Disarming Loss: An Interview with Selva Aparicio
Ode to the Unclaimed Dead, 2022. Unclaimed plywood casket covered in dandelion seeds. Photo by Robert Chase Heishman
As personal as grief is, the continuously drastic and tragic occurrences of the world have thrust us towards a piercing collective grief, untangling our spirit, encouraging us to rely openly on one another for support. Interdisciplinary artist Selva Aparicio’s profoundly personal and sometimes heartbreaking examination of past and present grief is filtered through the delicate and fragile qualities of the impermanent, and it can be quite disarming. I had the pleasure to engage in conversation with Selva days after visiting her exhibition titled Ode to the Unclaimed Dead at Chicago Artists Coalition.
The following conversation discusses the exhibition, as well as ideas on mourning, upbringing, and cultural customs.
Edra Soto (ES): First! Congratulations on a beautifully accomplished exhibition! I’m moved by the seemingly simple presentation with vast content and intricate details. As I marvel at your exquisite yet ominous sculpture recessed on the gallery wall, I am trying to understand how all the parts of this work come together. Please, tell us about the impetus behind the work Ode to the Unclaimed Dead and the parts that comprise this sculpture.
Selva Aparicio (SA): Thank you for your kind words and your careful observation of the work. I have been waiting for the opportunity to share this work for years and the timing could not have been more relevant with the prolonged suffering of the pandemic and the beginning of the Ukrainian war. This piece is an intersection of my own observations and experiences navigating these crises and far more personal day-to-day reflections on death and community. One of my neighbors is an elderly man who lives on his own and never receives any visitors. I can’t help but wonder: after his long life in this world, will someone care about his death? Isolation and loneliness are not realities that we speak much about in our society, but in Japanese culture the word “Kodokushi” (孤独死) quite literally means “lonely death.” This idea of dying alone and going undiscovered for long periods of time is a phenomenon that has become a concern for more than just the elderly in our pandemic-stricken world. With each news cycle we’re confronted with statistics and death tolls alongside images of mobile morgues and mass graves. In the United States, those unable to cover the costs of dying are forced to “unclaim” loved ones, and in some states that means losing the privilege of knowing what will happen to their bodies. Devoid of all traces of traditional ritual and remembrance, the simple plywood coffin at the heart of this installation is synonymous with the pauper’s graves and potter’s fields these individuals are inevitably relegated to. Its elevation onto the gallery wall is in a manner reminiscent of European religious burials, and this placement both reasserts agency over the process and instills a sense of honor and significance for each life represented within. The Russian invasion of Ukraine once again brings this issue of mass death to the forefront. In addition to the known death tolls of soldiers and civilians, I can’t help but think of the countless others who have died under the remains of buildings, never to be found. In Spain, people still walk over the many thousands of bodies of unidentified victims of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), including prominent figures like our beloved poet Federico Garcia Lorca. Without the closure that comes from burials and other forms of dedicated mourning, that grief is something we’re forced to carry with us. I recently moved into a house that was owned by a 98-year-old Japanese woman who is now living in a care facility. When I visit her and bring her the flowers that bloom in her garden, she always speaks to me about the death of her little brother, one of hundreds of young victims killed in a school bombing in Hiroshima. As dementia robs her of her memories over 70 years later, the only thing she can speak of is the fact that they were never able to find his body. She tells me the story over and over while pointing to the ruins of his school in photographs. Those time-worn images have become an outlet for her grief, and the ritual of my visits is a form of mourning for us both. Each dandelion that covers the casket in Ode to the Reclaimed Dead represents the hope that blossoms without these answers and honors the lives of each individual unable to be properly laid to rest by the circumstances of their death. These seeds are the ultimate symbol of hope and potential.
Ode to the Unclaimed Dead, 2022. Unclaimed plywood casket covered in dandelion seeds. Photo by Robert Chase Heishman
Ode to the Unclaimed Dead, 2022. Unclaimed plywood casket covered in dandelion seeds. Photo by Robert Chase Heishman
ES: Please share with us your work progression. What other works lead you to the development of this piece?
