YASMIN LINDEMANN
BY WILL MADDOXX
Polaroid, Yasmin Lindemann and Wylie Burell
YASMIN LINDEMANN (b. 1999) is making something constantly. Whether it's a frame constructed from Red Bull cans, a door coated in tape, or a drawing on the back of a painting, her hands are constantly in motion. In her studio, objects are collected in neat piles and discarded items like receipts, flyers, and empty cans are treated with immense care. In her wide-ranging practice, craft, capital, and divinity intersect to create innocuous objects that begin to prick the viewer with time. WILL MADDOX, a painter who wants to fuck God, sat down with Yasmin in her studio. The two spoke as Yasmin drew absently on a piece of wood until her pencil wore down to a nub.
WILL MADDOXX: Hi buddy. I have a present for you.
YASMIN LINDEMANN: Is your presence my present?
WM: No, it's this photograph!
YL: Did you steal this from the drawer in the print lab?
WM: Yes! I thought I might use it as a photo for the interview; I can put a big eggplant over Wylie [Burrell]'s face.
YL: Yeah, you don't need to do that.
WM: Alright, well I've got some questions for ya. There's a lot of things around the studio - what's that, a steering wheel?
YL: Yeah, my dad brought it here on a flight and cut out the airbag.
WM: Pretty nice of him. Are these materials?
YL: Yep. Stack of cardboard and the Conservation Clear is a donation from Yue [Yuan].
WM: What's this pile? Is this trash?
YL: No. Nothing in here is trash; no such thing!
WM: But I just walked in.
YL: [Laughs] Well, as of five minutes ago, then.
WM: So your dad, famously, is a pastor. Does your mom work?
YL: Everyone I know performs labor if that's what you're asking. She was a busker for a very long time, she played music. She played the double bass, the accordion, the violin, the guitar. She also plays the piano, but you can't put it on the street.
WM: And your parents are back in Romania?
YL: Yes - it's an eight or nine hour flight for us to visit each other.
WM:Damn!
YL: It's not terrible.
WM: Well, I guess I'm not very well-traveled. You are, though. You speak a ton of languages, right?
YL: I speak German, Romanian, English, Spanish, and French. I'm losing my Spanish a bit.
WM: That's ... a lot. Oh, I forgot you had this little trapdoor in your studio.
YL: How could you forget?
WM: I don't know, have you ever pried it open and seen what's under there?
YL: No. I wanted to. People told me not to.
WM: What people?
YL: Several people. Every time I bring it up, they're all. ..
WM: I think you should do it. I wanna know what's in there. Anyway, what was your first job?
YL: My first job? I worked at a call center when I was 18.
WM: How was that?
YL: Stressful - the call center was in Romania, but it was in the German language. They were outsourcing because it's cheaper to get Romanian labor. A lot of my coworkers didn't speak German, so I ended up having to do a lot of work. Then I burnt out and got a job teaching German and art. I did that for a bit more than a year until I went on exchange and then COVID hit. That was the last kind of work I did in exchange for currency.
WM: So, then you worked for. .. goods and services?
YL: More like free.
WM: Where at?
YL: A lot of stuff for my dad. A lot of interpreting, summer camp stuff, volunteering groups, I volunteered for the Romanian Biennial.
WM: When did you start making art?
YL: I've kind of always made stuff.
WM: Growing up, did you think you would be an artist?
YL: No. [Laughs] I thought I was going to be a cashier.
WM:Oh?
YL: Well, I thought it was a really desirable job because you get so much money- your whole job is people paying you money. Plus, in Europe, you're allowed to sit while you're working as a cashier.
WM: Oh, I see the logic. It always pissed me off working retail and not being allowed to sit.
YL: Yeah, you sit! So, I was like "that's really nice!" You have a little chair, a little workstation, a little jar where you put all the money, it's great. That was my dream job.
WM: What are you reading right now?
YL: I'm reading three books: White Girls by Hilton Als, Carceral Capitalism by Jackie Wang, and Minor Detail by Adania Shibli.
