Slinkachu
LITTLE PEOPLE, SCRUTINIZERS OF OUR IMPERFECTIONS
Intro
Slinkachu's Little People began appearing on the streets of London in 2006. Barely visible, "hidden" by their size, they seemed to live in a parallel world, like ants, with and without us. Nevertheless, each scene presented elements of our shared life: that little businessman had his car smashed by a lollipop; that little boy used an orange peel as a skate park. Slowly, we discovered that the artist was engaged in a genuine process of world-building. Over time, we know that the Little People have more to say than simply being seen as cute resin figures scattered across the street. And perhaps the "society" they form could be seen as a metaphor for our own, with their bittersweet sense of humor and their way of life.
How did you become an artist? Did you study at an art school?
I studied at art school, but my goal wasn't to become an artist per se, but rather an illustrator. I went to university to study illustration, but ended up reading about art direction for advertising, and that was my first job. In 2006, while working for an advertising agency, I started making miniatures and leaving them around London, more as a hobby than anything else. I eventually became so interested in my "little people" project that I quit my job to pursue it full-time.
Where did the idea for Little People come from? Have you ever done any modeling yourself? The characters seem to be a mix of The Sims, wargames, and Lego.
I've always been fascinated by toys and figurines. I loved Lego as a child, and my mother, who works with children, was very good at giving me projects like making miniature dioramas out of cereal boxes. The idea for my current work came to me one day while I was working on another project. I think at the time, I was subconsciously looking for a creative outlet outside of my more commercial work to express myself. In retrospect, my first attempts at installation and photography were quite simplistic. In fact, some of my very first installations weren't photographed at all. Over time, I learned how to use a camera, progressed to a professional DSLR, and became fascinated by the possibilities of storytelling and evoking emotions in people who saw the photographs.
By creating the Little People, you've placed yourself in the position of a god: you've created an entire society with hundreds of stories. Was this an exciting challenge for your imagination? What were your inspirations (artistic, video games, etc.) for building this universe?
Many of my inspirations don't translate into my work. I've always loved science fiction and fantasy, and while there are elements of that in my work, I consciously try to avoid making it too fantastical—I want to ground it in reality as much as possible. World-building is something that fascinates me and always has. I'm a huge Star Wars fan and I love the expanded universe that's been created for that property. I also enjoy reading and writing—creating new worlds in people's imaginations is a skill that has always interested me.
What are the different stages involved in developing a framework? Does it start with a story?
The process is pretty much the same for each scene. I spend a lot of time coming up with narrative ideas and keep sketchbooks full of drawings and notes. Once I have an idea I like, I can make the figures. Each one is a 1:87 scale model train figure, which I customize as needed. I cut them out, reposition them, add new details with modeling clay, and paint them. The scene will often need props of some kind. Sometimes these are found objects I pick up off the street, like dead insects or bits of cat litter. I also collect miniature items from sites like eBay, and often I make things from scratch using bits from model kits or household items—for example, I once made a water slide out of a curly straw. Once the figures are made, I take them out onto the street to position them and shoot them. I usually start with an idea for a challenging location, like a mailbox, but then I spend a lot of time walking around town to find the perfect mailbox for a shot. Setting up the scenes takes about five to ten minutes, depending on their complexity. I used super glue to stick the figures to the ground. I then have to get down to the ground to take the photos, and that usually takes anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour, depending on the weather and light. The figures are then left in the street. If all goes well—I'm not disturbed and the weather and light cooperate—the process is much faster.
The Little People seem to come directly from our unconscious vision of the American Way of Life as ideally described in the 1960s. Why that era? Is it because many symbols of Western culture come from that time?
I don't think my work reflects American culture, nor that of the 1960s. If I try to make the work universal, or at least adapt it to the city or country I'm filming in, and to the modern world, it's because I'm British and many ideas might come from my own experience in the UK. In my work, too, I often overturn a romanticized view of the past, for example, to contrast the imagined freedom of play that children had "back then" with the reality of children's lives today in a modern city. Of course, American symbols can play a role—no place in the world is immune to them!—but it's mainly through objects I use, like a Coke can as a litter box in the street.
The Little People seem amusing at first glance, but in reality, they reflect many negative aspects of our society: the global model village, which is the title of one of your books, is more than just a "global" creation; your characters speak of social waste (Shifting Sands, The Last Resort), politics (Whispers), loneliness (What Brings Us Together and What Keeps Us Apart), social issues (Balancing Act), and inequality (High Life). Would you describe yourself as a socially engaged artist?
My work doesn't always have strong political or social statements, but I've never wanted to simply make a "pretty picture." I'm certainly interested in societal themes, primarily, I think, as I'm interested in representing real life, albeit often in a metaphorical way. The installations and images I'm happiest with have different layers. At first glance, they might seem humorous or cute, but underneath, there's often a darkness, or a serious problem. The images almost always have a narrative that remains open to the viewer, if they're willing to use their imagination, and the figures, places, props, and angles combine to create this. I like to explore the different ways urban life affects us, and this usually involves themes of isolation, loneliness, and frustration in one way or another. Many of these stories are based on smaller problems we face on a daily basis rather than grand political commentaries, but we cannot avoid politics in everyday life and so I know that it has become more and more a part of my job as I've gotten older.
