Shaping spaces

Richard Wilson is renowned for his transformative installations that blend engineering precision with artistic ingenuity. From the reflective stillness of 20:50 to the dynamic spectacle of Slipstream, his works challenge perceptions of architecture and space, inviting viewers to question their assumptions about permanence and fluidity. Partnering with cultural icon Hiroshi Fujiwara for Moncler’s City of Genius at Shanghai Fashion Week, Wilson explores the intersections of art, fashion, and urban design. Reflecting on themes of history, memory, and the evolving role of art, Wilson’s practice explores the social and physical dimensions of sites, often reanimating forgotten or derelict spaces. 

h:  In your installation 20:50, the viewer is enveloped by a reflective surface of recycled engine oil. What drew you to this medium, and how do you see it reflecting current environmental concerns?

20:50 was first exhibited in 1987 at the infamous Matt’s Gallery in London. The work’s title, as well as its distinctive smell, offered an oblique clue about the simple material I used for the exhibition: motor oil. The title, 20:50, referred to the viscosity, or thickness, of standard engine oil.

The piece came about from the collision of various dislocated bits of information. Having created work for Matt’s Gallery before, I felt the weight of its space impinging on me more than I had anticipated. All I could think about was using the gallery itself as a mould or receptor, but beyond that, I was struggling with an idea.

During a holiday in the Algarve, I spent weeks sitting by a swimming pool – because I’m not very good at holidays. Immersed in the water up to my eyes, my mind wandered to the upcoming show at Matt’s. Slowly, the horizontal plane of the pool began to present itself as a useful concept. One day, it hit me: ‘I know, I’ll flood the place’. I wanted to define a plane in the gallery just as the water defined a plane in the pool – to make a liquid describe the horizontal within an architectural space.

The solution to what that liquid would be emerged almost coincidentally and reflected my evolving tendency to fuse ideas and materials from my immediate context.

The oil became part of the piece because I had a drum of the stuff sitting in my studio, leftover from annealing steel. I’d been meaning to dispose of it but hadn’t gotten around to it. The drum, lidless and forgotten, had accumulated bits of wood and junk around it over time.

Yet amidst the clutter, there was this void: a perfect reflection. That became the final piece of the jigsaw. The oil’s highly reflective surface allowed me to create a horizontal plane that divided the room yet engulfed it simultaneously, as it perfectly mirrored its surroundings.

Critics have repeatedly described 20:50 as site-specific. Although originally created for Matt’s Gallery, the work transcends its location. Its transferability to other distinctive sites around the world demonstrates its adaptability. The materials remain the same, but the focus shifts with each new site. In a way, it’s a site-specific work that can be specified to almost any site.

20:50 was never about the politics of oil. Like many of my ideas, it was about testing our preconceptions of the world. One way to achieve that is to take a toxic, polluting substance, place it in a tank in a gallery, and listen as viewers call it beautiful.

h: Your work often manipulates architectural spaces to create immersive experiences. Can you discuss a particular installation that posed unique challenges in terms of integration with its environment?

Coming up with a strong idea for a commissioned space involves two distinct stages. The first is researching what concept would best suit the space in question. The second stage is what I call fine-tuning – taking that concept and scrutinising it to find the most effective way to bring it to life. In short, you have to take the idea to task.

There are typically three barriers that can prevent a proposal from being realised: finance, technical challenges, and bureaucracy.

Slipstream endured two years of bureaucratic interference – both in its conceptual phase and due to concerns about its ability to withstand a potential terrorist attack. However, both obstacles were swiftly addressed with the expertise of the engineer on the project.

h: In what ways do your past experiences in engineering influence your current artistic practice? Do you see a correlation between the precision required in engineering and the creative process in sculpture?

RW: Turning the place over, 2008-2012, Liverpool, UK 

All I’m doing is tampering with the edges of where we assume certainty exists in structures, revealing how easily they can be altered. Architecture often feels burdened with a sense of permanency, but it’s a deceptively fluid situation. How permanent is a brick? Or a bit of concrete? Or a pane of glass? These are all just materials – they can be changed. Why not view the architecture around us as a slow event rather than something static?

Of course, not being trained as an architect or engineer means relying on experts in these fields, alongside industrial fabricators and builders, to ensure my work can physically exist. Architecture isn’t designed to move or leap out of buildings, but Turning the Place Over was arguably more ambitious in concept than anything I had realised before.

