly subjective ramifications of how the structures we create serve to unite and to separate. In an art world that often balks when faced with its own existential dilemma, Hacmon does not hesitate to bring real-world concerns into the gallery, challenging his audience to consider the bigger picture and to reevaluate their own relationship to place.

Isabel Flower (IF): When and why did you become interested in art? When did you start making it yourself?

Zac Hacmon (ZH): I’ve had a long and unusual trajectory; I was born in Israel and after high school I did three years of mandatory military service. Only after the military was I able to begin my studies. I studied photography and that led to industrial and product design. But I wasn't happy studying design and I left during my fourth year. They asked me to design a remote control for an air conditioner and a cellular phone, so I just left. I didn't want to be part of that industry.

I shifted to fine arts and enrolled in the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem. I also started to work as an assistant for the artist Sigalit Landau. That’s how I was exposed to the art world, and to the possibility of creating in a way that is not confined or determined by an industry.

IF: What exactly made you so averse to designing the remote control or the cell phone? Given that you had entered a design school—probably knowing that kind of work would come up—what shifted in you?

ZH: I realized that I don't want to be part of the mass-produced waste industry. I don't want to create waste. When you study the history of design, you learn how, back in the day, we used to design an object to last 100 years. Today, a product is made to last a year. You can see it when it’s time for your cellular phone upgrade. It's not that the phone is not working; it's a policy created for profit.

T.A.Z (Temporary Autonomous zone), 2017

Steel, metal panels, cctv, print, magnet, glass, wood, clock, calendar, flat screen, first aid kit, fire extinguisher.

94 x 40 x 36 in.

Photo credit: Elad Sarig

IF: I understand. I briefly worked advertising and I left for similar reasons. I wasn't making the objects, but I was helping sell them, and I felt similarly about that. You've mentioned in other interviews that a lot of your work deals with “the effect of architecture, specifically border architecture.” Once you made the transition to art, how did architecture engage your interest? And, in this context, what exactly do you mean by border?

ZH: Like I mentioned, I had to do three years of military service. I was part of the artillery force, but I was mainly serving at the borders: between Palestine and Israel, and between Israel and occupied territories. I was very young—about 19 years old. I don't think I was conscious at the time, in terms of really understanding what was happening around me. Over time, I’ve slowly realized that the notion of borders and the architecture of transition repeats itself in my work.

Afterwards, when I went back to school, I read a lot of philosophy. In Israel, architecture is a big part of the system of generating identity. Take, for example, Bauhaus or Brutalist architecture—these styles were used as measures to create a new society, a new identity that was different from what existed there before. And then, of course, take the concrete wall that was created to separate Palestine and Israel. Is that considered architecture? We so often talk about famous architects and try to analyze their style, but can we do the same for structures of separation and security?

In 2014, I created an interactive sculpture that was a security guard booth. Whoever was inside could look out at others, but no one could see them because the booth’s windows were one-side mirrors. The booth was also equipped with a four-camera CCTV system, so that the viewer could experience the whole group show from the point of view of a guard. These kinds of booths are very common in Israel. You see them at entrances to industrial buildings, institutions and schools. They are part of the landscape. I wanted to point that out and question it.

IF: How have borders affected your own life? You’ve described yourself as an “outsider.” What does that mean to you?

ZH: I think borders reveal something. When you go to a border, you see the system you're a part of, but without any filters. Especially when you visit the border between two countries that have a conflict, you experience something very different from what's considered the norm. When I visited South Korea, I also traveled to the border with North Korea, as part of my research. Here in the US, earlier this year, I made a trip to the border between Arizona and Mexico. It’s a huge opportunity that we have the option to go see our border, but that also raises the question: why don’t people do it more?

I think I’m an outsider on many levels. Sometimes I feel I'm a guest in this lifetime. I observe the world from an almost alien point of view. I also moved to New York five years ago to pursue my MFA at Hunter College, so I definitely see myself as an outsider here, too.

"Take, for example, Bauhaus or Brutalist architecture—these styles were used as measures to create a new society, a new identity that was different from what existed there before. And then take the concrete wall that was created to separate Palestine and Israel. Is that considered architecture? We so often talk about famous architects and try to analyze their style, but can we do the same for structures of separation and security?"

IF: When you visited the US border in Arizona, you were volunteering for the Humane Borders organization. What prompted you to do that? Were you also planning to make art that responded to your experience, or was that an unexpected consequence?

