Theresa Schubert is a pioneering artist whose work traverses the boundaries between biology, technology, and environmental issues. With a background in Media Art and Design from Bauhaus University in Weimar, Schubert has become known for her innovative approach to integrating scientific inquiry with artistic expression. Her projects often involve the use of advanced technologies, such as machine learning algorithms and sensor systems, combined with living organisms like fungi and algae. Through these works, she challenges traditional perceptions of art and life, inviting viewers to engage with her creations in profound and often interactive ways.
In this Q&A interview, Schubert delves into her creative process, sharing insights on how she selects the concepts that drive her work and the ethical considerations that arise when working with living organisms. She discusses the role of indeterminacy in her art, the significance of biological membranes, and the challenges of integrating computational technologies with environmental data. Schubert also reflects on the symbiotic relationship between science and art, emphasizing how each discipline can enrich the other, ultimately leading to projects that resonate with both scientific communities and the broader public.
What is your background as an artist?
I studied Media Art and Design at Bauhaus University in Weimar, focusing on audiovisual media. After that, I started working at Ars Electronica in Austria, which is an institution that runs a media arts festival and also has a museum.
Inside the museum, they have a bio lab where visitors can participate in workshops and engage with biotechnology and current scientific topics. That’s how I became interested in the biological side of things and started experimenting with a specific organism—the slime mold Physarum polycephalum. This was the beginning of my journey into the scientific aspects of my work.
Your work is diverse in its evolution and themes, often exploring the intersection of biology, technology, and environmental issues. How do you choose which concepts to incorporate into your artwork? What does your process look like?
Sometimes, it’s an intuitive process that begins with experimenting with media or materials. Other times, I might read a book or a scientific paper that sparks my interest. For example, I became fascinated with Physarum polycephalum after reading some scientific news about it and decided to try working with it myself.
In other cases, my work is tied to artist residencies, sometimes even in laboratories, where I have a specific research question in mind. From there, the concept develops. That’s how my work Sound for Fungi came about—it started with a simple question during a laboratory residency: How do fungi perceive sound? This question led to experiments and eventually became an artwork.
You often utilize advanced technologies and explore biological processes to challenge traditional perceptions of art and life. How do you navigate the ethical implications of using technology with living organisms?
That’s a good question. One thing I consider is the risk that the organisms I work with might die during the process, or that they have a naturally limited lifespan. This is something to be expected over time.
My solution has been to work with organisms that are simpler to cultivate—most of them are single-celled or have basic structures like fungi. I don’t want to create a hierarchy among species, but these organisms don’t carry the same ethical implications as working with mammals, for example.
Of course, it’s not always easy. Even when a houseplant dies, it can be sad. But this is something anyone with houseplants understands—it’s part of the cycle.
Many of your installations include interactive elements that require audience participation. How important is viewer interaction in your creative process?
It’s very important and often integrated from an early stage in the development of my works. Having an open interface is usually something that needs to be planned from the beginning; it’s not just added at the end to make the piece more engaging.
The interaction can also be very subtle—it doesn’t always involve pressing a button or triggering something obvious. For example, in my Glacier Trilogy, I use CO2 sensors that measure the breath of people in the exhibition space. Visitors don’t have to actively do anything because we all breathe naturally, but knowing that their breath influences the simulation and aesthetics of the work makes a big difference. It gives them a sense of participation and connection to the piece.
You mentioned aesthetics earlier, which leads me to my next question. Your projects often involve critiques of social, environmental, and sustainability issues. How do you balance the exploratory, didactic, and aesthetic aspects of your work?
For me, the most important aspects are the question or conceptual approach combined with aesthetics. The didactic element often comes later and may vary depending on the project.
In my field, the conceptual, aesthetic, and didactic elements are often tightly intertwined. It’s sometimes hard for me to separate them or even understand the difference. I’m sorry I can’t answer that more precisely.
Many of your installations include interactive elements that require audience participation. How important is viewer interaction in your creative process?
It’s very important and often integrated from an early stage in the development of my works. Having an open interface is usually something that needs to be planned from the beginning; it’s not just added at the end to make the piece more engaging.
The interaction can also be very subtle—it doesn’t always involve pressing a button or triggering something obvious. For example, in my Glacier Trilogy, I use CO2 sensors that measure the breath of people in the exhibition space. Visitors don’t have to actively do anything because we all breathe naturally, but knowing that their breath influences the simulation and aesthetics of the work makes a big difference. It gives them a sense of participation and connection to the piece.
You mentioned aesthetics earlier, which leads me to my next question. Your projects often involve critiques of social, environmental, and sustainability issues. How do you balance the exploratory, didactic, and aesthetic aspects of your work?
For me, the most important aspects are the question or conceptual approach combined with aesthetics. The didactic element often comes later and may vary depending on the project.
In my field, the conceptual, aesthetic, and didactic elements are often tightly intertwined. It’s sometimes hard for me to separate them or even understand the difference. I’m sorry I can’t answer that more precisely.
