During an impromptu evening I spent at his then-home in Cluj, which happened after hanging out with a group of friends, I got to know Andrei Arion. It happened right before COVID, and I was barely familiar with his art at the time. However, his intriguing public persona and his apparent distance from casual talk caught my attention. I noticed a sense of introspection beneath his friendly interactions. I felt at ease in his presence, a perception that brought us closer as friends and artists. This led me to follow his artistic career closely, and I have encountered his works quite often, especially in Bucharest and Timisoara.
His start with painting, much like my own university years, and his swift detachment from it, along with his self-critique, opened me up to his unique approach within the local artistic scene. To label his art as mere sculptures would be unfair—not because sculpture lacks merit, but because Andrei resists definitions and pretentious language when framing his art. Instead, he seeks outlets to understand himself. When I first met him, he was more permeated by ideas rather than by forms and materials. This may seem unrealistic, considering his consistent interest in working with a particular metal. But it’s not! It’s easy to go down this route, which I’m not going to do.
During my time at Kunsthalle Bega, I observed him at work several times and have been fortunate enough to discuss what soon developed into his first solo show. He was solitary and unpretentious regarding his next move, the tools he was using, and the constraints he faced in his temporary studio set up for him before the exhibition. I approached this environment not as a journalist but as a friend. Andrei welcomed me with an invitation to describe his feelings about being in Timisoara, scheduling his production mostly by himself. Bogdan Rata, a well-known artist and teacher, was around, and his influence must have been fruitful, considering the pressure of the proposal to show at Kunsthalle Bega.
They both attest to a particular form of sculpture, or better said, to a manner of working that is two-sided. Once faced with the material of one’s choice, one is immediately constricted by its limitations— if one cannot expand one’s horizon. Here, these two artists, Bogdan Rata and Andrei Arion, share common ground—the notion that the actuality of an object is only the surface of something interstitial. The level of constraints imposed by a specific medium of expression is not paramount to what is expressed but a hinge to what the artist stands for. In Andrei’s case it is the narrowing of the gap between responsibility and freedom, between the rational and the irrational. Most definitely, his objects speak of their insecurity. If we look at his wheeled objects, they exhibit fixity and playfulness for those who expect a metaphorical satiation.
In his ‘Trying to Move Without a Push’ exhibition, which has recently opened at Kunsthalle Bega, such expectations are neither desired nor fulfilled. Andrei is too clever to deliver mere images of ideas. He instead provides a matrix of what ideas are. There’s a clear distinction between finding an outlet for an idea—artwork as a secretion of the idea—and the artwork standing as an idea, whose state is fragile, defensive at times, indecisive, and open for permutations. Yes, Andrei’s works can cut you if you’re not careful in their presence. They hint at medical instruments, sometimes approaching functionality in this sense. They present themselves as aids and weapons simultaneously, tools as Andrei likes to call them. Immediately recognizable as his work, these objects impair narratives as soon as one sees them, fascinating invitations to look beyond ourselves, sometimes at the cost of finding our own impairment and inconsolability.
Interview transcript:
Alex Mirutziu: Let’s start with a few words about your education and artistic interests. Perhaps you could also discuss how you began working with metal and design.
Andrei Arion: I studied photography and painting in Timisoara, though they didn’t pique my interest for long. Then, I took a break from art. After one or two years, I started making collages and small drawings, and I thought they would look really nice if I turned them into sculptures. So, I asked a friend to produce one because I didn’t have any experience working with metal. Over the next summer I spent three months making 25 or 26 sculptures by myself. Those were made out of steel. After a while, I started disliking this material because it is quite harsh; it takes a lot of effort to shape it. So, I thought of aluminium, which is a lot softer, and I fell in love with it.
A.M.: What tools are you using when working with aluminium?
A.A.: The tools I’m using are very basic. There’s this metal table that I built myself and two pipes that are pretty close to each other. That’s part of the reason that you can find pretty much the same shapes in my work; they’re dictated by the table.