SA: This piece was developed after years of research at the Yale Anatomy Lab. Working with deceased human donors was really inspiring in many ways but also brought to light questions about the body as a vessel and what donations mean for an individual after death. As is the case with unclaimed bodies, donation disrupts the traditional life-death-mourning ritual our society has honed over thousands of years. The majority of our death rituals, like funerals, interments, and the spreading of ashes, function with remains at their core. Despite being removed from traditional mourning processes and knowing very little about these donors, I was able to learn about their lives through the clues left behind on their bodies. During this process of discovery, I focused on wrinkles and other intricate details that the skin developed through the years. Each one was infinitely unique and the overall process was incredibly intimate. One of the installations that came directly from this investigation is called Entre Nosotros, a full room of wall-to-wall cement tiles cast from the wrinkles of deceased donors. This work invites viewers to step in and experience a lifetime of memories captured in each 6-inch snapshot. Another work that led me to this piece was Our Garden Remains, a 48-foot-long tapestry of flowers and grave decorations that I collected from the garbage bins of cemeteries. As time passes, these once-intimate tributes imbued with the love, grief, and reverence of their curators fade into anonymity, embodiments of the very fragility that necessitated their gathering. Rather than let them become litter, I carefully wove the flowers together with pinwheels, balloons, and other non-organic tokens to amplify these inextricable messages of mourning and celebration in a way that resonates more deeply than any one piece alone. These tributes rise, fade, and blend together to bring closure to a sweeping movement of moments. I miss you. Happy birthday, Mom. Forever in our hearts.
Entre Nosotros (Among Us), 2020. Portland cement tiles casted from human dead Donors. 132 x 132 x 132 in. Photo by Robert Chase Heishman
Entre Nosotros (Among Us), 2020. Portland cement tiles casted from human dead Donors. 132 x 132 x 132 in. Photo by Robert Chase Heishman
ES: How does your work relate to our global situation? What do you envision to be your contribution to the global conversation?
SA: My work has always centered a distinct reverence for the deceased, the discarded, the unnoticed, and the neglected. By capturing the meanings imbued in ephemeral materials like flowers, dandelion seeds, and even human bodies, as well as the rituals informing their sentimentality, I am able to facilitate environmental, social, and political activism through art and create outlets for the navigation of grief and mourning in a world so defined by loss. Not only do my pieces make clear statements about the escalating instability of the world and the abundance of materials derived from problems like waste and overconsumption, but they also provide viewers with opportunities to publicly engage with themes like death and human objecthood and confront the heavy emotions that are often bound up with the taboo nature of these topics. Ode to the Unclaimed Dead in particular seeks to expose the inherent failings of a system that disproportionately relegates the impoverished and disabled to anonymous mass graves in places like New York City’s Hart Island each year. No longer the mark of obscurity, the shrouded coffin offers up a gentle requiem for the lost and provides the living with a touchstone to reclaim an infinite number of memories stolen away by the poverty, illness, and isolation so rampant in western society, mitigating the unwavering indifference of systems that fail to protect its most vulnerable populations. Ode speaks both to global issues like the pandemic and the war in Ukraine as well as the more personal interactions we have with loss on a daily basis, like my own with my Japanese neighbors.
ES: Where are you from? Does your place of origin have a correlation to your work? Can you share some life experiences that have led you to dedicate your practice to the examination of grief?
SA: I grew up in a boat-shaped house in the middle of the Serra de Collserola Natural Park in Catalunya, Spain. I had a transient childhood that mirrored my home’s design—I was raised by proto-hippies who named me Selva (Jungle). Like my namesake, I was immersed in the natural world where hand-made objects and animals filled my day-to-day life. I transferred schools seven times and travelers faded in and out of my childhood. It was a group of Rapanuis from Easter Island who taught me how to carve stone for the first time. Amidst the often tumultuous nature of my household, I absorbed a deep sense of calm from my natural environment and began to craft my own sense of liberation through my artwork. Through the process of recycling and gathering resources as a child, I learned a resourcefulness that would carry through as an integral element of my artwork as an adult. During my pre-teen years, my best friend drowned in the Ebro River. It took several days for his body to be found. He was only 15, so it was a really tragic death. I was out of town at that time and it wasn’t until after his burial that I was able to return. Those who had seen him told me about what had become of his body after days in the river. Images of his decomposed body were permanently etched in my memories; I kept seeing his empty eyes eaten by the fish. From this point on, the concept of “mourning” became key in the making of my work. Working directly with dead human donors was an immediate necessity to my understanding of absence and the intricacies of death.
