COME-HITHER   ,Thibaut Knapp en conversation avec Tosia Leniarska.

What would you be doing if you never studied fashion?

What I do is something visceral.  Even if I didn’t study fashion I would have used this medium to express myself, because it comes out naturally. To take a totally different route, I think I would have traveled the world, exploring myself and putting myself in different sorts of dangers. Testing my toughness, going to places which are not necessarily stable and seeing how I handle it. That doesn’t mean I would haven’t made clothes or films but I think I would live a secluded lifestyle, almost like a hermit or a prepper. While academic fashion education allows you to take intellectual risks, it doesn’t allow you to take risks involving your body.

What’s been the best “test of your toughness” so far?

My hypersensitivity. Everything that passes through me feels like it is duplicated, almost like looking through a kaleidoscope. My experiences are heightened and multiplied; it’s like I’m constantly on drugs with a kick of endorphins ten times a day. What helps me is returning to my core, my roots. I always go back to this secret place that I refer to a lot in my process and in my work: the Black Forest in Germany. It’s the place where I feel most at peace and whole.

Can you remember the most inspiring encounter with nature that you’ve had there?

One I remember in particular was going on top of this vantage point, this sort of mountain that’s still covered with forest. It overlooks the entire area, you can see far into the landscape and distinguish the Rhine like a thin silver snake. That’s where I go to put on a little show for myself, or for the trees, or for whoever, where I exhibit myself - for myself. Sometimes I shout, sing my lungs out, or just lie naked. More recently, I touched myself there - I came with this view in front of me.

Sort of a pantheistic feeling of your body being connected with the forest?

Yeah, the endless flow of desire that was communicating with everything. Insects walking underneath me lying naked on the rock. Sitting there for a while and feeling the pressure of the rocks on my body, leaving marks on it. My body tensing while I was exploring myself. The sun hitting me, the sweat. It was just very unique and enjoyable and totally unplanned.

Getting erotically aroused by the view in front of me is much more efficient than porn, trust me.

What are some of the rituals you engage with when you’re in the Black Forest?

Everything I do becomes a necessary ritual because there is no electricity or running water; it’s just a cabin, basically. When you arrive, you have to get rid of the spiderwebs in the house and dig a hole to go shit in later. You pick up wood for the fire and install the pipes that pump up the water from the river. All of these “basic survival” practices put a sort of frame to your life, one very different from the structure of life in the city. When you’re forced to embrace human physiology and bodily fluids, your ego transforms - living like a dog, like Diogenes and the cynics in ancient Greece. I have a tendency for a sort of nihilistic dissecting of human behavior and how it changes depending on circumstances or societal taboos. I like how Nietzsche writes about this; his ideas often guide me. It opens a door to a new level of empathy, respecting what is around you.

How do you translate all these rituals and processes into your work?

Sometimes very metaphorically, but other times very literally. There’s an element of the “domestic” practicality in them that’s central to my process. For example, to make my textiles with plants embedded in them, I have to collect the plants I want - the right ones - and then press them and dry them. Then I apply the fabric and pour silicone to fuse the different layers together. The leather I use has been ground with rocks or aged in a subterranean hole. Lately, I’ve been integrating a hand-made rubber coating into my work. There’s this really tactile finishing aspect to the textiles involving  heavy labor, but there’s also a conceptual aspect, which I explore when I create performances and ephemeral installations in the forest by combining these man-made elements with natural surroundings. I also incorporate characters to thicken the narrative: usually magical beings like werewolves, witches or nymphs. I am creating my own mythology, which I hope will represent and guide us just as our ancestors were guided by the older mythologies -- engraved on rocks and weaved with blood and golden thread.

Is there any specific film, book or artwork which made you feel like the perspective of the author is exactly how you see the world yourself?

I’m very affected by the art movement Arte Povera. Even though it’s something quite antiquated, I think it retains its relevance to this day. It’s about collecting objects that are pre-existing or found and injecting this energy to resuscitate them. I think it’s a very beautiful reminder to always consider pre-existing materials; to me, the movement has a very ecological meaning. I’m also quite drawn to Land Art and Robert Smithson in particular: his “spiral jetty” installation was very laborious to build (tonnes of rocks and sand were carried with trucks and placed on a beach to form a huge spiral) and was later immersed due to rising sea levels. It reappeared thirty years later. This entropy concept is something I reapply in the way I create, produce my pieces every day. There is something so ancestral in the Land Art philosophy, something primal and massive. Most pieces are impossible to transport, sell or trade. It’s like archaeology in that it will last throughout history, like the Nazca lines in the Peruvian desert -- mysterious geoglyphs carrying an unsolved enigma --  which is highly fascinating.

Do you feel part of yourself lives on in your garments?

I like to think that’s true. I see them as artifacts that will age well and live independently. I may unconsciously be making tangible work because I want to expand myself and live on in different physical pieces. The clothes I make are very tactile and sensory; my work connects with the body and lives with the wearer. For example, I make these trousers that have a kind of wing at the knees, so that when you bend your leg, they blow up and down, like fish gills. I’ve also made a silicone piece which adjusts to the temperature of the wearer’s body like a mutation. 

So it’s an embodiment of your anxieties and desires at the same time relating to the wearer’s body.

Yeah. So in a way, we are having an intimate interaction through them living in it. I like to think it’s almost like a voodoo doll thing. I often inject a sentimental value to objects that are otherwise quite meaningless. I think of the word sentimental as something deeply emotional that has to do with witchcraft. Something vibrating energy. Usually, people who wear my things understand what my vision is and it’s something that’s always been important to me: not being misled in my ideology as an artist. Ultimately, I really want to be well understood.

Collaboration seems to be one of the driving forces in your work.

Collaboration is an essential part of my storytelling. I have a very specific connection with the people I choose to collaborate with. It’s completely intuitive and not really something I’m able to put into words, but being open to the other has brought me so much. My role is then to lead them in my fantastical visions but also to open a dialogue: allowing them to express themselves while being a part of the greater story. They become important life partners along the way and continue to have a significant impact on my creative growth. It is so satisfying to feel understood and validated by the people you admire. I want to continue nourishing that. I am excited about the future.