ZH: This thread of my work started before I moved here. I did a few projects about the Israeli border and the Eritrean refugee crisis in 2013, when waves of Eritreans were crossing the border to escape tyranny at home. To this day, the Israeli government doesn't recognize these people as asylum-seekers. They have no legal immigration status, they can't work, they basically can't do anything. Many of their passports were taken by the government. It's a community of around 50,000 people, but, as they were not welcomed by Israeli society, they started to create their own cultural spaces within the city, instead of trying to assimilate.

In 2014, I created an Eritrean bar in a gallery in Tel Aviv. I spent a year doing research and working with the Eritrean community so that I could create an identical bar to the ones present in the refugee neighborhoods, except that this one was installed in central part of Tel Aviv, where it wasn’t “supposed” to be.

I wanted to point out that Eritrean bars were considered foreign and dangerous, because of the way Eritreans were “othered” in their portrayal in the news. Of course, you see the same media manipulation happening here in America, especially in how the Trump administration portrays immigrants as criminals. It’s terrible, and it’s one of the reasons that triggered my visit to the Arizona border. I was researching Trump’s wall and I wanted to go experience and learn about the border myself. I created an extensive proposal that involved volunteering with humanitarian organizations and applying to grants. I won the Café Royal Foundation 2019 Project Award and an Emergency Grant from the Foundation of Contemporary Art to fund the project, and I was accepted by the Border Project Space in Bushwick to exhibit the work I would make after my travels.

IF: Do you think most Americans have an accurate understanding of what the border is like?

ZH: I definitely do not think that most people understand the border. Some things you need to experience in order to understand. I also learned a lot from doing research. For example, in the last two decades, there has been a rise in the number of families trying to cross the border from Central America. Many people have died trying to cross the Sonoran Desert. Humane Borders created a map that uses red dots to mark the coordinates of where bodies have been found in the desert. As thousands of people have died, the map is almost all red. I was shocked when I saw that image—it is a technological visualization of a humanitarian crisis.

Walls actually force migrants and refugees to try to cross in more dangerous ways. 90% of deaths are caused by dehydration. Humane Borders maintains water stations in the desert, just for people who get lost. No one should die this way. That's US territory. That's part of us and we are part of it. The thousands of bodies I mentioned—those were found just on the US side. Most likely there have been a comparable number of deaths on the Mexican side, but that area is not part of the tracking system.

Beyond the Pale, 2020

Ceramic tile, stainless steel, concrete, wood, glass, grout, epoxy

54 x 65 x 70 in.

Photo Credit: Etienne Frossard

IF: I saw a few images of the map you're referring to during my preparation for this interview. It's a devastating visual, and, as you described, a reality we must all recognize our complicity in. Could you also tell me a bit about your show at Border Project Space, “Beyond the Pale”?

ZH: The show “Beyond the Pale” was a sound installation that utilized recordings I made on my trip. I interviewed many different people, asking questions and gathering stories. For example, I spoke with a woman from Honduras who had crossed the border. She told me how she got here, how she was treated at the detention centers, and about her partner who was still being detained. At the time that we spoke, she didn't know when he would be released. I also talked with volunteers from different organizations that I worked with, such as the Tucson Samaritans. One of the recordings is of a poem, NO ANSWERS––NOW OR EVER, dedicated to an unidentified infant who died at milepost 19 on the Arivaca Road. Another is an interview with members of the Tohono O'odham Nation, whose land is divided by the border. One of their members explained that they’ve been there long before the border carved up their land, but now they can't visit their families on the other side without going through the whole border-crossing procedure. I also learned how important the land is and should be for all of us.

The testimonies and stories I recorded were played from the sculptures in the show, which replicated a type of a border architecture called the Czech Hedgehog. These objects were placed at borders, especially in World War II, to prevent vehicles from crossing. I saw similar structures at the US border. In the show, I concealed the hedgehog’s form with ceramic tiles and air openings, almost like a ventilation system. The sounds and stories come from the vents. I wanted to bring all these elements together into one object that would reflect a kind of institutional architecture—a non-place.

“Beyond the Pale” is a colonial term once used in the British Empire’s occupied territories in Ireland. The pale referred to the fence that made up the border. The expression came to mean that anything “beyond the pale” was savage or uncivilized, which justified the use of force and power. In that sense, “the pale” is also the end of logic, of sense, of humanity.

