A pioneer in the intersection of art and science, Suzanne Anker has spent decades exploring the ways in which biological discovery and technological advancements shape culture and visual expression. As an artist, theorist, and educator, she has been at the forefront of the sci-art movement, advocating for the reintegration of these historically intertwined disciplines. Anker’s work delves into genetics, climate change, and bioethics, using sculpture, digital media, and installations to visualize the often-invisible forces shaping our world. She founded the BioArt Lab at the School of Visual Arts (SVA), fostering interdisciplinary collaboration and inspiring new generations of artists to engage with the scientific frontier. In this conversation, Anker reflects on her journey, the evolving dialogue between science and art, and the urgency of making complex scientific issues accessible to a broader audience.
You’ve said that for every scientific discovery there’s a corresponding cultural component to it.
It’s something about the Zeitgeist of the time that creates new ways of thinking, and that is critical to visual art as well as to scientific information, because sometimes the science is too technical to reach a more general audience. When we are all living under the umbrella of the genetic revolution and climate change, we need to figure out a way that a more general population can be reached because we’re at a tipping point. And you know, technology can only take us so far. I think that we need to address individuals as well, and what they can do to help sway the pendulum in the other direction.
If we can go all the way back to the beginning, you’ve been at the forefront of bringing art and science together, and sort of reintroducing them, if you will, because they used to be know each other quite well. At some point, they got unintroduced, but now you’re bringing them back again. How did you first come to that realization that the synergies are still there, they’re just sort of hidden?
Well, I think one of the pivotal points for me was growing up in Brooklyn in a Fred Trump building, where my backyard was an empty lot that had not yet been tampered with. As a kid, I would go back there and hang out with the insects, butterflies, and weeds. I would collect caterpillars, build houses for them, bring them into my apartment, and hatch them. It was that kind of metamorphosis of the unseen that essentially inspired me to really look for the ways in which the unseen needs to be pictured. When I look at science, I look at the metaphors inherent in the scientific dialogue and try to make sculpture, prints, drawings, or installations that can become public and ways in which people can then get enrapt, as opposed to going to sleep by a scientific paper, into what the issues are.
Science and art have always been part of my methodology, but it really wasn’t until the end of the eighties that I turned from nature itself to science. If we look at the history of romanticism and figures like Alexander von Humboldt, it’s not only about measuring nature but experiencing it. Those two things have always attracted me as a way to create a kind of poetry.
When you first combined science and art and started looking for metaphors in scientific discourse, how did people react? Especially people in the scientific community? I would guess they weren’t exactly comfortable at first.
That is correct. There was no real dialogue between genetics and visual art until later in the nineties. I curated the first show called Molecular Metaphor and Visual Art at Fordham University in New York. I had tried to get a gallery to host a show like that, and no one wanted it. But I got a call from someone at Fordham who said, “We have this opening, would you like to do a show?” And I did. It reached critical thinkers like Donna Haraway, Barbara Maria Stafford, and Dorothy Nelkin, who I ended up writing The Molecular Gaze with in 2004. That book, published by Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory Press, set a platform for exploring the connections between biology and art.
So you’ve mentioned genetics a lot. And being published by Cold Spring Harbor gives you that sort of seal of approval. One of the most elegant things that jumped out to me from your work was the Chromosomal Codex. It’s so straightforward yet elegant. Can you speak to that piece and why genetics fascinates you?
That piece came about after I did a show at the Greenberg Wilson Gallery in 1989, where I used kaleidoscopes to look at different still life arrangements. Each angle revealed something different—a cell, a fetus, or a body part. Later, I looked through my daughter’s biology book and was drawn to chromosomes as the alphabet of life. The Codex pieces became the illuminated manuscripts of the 21st century, representing the body’s own writing system.
You also have a theory of genetic aesthetics. How did that develop in keeping with your exploration of genetics?
Genetics is not a fixed entity. It’s influenced by environmental factors, as shown in studies of twins whose gene expressions diverge over time. Genetics also reflects a legacy of eugenics, which has had dire consequences. These aspects make genetics a fascinating area to explore in my work.
In terms of genetic aesthetics, I’m interested in the plasticity of genetics and its connection to broader systems. For example, environmental changes, such as deforestation and climate disruptions, impact the genetic pool. Our food supply depends on certain temperatures and latitudes, which are no longer consistent. These disruptions are genetic issues as much as they are environmental or societal ones.
