There is something about Mika Rottenberg’s work that can speak to multiple generations: using ASMR and glossy images, but also a highly intelligent, sharp humour to criticise systems of production, labour, and capitalism, she’s here to make audiences re-think about the system. The exhibition Vibrant Matter, her first solo show in Spain, on view at Hauser & Wirth Menorca through October 26, proves just that via video works as well as sculptures that turn waste and toxic plants into light. Today, we sit down with the New York-based artist to discuss engaging with the present, foreseeing the future, seduction, and success.
Hey Mika, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. To get to know you better, what does a ‘normal’ day in your life look like?
Most days begin in the studio with very small steps: sketching, jotting notes, testing materials and listening to how things sound. The works grow from this back-and-forth between thinking and making; once materials enter the room, they “talk back” and the piece evolves in dialogue with them.
Vibrant Matter is your first solo show in Spain. It’s cool that instead of Barcelona or Madrid, you’re celebrating it in Menorca, a low-key paradise that’s usually overshadowed by its sisters Mallorca and Ibiza. How do you feel this natural, stress-free environment can impact the way viewers perceive your work?
Menorca changes the tempo. The architecture and the route through the space shape how you walk, pause, and pay attention. I’m not after ‘immersion’ for its own sake, but the island’s clarity sharpens the tension I pursue — seduction on the surface, and a subtle friction underneath.
I’d like to know about your personal experience in Menorca leading up to the inauguration. What was your time there like?
Installing on site made the exhibition click: each piece stands alone, but together they form a choreography you move through. Aligning the works to the flow of the galleries was key.
There are lot of Lampshares in the show, a new series of works where you create functional lamps made from reclaimed plastic and invasive bittersweet vines. Could you tell us how did these come to be?
I’ve been re-examining my relationship to materials and their supply chains. We collect discarded household plastic, often through local partners, and process it with DIY machines (inspired by open-source Precious Plastic), then weave it with invasive vines. It’s toxic and dazzling at once; turning waste into light helps me think through that contradiction.
You’re also showing some video work, like Cosmic Generator (2017) and Spaghetti Blockchain (2019). Even if they’re eight and six years old respectively, they’ve stood the test of time perfectly and feel even more relevant today. Do you view them as somewhat visionary?
They still resonate because they map how objects, systems and people entangle — flows that have only intensified. I used to blur fact and fiction more; after 2016, politicians did that ‘better,’ which pushed me to shift my approach.
Video as a medium has turned almost like a numbing tool, and a lot of people just binge-watch TikTok or YouTube content to entertain themselves and not think too much. Do you hope to challenge this through your own work?
I work through sensation — image, texture, and especially sound. ASMR interests me not as a trend but as a visceral way materials ‘speak.’ If the senses wake up, attention –and then thought– follows.
I find it funny that your website is named ‘antimatter factory’. Since you comment a lot on capitalism, labour, and production, do you ever feel as an artist working in the studio similar to a factory worker?
Studios can look like micro-factories –tools, workflows, repetition– but I’m not aiming for efficiency. I’m after the moment when materials misbehave and redirect me; production becomes a way to probe labour, value, and desire rather than optimise them.
“I’m not aiming for efficiency. I’m after the moment when materials misbehave and redirect me; production becomes a way to probe labour, value, and desire rather than optimise them.”
You comment on labour, exploitation, and capitalism through an incredibly vibrant, almost positive and child-like aesthetic. Could you speak on this contrast? Do you think this more understandable, less ‘angry’ approach helps you get your message through more easily?
Seduction is part of how systems work — the glossy surfaces and colours. I want that pull to be visible: you’re lured in and then something feels off. Humour and pleasure create distance without diluting the critique.
While we focus on gender and race, the ‘real war’ we should be fighting is class war. It’s astonishing (and infuriating) to see people with low and middle incomes defend billionaires. Do you hope your art (or art in general) wakes people up and helps them gain class conscience?
Art heightens awareness, but it doesn’t legislate. I’m less comfortable being didactic; I try to build conditions where viewers notice their own entanglements –with work, consumption, extraction– and carry that awareness beyond the gallery.
Speaking to Marina Abramović recently, she said: “Art can’t change anything, artists can’t. They can only raise awareness, but that awareness then has to evolve into revolution.” Do you agree with that statement?
I agree that art operates through perception. My responsibility is to be authentic to my experience and offer a lens that might shift someone’s understanding — what happens beyond the work is a different arena.
Living in NYC, one of the best examples of dehumanising capitalism, must be a source of inspiration for you, but I guess it also takes a toll on your mental health. How do you balance or cope with that?
New York is intense, but it’s also a laboratory for materials and behaviours. In the studio we minimise shipping, re-use sets and pay attention to environmental impact — small decisions that keep me grounded.
You’re clearly connected to the ‘now’: working with video, using ASMR, that ironic language that’s become Gen Z’s staple… Is there a specific way you analise the present and try to forecast the future as an artist? Or it just comes natural to you?
It starts intuitively with a sound, a texture, a behaviour, and only later finds its conceptual language. I map how things connect now; any ‘future’ that appears is a by-product of following those links.
Your schedule is always busy organising upcoming shows, working on new pieces, etc. What do you do to unwind?
Drawing is the through-line — it recentres me between larger projects. The hands-on studio work –melting plastic, building rigs– also doubles as a kind of reset because it returns me to material play.
Working with a prestigious gallery like Hauser&Wirth or having monumental shows in museum’s like Kunst Haus Wien or Basel’s Musée Tingnuely is, to the audience, a clear indicator of success. But how do you define personal and artistic success?
Success is when a work stays alive — when it keeps surprising me and invites viewers to complete it. Institutional milestones matter, but I measure success by whether the pieces remain generative over time.