ES: How did you decide to become an artist and how does this decision meet with your life values and goals?
SA: I don’t think I ever decided to be an artist. As a kid, I had my fair share of problems with the Spanish education system and found I could learn far more about culture and different ways of living from the travelers who passed through my home and shared their art, music, and cooking with me. When I entered high school at Escola Massana in Barcelona, my mother and I were living in very precarious circumstances and she was battling cancer. It was a very difficult time, but I met the most wonderful teacher, an artist named Cecile Dedieu, who would change the course of my life. Cecile, whose own work was highly detailed and perfectly crafted, pulled my chin up and made me understand both the value of my work and the possibilities of a career in art. I ended up studying sculpture and found I could communicate far more authentically through art, particularly when it came to navigating loss. During my last years in Spain, I promised my dog that I wouldn’t leave her side until after she died. When she passed away in 2011, I moved to Vancouver, Canada where I worked as a stone carver and learned English. While I was there, a close friend encouraged me to transfer to an American school so I applied and accepted an offer from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago that came with a Portfolio Scholarship. In my last semester at SAIC, I was hit by a pickup truck while crossing Michigan Avenue. I was applying to grad school, had two jobs, and was finishing my last credits, so needless to say it was a stressful time. I ended up getting hip surgery back in Spain and came right back to start the MFA program in Sculpture at Yale. Art has been my constant through these challenges and continues to provide an outlet for expression and exploration as I navigate the world in pursuit of my goals.
Our Garden Remains, 2021. Tapestry made of faux and real flowers and various decorations scavenged from garbage bins in cemeteries, woven with artificial sinew. 96 x 576 x 20 in. Photo by Joshua James Schaedel
ES: Can you tell us about the things that have influenced or inspire your practice?
SA: I'm deeply inspired by the beauty of the natural world and the hidden meanings that materials carry in that limbo between death and full decomposition. The idea that value can be decided in a moment, as I saw with the flowers and decorations I present in Our Garden Remains, raises questions about what it means to be forgotten, to lose value, or even to exist in this liminal space. My work explores this in-between and stretches it to give the viewer a moment to pause and reflect. I had many of these moments growing up in Barcelona, a city surrounded by death. As a kid, I had my hands on human remains dug up during construction and spent many hours alone exploring the woods of Collserola and the Catalan Modernist Ruins within. It fascinated me to uncover all of that incredible architecture and to watch nature reclaim the space. Like my mother, nature was resilient. I would carry a shovel to dig for old tiles and taught myself construction to fix our boat-shaped house with the materials I found. These formative experiences shaped my view of the world and helped me find meaning in my practice.
ES: Please share with us the story behind your name Selva Aparicio!
SA: My name is something else that has really influenced my life and my practice. Everyone in Spain thinks it is my nickname because Selva means “jungle,” but it is the name my mother gave me. Because her choice wasn’t acceptable in Catholic Spain, my mother had to go to the registration office where a priest was called in to resolve the situation. She was given the option to add either “Maria” or “Virgen” in front of the name to make it legal. As a compromise, she chose Maria. My full name is Maria de la Selva (Mary of the Jungle). I have been bullied for many years because of it, but it shaped me and has helped make me the person I am today.
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Ode to the Unclaimed Dead by Selva Aparicio will be on view until April 7, 2022 at Chicago Artists Coalition. This exhibition is Selva’s solo exhibition of new work as a BOLT Artist in residence. For more information on the exhibition, please visit this link.
More of Selva’s work can be found on her website.
Puerto Rican born, Edra Soto is an interdisciplinary artist and co-director of The Franklin in Chicago, IL. Soto holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and a Bachelor’s degree from Escuela de Artes Plásticas y Diseño de Puerto Rico. More of Edra’s work can be found on her website.