In keeping with that, your work often explores notions of what is natural. With the hybridization of life and biotechnology, how do you approach the question of what is natural?
I don’t think anything is entirely natural anymore. We exist on a continuum between cultural nature and nature itself. As we change nature, it changes us. Laboratory experiments, genetic engineering, and biotechnologies alter the natural order. We’ve created unnatural species, and fixing the damage from environmental destruction will take significant effort. Everything—from deforestation to shifts in the carbon cycle—has genetic implications.
What is your view on humans and post-humanism?
I don’t think we’re post-human yet. We’re still very much human. David Cronenberg’s film Crimes of the Future, about humans developing organs to digest plastic, is an apocalyptic take on this issue. In a way, it’s already happening—we consume microplastics daily. While some technologies might seem like solutions, we’re still struggling to remediate the damage we’ve done to the environment and ourselves.
Beyond genetics, climate change and the environment play a significant role in your work, such as your ceramic series that resembles bleached corals. What draws you to these themes?
Climate change and environmental degradation are pressing issues that we cannot ignore. The ceramic corals, for example, are made from sea sponges, a material that connects directly to our biology—we’re 70% sea sponge and 35% daffodil, after all. These pieces are not just artistic representations but also commentaries on interconnectedness, fragility, and the consequences of human action.
Earlier, you mentioned the importance of metaphors and symbols in your work. Iconic scientific tools like the Petri dish and the chromosome have become cultural symbols. How do you approach these in your art?
The Petri dish, for instance, revolutionized microbiology and is now a metaphor for societal phenomena that emerge from hidden or subterranean spaces. Similarly, chromosomes symbolize both fixity and plasticity in our identity. These symbols are powerful because they connect the visible with the invisible, providing a bridge between science and society.
You also mentioned earlier that science and art use distinctly separate languages and methodologies. How do you navigate those differences, especially when trying to foster collaboration between the two fields?
It’s challenging because both fields require specialized knowledge. Scientists often say, “I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like.” That’s not adequate. Both disciplines rely on visualization—science uses it to convey findings through data and models, while art uses it to provoke thought and emotion. They meet at the intersection of the unknown and the speculative. I don’t consider myself a scientist, but I use science as a databank for visual art.
What does science have to offer art, and what does art have to offer science?
Science offers art a databank of ideas and discoveries that can inspire new forms of creativity. Art, on the other hand, can help science think outside the box. Artists often pose speculative questions or approach problems in ways that scientists might not consider. For example, an artist I know drove a car with fly paper attached to it through London streets, capturing insects for analysis. This unconventional method led to the discovery of species previously unknown in England. Art can push science into new territories of exploration.
As a longtime faculty member at SVA, how have you seen sci-art evolve since establishing the BioArt Lab?
It’s still very much on the fringe. The broader art world is focused on commodity culture and identity politics, while issues like the genetic revolution remain underexplored. Part of the reason is that many collectors shy away from themes that confront mortality or the complexities of science. However, this focus will likely shift as new generations of artists and thinkers emerge.
How do you mentor students who want to pursue sci-art, especially given the challenges of commodifying this type of work?
I emphasize curiosity, integrity, and vision. Being an artist means having an interior world that drives your practice. It’s not a small business; it’s a calling. I encourage students to stay resilient, do their own research, and push boundaries. One of my students created a sculpture that juxtaposed the New York City skyline with Native American landscapes, addressing themes of erasure and history. That work changed her trajectory—she shifted from illustration to pursuing a master’s in fine arts.
Do you ever find yourself concerned with being too literal in your interpretation of science, or is that something you warn students about?
Literal interpretations can lack depth, but they also serve as entry points for broader explorations. It’s important to avoid redundancy by understanding the history of sci-art and finding ways to represent ideas that push the field forward. I encourage my students to experiment and think critically about the new ways they can represent scientific themes.
Finally, how do you balance your roles as an artist, theorist, and educator? How do these roles influence each other?
I consider them all part of one practice. Teaching keeps me connected to younger generations and helps me pose questions that fuel my own work. Writing clarifies my thoughts, which feeds into my visual art. It’s a circuit—teaching, writing, creating, and exhibiting all inform each other. This interconnectedness is what drives my work forward.
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