A.M.: How do you address the subjective perception of usefulness, the influence of childhood memories on your art, and the dualism of contrasting concepts like “useless-usefulness” in your current exhibition at Kunsthalle Bega?
A.A.: Growing up, my dad was a handyman who knew how to solve every problem in the household. He tried to make me help him, but I really had no idea what I was doing as a child. However these things have embedded themselves in my brain , helping me pick up this type of work quite easily. I think it’s important for me to realise the necessity of the right tool. I don’t necessarily call my works sculptures; I see them more as tools, but they are more like useless tools. They come from a practical idea but are made in such a way that they can never reach that point of practicality. They are just shapes that try to imitate the real thing. I think that’s related to those memories. Memories can be strange; they can change quite a lot over time. Your brain distorts them. In my case, I often find myself unsure if they’re real. My tools are not exactly real either. I think the look of my works is quite influenced by design. I enjoy looking at pieces of design made of aluminium or stainless steel, but I wouldn’t like to live in a house filled with them. I like to enjoy their presence for a short while and then move on. I wouldn’t want to live in a house with my works either, because they are quite cold. It’s funny. My works are minimalistic, and though I never felt drawn to working within a minimalist style, it’s just the way things worked out. This material is quite sensitive. It reacts to everything, every touch, every little bump. It’s easy to leave your mark on it. I think that’s one of the biggest appeals for me. At the same time, you can also bring it back to its original shape, more or less, and if you don’t do anything extreme. You can put a lot of elbow grease into bringing it back.
A.M.: To what degree are you consciously staging and aware of the performative aspect of this exhibition and each individual work?
A.A.: My works have always intrigued visitors; they always tend to touch them. The sharp edges and corners make you a bit more cautious in the space, which is something I haven’t really fully achieved yet. I still want to create an environment where, because of the sharpness and pointy edges, you have to pay attention to your surroundings when you walk in the exhibition space. These works have something familiar. You can find features that you see in other objects, but at the same time, it’s difficult to pinpoint their exact origins. It’s nice to hear people say that, because I like to see them not really knowing what they are looking at. I like to see them questioning themselves, questioning their own perspective. Seeing them in a white cube, for example: they seem to fit in but also feel that something is not quite right. Often the specific object looks good, but I find it difficult to make it look good in a certain space. Most of the time, they feel out of place. This exhibition is the first time I actually feel that they belong in that space. In this exhibition, the way they are presented doesn’t really feel like an exhibition but rather like a storage where the objects are just waiting to be used, they’re organised in their places so that you know where to pick them when you need them. They have this energy of a person that you wait anxiously for. They seem calm at first, but if you look into it a bit more, they are quite anxious. I spent a lot of time with them. We’ve had our quarrels and our happy moments, and things worked out. Indeed, we have this human relationship.
A.M.: Tell us about the process of working for this exhibition.
A.A.: From a practical standpoint, I produced three works in Bucharest and then came here to create the rest. At first, I thought it was easier and made more sense to make the bigger works here so that I don’t have to transport them. But then I realised that working here, spending time in this space, and talking to people here, even though the works haven’t changed from the initial plan, helped bring the exhibition together in a way that I couldn’t achieve working from a distance. I really enjoy spending time here. Having a different studio came with positive and negative aspects. I didn’t have my own tools; I had to improvise and adapt. A couple of days ago, when we finished and everything was set in place, I felt rewarded, but after 30 minutes, something important left my body. I started having feeling useless, in a strange way I’ve never felt before. It’s difficult to explain. I haven’t fully come to terms with it; I still have to internalise these things. It’s quite draining. I didn’t think it would be like this. This is my first solo show, so I never had this type of work. It’s straining but enjoyable.
A.M.: What are your plans for the coming months?
A.A.: I’ll take a week to be with myself in my studio. I don’t really want to talk to anyone, and then we’ll see. I like being alone, living alone. I also enjoy spending time with my friends, usually on my own terms, when I want to. But I care a lot about them even though I’m not the best at showing this type of emotion.