The project involved cutting a vast, 10-metre diameter ovoid section from the facade of a disused building to allow it to rotate. This circular section was mounted onto a central spindle inserted into the building. The spindle, cut at a precise angle, allowed the removed section of the facade to fit flush into its original position, leaving only the ovoid outline as evidence of the alteration.

The spindle itself was mounted on motorised rollers – similar to those used to rotate ship hulls during welding – enabling the facade to complete a full 360-degree rotation. Its oval cut meant that as it turned, the facade inverted, oscillating deep into the building’s interior and far out into the street, flush with the structure only briefly during its rotation.

Realising this ambitious project required both mechanical and structural engineers. Once the concept proved viable, the challenge shifted to finding a fabricating team willing to take on the task – a daunting process of balancing technical demands with limited profit margins. Finally, an unknown construction company from nearby Lancashire accepted the challenge. Today, they are one of the largest building firms in the North West of England.

h: Your work has been noted for its dialogue with history and memory. How do you incorporate historical references into your contemporary pieces, and what impact do you hope they have on viewers?

Since around 2000, I’ve become increasingly attuned to the social and historical aspects of sites, alongside their physical characteristics. These elements often shape the work I create. Recurring themes in my projects include redundancy, the possibility of reanimation, and how spaces can be imbued with new life and meaning. Whether these ideas manifest in a specific project depends on the nature of the site and the thoughts it inspires.

One striking example is the installation Turbine Hall, Swimming Pool, which explored themes of physical dereliction, cultural and social redundancy, and the tension between art as a tool of urban renewal and the limits of individual agency against impersonal forces. This work drew inspiration from two once-communal, now-derelict spaces: a drained, disused open-air swimming pool and a deconsecrated church turned exhibition gallery, its stripped interior resembling a concrete bunker.

The project began with an exploration of the energy – both social and physical – required to sustain community spaces. This led to the acquisition of a 10kVa diesel generator, which became the centerpiece of the installation. I sought to connect the two spaces by creating a film shot in the drained swimming pool, capturing a raw, human form of energy. This film was projected in the church, powered by the electricity generated on-site, uniting two types of energy and drawing attention to the lost vitality of both architectural spaces.

At the time of the exhibition, Tate Modern was opening its doors in the former Bankside Power Station, a cathedral of power generation transformed into a world-renowned art gallery. In contrast, my work felt like a countermodel. Where the Tate removed its turbines, I installed one – an alternative vision of renewal.

Visitors entered the church through a small rear door, greeted by a stripped-out view of the building’s interior toward the altar platform. Instead of the expected altar, they encountered a massive wall, 30 feet high, constructed from wooden struts and thick insulation. This wall bisected the church, compressing the space and muffling a cacophony of sounds emanating from the other side.

Passing through a small doorway in the wall, visitors were assaulted by the drone of a functioning Lister Petter diesel engine noisily converting diesel into electricity. The engine’s roar competed with the equally overwhelming sound of furious drumming, projected onto the wall in cinematic proportions. The drummer was my friend Paul Burwell, whose intense, unrelenting performance embodied human energy. His drumming created a bridge between the derelict swimming pool and the church, uniting the two spaces through sound and imagery.

The result was an oppressive, uneven duet between the mechanical energy of the generator and the human energy of the drummer – a metaphor for the decline of communal spaces and the creative expression that deteriorates alongside the physical decay of communities. Through this installation, I sought to reflect on the fragility of community, the persistence of creative resistance, and the energy required to sustain both.

h: The reflective qualities of your works create a space for self-examination among viewers. What do you believe is the significance of self-reflection in art, especially in the context of your installations?

RW: My work has always been concerned with altering perception and unsettling how we view the world. To achieve this, I begin with something familiar – something we believe we understand, such as an architectural space. The key is to create a tangible relationship between the sculpture and the site, transforming the way the viewer experiences the space. Every sculptural piece I create requires a conceptual backdrop, where I take objects, forms, and architectural elements and manipulate them in some way, turning them into something entirely new. This act of tampering with the edges of what we consider certain in forms and structures is central to my process.

I begin by trying to understand the unique nature of a form or site and the purpose behind creating a work. My approach is ambitious in scale, precarious in thought, and somewhat old-fashioned in my desire for the work to be beautifully realised. I consciously avoid a fixed style, preferring to see art as a continuously evolving inquiry rather than a set product. I am not interested in becoming an artist who simply reproduces a recognisable product for easy consumption. My aim is to test my expectations, not confirm them, and to avoid the boredom of repetition.

h: Looking forward, what themes or concepts do you feel compelled to explore in your upcoming projects? Are there specific societal issues that you believe art should address more actively?