A series of your stories depicts a disoriented society, struggling to reconcile its oldest values (History) with its most recent ones (I'm leaving it, Glory, Jesus saves). Is this your perspective? In the end, we realize that the Little People don't represent the ideal society, but that they may be closer to us than we thought.
That's absolutely right. In almost all my work, numbers are representations of the entire population and the problems we all face in the modern world. Certainly, the push and pull between the past and the present (and the future) is something that often recurs in my work and that, personally, interests me greatly.
Your creations also have a lot to do with feelings: you always maintain a sense of humor, with amusing visual interactions between our world and that of children (Damn Kids), however some of your creations are tragic and death can come around the corner, often with a satirical title (Wonderful World, Crappy Christmas…)
The art and media I personally love most always have this juxtaposition of humor and sadness, which is why I think it features in my own work. I believe humor is a powerful way to make people think about deeper themes. It's the gateway to the basement.
Nevertheless, a true poetry remains in your work: the poetry of the city (Sugar High), but also the poetry where your characters find nature (Secret Garden, The Stream, Dead Leaves). This feeling of freedom could not be better represented than with the two-feathered character.
I suppose I would describe myself as a pessimistic optimist. I have a rather bleak view of life, but I dream of a promising future.
As a street artist, how do you manage your rights? By exhibiting your creation in the street, you relinquish the right of representation, and people can freely take photos (if they manage to find your work). Is this freedom an essential part of your work?
I think that because of the nature of my work, it doesn't affect me as much as it does other artists who work outdoors. Often, my work is completely overlooked (in fact, that's almost the point of the work!) and therefore doesn't get photographed by others. When I'm part of a performance or festival, however, the work I do is more visible, and in those cases, I'm actually interested in seeing how people perceive my work and how they photograph it. With the installations I create, I film them very specifically to evoke emotion or meaning (through angles, lighting, the shot of the day or year), and it's interesting for me to see how others view my work. How do they react to it, and how do they frame the narratives? Leaving the work in the street means relinquishing control over that work—and in doing so, you relinquish control over the meaning and message you might have personally intended for the work. You also relinquish ownership of the work – so that people can take the figures if they want, which has the effect of destroying the work.
Do you always leave ordinary people in the street after photographing them? How do you feel about creating these characters for the street, and then, in a way, abandoning them after photographing them? In this way, you create a game with the public, who have to search for a while to discover them.
I find leaving the numbers behind quite cathartic! I very rarely check how long they've lasted. Leaving the numbers is part of the job for me. They get left behind and are often lost. If people find them, it's because they're paying attention to their surroundings—but often, in the city, we don't. In fact, we're enveloped in our own worlds, staring at our phones!
Your work combines modeling and photography. While the creation itself is comprised of the modeling, it is the image that captures the atmosphere and allows the public to experience it. How do you approach these two aspects?
Installations and photography work in different ways, I think. The installations themselves, or even just the idea of such small, hidden installations, hopefully encourage exploration of the city. Photography allows for a more emotional response, I think. I found that people empathized with the models, and that made me want to explore how to tell a story or create emotion in a static shot. The installations are left to decay and may not last long at all, but the photography is proof of that. I sometimes see myself as a photojournalist recording these small, ephemeral scenes. And like photojournalism, the images tell certain stories based on framing. My images are very carefully composed.
You take both close-up and wide shots. Has this always been obvious to you? Indeed, I think it's a powerful aspect of your work: the two types of images create two different atmospheres. The close-up captures the "action" and shows us what your work is all about. But for the most part, it's really the wide shot that gives the images their full meaning, integrating them into the cityscape.
Yes, once I started taking photos of my work, I always took both a close-up (what I consider the main image, which is composed) and a contextual shot (a long shot that places the work in the real context of the urban environment). The first shot is the fantasy, almost a film set. The second shot is the reality or the revelation, or perhaps the fall.
The Little People are interesting. Indeed, your art is street art; it's located in the street, and in theory, everyone can see it. In reality, it's practically invisible, and you can't see it unless you're paying extremely close attention. What an interesting metaphor the Little People could be! Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist, or to use the title of one of your works: Danger: Giants Working Above.
This is the metaphor I like to think about: miniatures are the strangers we pass by every day without even noticing them. They all have their own problems or questions, perhaps the same as ours, but we hardly pay attention to them.
You've been working on the Little People series for ten years. Can you imagine working without them and doing something else?
Almost exactly 10 years – I started in September 2006. There are other things I'm exploring, like writing, but I think miniatures in general will always be a part of my life in one way or another.
What question have I not asked?
The one question every creative person dreads: Where do your ideas come from? My usual answer is: "From inside my head!"
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