In the exhibition project Membranes Out of Order by yourself, Margherita Pevere and Karolina Zyniewicz, you explore the metaphorical and material significance of membranes in biological and artistic contexts. How do you see the role of biological membranes influencing the dialogue between biotechnology and ecology?
Membranes Out of Order uses the concept of the membrane as both a metaphor and a precise biological reality. The idea initially came from thinking about our skin as a membrane that separates the inside of our bodies from the outside world. But our skin is also permeable, allowing for exchanges between inside and outside—it’s not a strict separation.
In my work, I sometimes use sensor technology that interacts directly with these membranes, forming an interface between the biological and technological aspects of the piece.
When extending this to ecology, it could involve larger systems, like working with CO2, which operates on a different scale than, say, measuring the resistance of a fungal membrane. But the process is similar—it starts with observation, followed by defining rules or finding sensors that can interface with these membranes, ultimately translating this into an aesthetic experience.
In your Glacier Trilogy, you merge advanced computational technologies with artistic expression. Can you describe the process and challenges you faced in integrating machine learning algorithms with environmental data while still maintaining your artistic vision?
I visited a glacier archive at the University of Torino in Italy, which has a large collection of historic photographs, measurement devices, maps, and handwritten notebooks from geologists’ field trips. I was fascinated by this extensive collection and felt compelled to process these images.
When dealing with large datasets, working with a machine learning model is a natural choice these days for processing visual information. It was too exciting an opportunity to pass up.
I imagined a scenario where a future machine or computer consciousness discovers these glacier images and tries to reimagine how glaciers once looked, because by then, glaciers might no longer exist. The machine would attempt to recreate them based on archival footage—thinking from a machine’s perspective.
Can you describe the sound design and how you conceptualized it?
The sound design is actually my favorite part of the Glacier Trilogy. I wanted something that could touch people’s emotions—like the way music is played at a funeral to evoke feelings. In Western Europe, opera is one of the most emotional forms of music, so I decided to work with an opera singer.
We did sound recordings where the singer improvised while watching the nearly finished video footage. I then layered the voices and created a sound composition that included field recordings I made in the Italian mountains, along with some synthetic electronic sounds. My aim was to create a melancholic atmosphere, like a tribute to the glaciers that are disappearing.
You mentioned that only part one has sound. How do the other two parts of the trilogy come together with the first to form a cohesive whole?
When you see them together in one space, it really works. The glass sculptures are usually placed centrally, so you can view the video projection or video sculpture through them, depending on where you stand. Seeing the meltwater in the glass alongside the glaciers behind it makes sense, and the simulation provides another form of visualizing the water systems connected to the mountain meltdown.
The sound from part one engulfs the other two works, creating a unifying element that ties the trilogy together.
Algae plays a significant role in your work. Can you explain how that came about, and how it features in projects like Hylē and Ooze?
Algae, particularly microalgae, play a vital role in our environment. They contribute more to oxygen production through photosynthesis than plants do and are relatively easy to cultivate at home or in the studio. Their importance to our ecology and their health benefits as food supplements made them an intriguing subject for my work.
Ooze was actually the precursor to Hylē .
Hylē is a further development of the concepts explored in Ooze. In these works, I used algae bioreactors equipped with sensors connected to a video system. The idea was to think of these algae bioreactors as a kind of non-human consciousness, processing information in a central hub—a bit like a sci-fi liquid brain.
How did you come up with Sound for Fungi? The concept is quite unique. What inspired you?
Sound for Fungi was based on a residency I did at the Technical University of Berlin in the Microbiology department, where I was part of a research project exploring fungi as a new biomaterial for medicine and architecture.
I started with a specific question: How would fungi perceive sound? Surprisingly, there were no existing studies on this, even though there are many experiments with plants and sound. I designed a series of experiments where I exposed fungi strains to selected frequencies in sound-insulated boxes and measured how they grew over time.
The results were positive, and I translated this into an artwork where visitors could become the sound frequency in the experiment. Using a gesture tracker, they could control the sound and see how the fungi simulation reacted, creating an interactive and immersive experience.
Many artists who incorporate science into their work don’t go as deeply into the experimental side as you do. What does science offer art, and what does art offer science?
Science offers a connection to reality—whether it’s investigating our environment, nature, or even the universe. It explains why things are the way they are or explores future possibilities. As an artist, I may not always have the knowledge or facilities to conduct the same research, but I find immense inspiration in scientific findings.
From my experience, scientists appreciate that artists translate scientific findings into different forms—whether through aesthetics or interactive experiences—that can engage a broader audience. It’s not just about dissemination; art can also be research, adding an extra dimension to scientific inquiry.
More and more, scientists and funding bodies recognize the value of incorporating artists into their projects. It helps scientists present their work in a more progressive light and reach beyond a small group of experts to a wider audience. By working together, artists and scientists can create projects with broader impact.
IMAGE CREDIT: Theresa Schubert
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