RW: My hope is that my audience would feel profoundly changed after encountering my work. Instead of thinking, ‘If only things could be different’, I strive to create sculptures that embody difference – sculptures unlike any other.

This concept stands in contrast to Conservatism. Rather than seeking the familiar, I’m drawn to the unfamiliar. I don’t aim to create art that merely reflects or supports Conservatism; instead, I aim to map out other possibilities.

We must dare to make awe and wonder fundamental to our approach. To be spellbound, enthralled, and startled by the infinite possibilities of the physical universe. Let this sense of wonder serve as a broad, thoughtful, and deeply political stance.

h: You mentioned that Looking Glass is about achieving stillness amid urban chaos. What role do you think this sense of stillness plays in today’s fast-paced cities, especially Shanghai?

Firstly, Looking Glass is a sensory-based experience that challenges the boundaries of traditional artistic genres by examining the intersection of sight and site.

It also engages with the concept of achieving stillness amidst the chaos of a bustling city. More than that, it’s about reshaping how we think about space. We all carry preconceptions about architecture – about rooms, buildings, façades, and materials. If I can unsettle these assumptions, I open up new ways of perceiving and understanding the world of forms and structures.

In an era where screen technology captures images in fractions of a second, 20:50 offers a pause, using disorientation or uncertainty to shift how we perceive what we see.

h: Both you and Fujiwara have spoken about the importance of curiosity in creativity. How do you continue to cultivate curiosity in your own work?

RW: While genetic factors undoubtedly influence a person’s cognitive abilities, intelligence evolves as we progress from infancy to adulthood. However, I believe that genius or creative talent is nurtured through curiosity. In contemporary thinking, curiosity is often seen as a special form of information-seeking, driven by internal motivation. As Edward de Bono once said, ‘Creative thinking […] is not a mystical talent. It is a skill that can be practised and nurtured’. Curiosity is a state of arousal – a spark that ignites interest in a subject.

For me, curiosity in art is the drive to uncover what lies beyond my current understanding of the field. Philosophically, curiosity can be seen as an act of play, where exploration and discovery unfold.

h: The activation encourages participants to ‘recharge their creativity’. Are there particular practices or mindsets that you use to sustain your creative energy, especially when working on large-scale, immersive projects?

RW: Go where others hesitate, take risks, and generate new possibilities – alternatives that embrace qualities like flexibility, tolerance of ambiguity, and unpredictability. Welcome creative risk-taking, for avoiding risks can leave us numb and disconnected from ourselves.

At times, I reflect on the standards of the art world, questioning things like: ‘Am I creating meaningful work? Does it enhance or energise the space? Is there evidence of meaningful public engagement or use? Are outdoor artworks more accessible than gallery pieces? Do different rules apply to gallery work versus public art? Who is public art really for? And who defines what public art should be? Does public art often face compromise due to impractical expectations or bureaucratic delays? Should art be permanent, or is temporary work more ambitious?’

Temporary art often feels freer from the constraints of lengthy consultation processes and excessive bureaucracy, making it more daring.

Can public art leave a lasting impact and remain relevant? Who decides when to remove public works, and why? Is this process a form of state-sanctioned vandalism, or does it reflect public consensus?

Regardless of the debates surrounding it, art undeniably serves a vital role in culture. It gives us a platform to express our identities, our agreements, and our disagreements.

In conclusion, ‘A great work should not be confined to one idea but should be a richness of thought. It should transcend time and possess a source of energy that keeps it relevant’.

h: The study mentioned by Moncler Genius suggests that nearly all young children have a sense of genius. Do you see any parallels between this childlike curiosity and the creativity you strive for in your work?

RW: The answer is play. To most people, play represents a certain set of values. It is primarily associated with children, and thus, when applied to adults, it often carries connotations of frivolity or lack of serious purpose. However, play is not leisure – it is a pursuit entered into freely, creatively, and responsibly.

I believe that if you’re allowed to play, you can begin to investigate your world. Through play, you can test the established order of things, gaining a deeper understanding of how they work and discovering what they could become. Play breeds familiarity. Play is inquiry and experimentation, and the key is that it is self-governed. It’s about not accepting restrictions and creating your own rules for engaging with the world.

Blessed are the curious, for they shall have adventures.

RICHARD WILSON
Tunring the place over, 2008