"I think architecture in 2020 is failing, in a way. It's not serving the public—it's serving the industry or private interests. As an artist, I try to make work that reveals this dysfunctional apparatus. Being an artist can be a privilege because you are able to fly under the radar, to do and say things others wouldn’t be able to because of the stakes involved. I like to take advantage of that power."

IF: I know the colloquial meaning, but I never knew the origin. That's really interesting. You’ve mentioned this idea of non-place a few times and I am hoping also to speak about some of your other work. I love your 2019 series, “Afterlife.” You’ve discussed these works in terms of the idea of a portal, which makes sense because of the way the sculptures actually recede into space. What feeling or association were you trying to evoke?

ZH: In my mind, I’m developing a fictional environment. I'm always interested in the feeling of security and how it manifests in architecture. Moving to New York left a big impact on me. Architecture is very significant here, and I feel it also creates behavior. There are so many places you can't enter, so many things you're not allowed to do—but also many things you can.

I brought some of those physical elements into my work: for example, the stainless-steel grab bar. I like that the object seems to tell you what to do. The grab bars suggest a sense of safety, something to hold on to. Viewers often reach for them. But the sculptures actually are not stable, they're not anchored to the ground. In two other works, blue and yellow filters created the illusion that there was another space inside, beyond. But it is inaccessible—you can’t go in, you can only look.

IF: I’m curious about how you imagine your work's relationship with modernism as a historical dogma. The white square tiles you use in some of your sculptures remind me of Yve-Alain Bois’s book about Piet Mondrian, in which he mentions that Mondrian found inspiration for his gridded abstractions in the white tiling of the Paris metro. The square has such a huge significance in 20th century Western art history, from the Russian avant-gardists to American minimalists half a century later. Do you think about your work as being in dialogue with other artists who've engaged this format?

ZH: To me, the future is square. I can definitely see the relationships you mention. In terms of Mondrian’s work, I’m very interested in the mechanism of abstraction and the transformation of form and context. I think that in my work, even when abstract, the materials and structures play a crucial role in giving a representational sense of time and place, authenticity and locality, which I'm interested in as well.

Dispositif, 2020

Ceramic tile, stainless steel, wood, grout

IF: In other interviews, you’ve expressed criticism regarding the relationship between modern architecture and the legacies of imperialism and colonialism. For example, you’ve mentioned that these styles were sometimes introduced in order to obscure and erase the visual cultures that came before. How do you think your work functions critically?

ZH: My engagement with borders is a useful example. If you look at borders, you see the industry’s “best” innovations put to use: the most advanced technology, the strongest architecture. These elements begin in paramilitary contexts then eventually find their way into our lives. The CCTV system was at one time only used in prisons. Now, it's part of our life. What does modernity mean, now? Modernity is continuously evolving, as is capitalism. I think architecture in 2020 is failing, in a way. It's not serving the public; it's serving the industry or private interests. As an artist, I try to make work that reveals this dysfunctional apparatus. Being an artist can be a privilege because you are able to fly under the radar, to do and say things others wouldn’t be able to because of the stakes involved. I like to take advantage of that power.

IF: How have you been occupying yourself in the past six months? Has the pandemic made you feel differently about your work, or about being an artist in general?

ZH: That’s a tough question because we're still figuring out what’s going on. The pandemic definitely disrupted my work. I was supposed to do more research trips but my plans were cancelled. Currently, I have a solo show at Slag Gallery in Chelsea, which is open through October 18th. The title, “Dispositif,” is a term developed by Michel Foucault and translates to "device;” I like to use this word as a reference for my work’s relation to political structures. Instead of traveling to the border again, I started volunteering at RDJ Refugee Shelter in Harlem and I’ve initiated a project with them called “New Belonging.” RDJ is the only shelter in the city specifically for asylum seekers and refugees experiencing homelessness. I am working together with the shelter to create a sound installation through workshops and weekly meetings. The final exhibition will take place at the shelter space and will be open to the public.

I'm also very grateful for the support that various organizations in New York have provided artists during this time. The emergency grants have been really important. The pandemic pushed me to think outside of the box, and outside of my comfort zone. In reality, it’s actually quite easy to help. It’s easy to volunteer. Even just talking to someone is something. This moment puts pressure on the art field to justify its utility. What are we making, and for who?

Isabel Flower

Isabel Flower is a writer and editor based in New York City. Her work has been published in Artforum, Bookforum, The Wall Street Journal, Cultured, Grailed, Garage, Kaleidoscope, and Double. She is cohost of the Top Rank podcast.