WM: Is it all theory?
YL: Not all theory, also like critique and essays. Have you ever read Hilton Als?
WM: No; I'm not very well-read, you know this about me.
YL: Ah, you shouldn't speak negatively about yourself. Especially if it's something you don't like about yourself. At my house we had a jar and every time you said something negative about yourself, you had to put in money.
WM: Did it fill up pretty quick?
YL: No, we couldn't afford it so we just shut up.
WM: Fair. Well, I have some super serious questions about your practice now - you ready?
YL: Sure.
WM: Fuck, marry, kill: God, Red Bull, and a door.
YL: Huh?
WM: Do you need me to repeat the question?
YL: ... Marry God. Duh. Kill the door, and ... intercourse with the Red Bull.
WM: Hmm, okay, thank you. I feel like I'd fuck God. I think whenever I look at the stuff you make, the question that comes to mind is "can commodities be sacred?" I'm wondering: do you think the work answers that question? Is it something you think about a lot?
YL: I don't know that it's always about commodities - but what do you mean by a commodity? I think the fact that it is a commodity is what desanctifies things which are sacred, and that you can redeem the sanctity of things through your attitude toward them.
WM: So com modifying things sort of desecrates them?
YL: Yeah.
WM: Do you view your work, or art in general, as a commodity?
YL: I think it's more than that. It is treated as a commodity oftentimes, but I feel like the way you treat something is kind of how it operates. But at the same time, if it's treated in a certain way, its essence isn't reduced to that. Just because you treat something as a commodity, its essence isn't reduced to just a commodity.
WM: I think this whole idea is central to the work, at least in the way that I see it.
YL: How do you see it?
WM: I think the materials you use tend to be highly commodified. I think the way you're interested in God, too, is in a kind of Piss Christ way, where it's more about the ephemera around religion rather than religion itself, and I think you treat all these things with intense care. The care you show for something like a receipt.
YL: Yes - but a receipt isn't really a commodity.
WM: I guess not, but it's a record of commerce.
YL: Yeah, a byproduct.
WM: Why did you get interested in receipts?
YL: I've always kind of been interested in the record of oneself. When I first started getting interested in receipts, it was a weird awareness of how much our identity is shaped by what we purchase, especially in the way we are viewed as consumers. Yeah, it kind of becomes a record of all the things you believe in.
WM: Is there something there about art outlasting you, and receipts or other traces of your identity remaining after you're gone?
YL: I mean, the one thing I don't really think about is longevity of the work. I feel like I'm interested in work that has a lifespan. Receipts fade, right? When you open your wallet and find a receipt from two years ago, it's no longer legible. The information is gone. I think that's a natural part of life; so much of the way that society and culture are built is selling the idea of immortality. Eternal beauty, eternal youth - all these things are very unnatural and I don't find myself interested in them.
WM: Yeah, you're interested in mortality.
YL: Yeah, but... collectors don't like it.
WM: Well, then, we're back to commodity. I'm wondering how you feel about artists themselves getting commodified. Your work feels incredibly specific to you, but it never feels autobiographical and I think of you as a more private person. It seems like you keep yourself as an artist separate from your practice.
YL: I don't know about separating the practice from the artist. I think my practice is just an extension of the gestures I perform as a person, you know? I don't think I want to be perceived much, and if the way that I'm perceived changes the reading of my work, I wouldn't really care to do that.
WM: Yeah, I think that's fair. I think artists are constantly asked to sell themselves and in doing so, sell their work, and I guess I'm trying to say that you resist that in how you want to be perceived.
YL: I don't know how to talk about it. I don't think it's an active resistance, or done with a great deal of intention. It's just a bit of discomfort with that whole premise of selling yourself.
WM: Who do you think of as your audience? Who do you make art for?
YL: Myself? It's a very selfish answer.
WM: I think that's a good answer.
YL: Hmm ... I think I make art for people with patience.
WM: Yeah ... Yeah, I think that's true. Hey, thank you for doing this.
YL: You're welcome! Oh, we done?
WM: We done.
