YC: You’ve been doing performances with kombucha. How did that happen? How did you start it?

 

AT: Kombucha, as a material, carries performative qualities due to its constantly evolving nature. My early approach focused on documenting its transformations and exploring its potential for animated movement. In my first performance using the material, I created a costume from dried kombucha SCOBY, embodying the idea of “trying on new skins”—like a teenager experimenting with different outfits to explore identities, transformation, and the body as a site reinvention.

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YC: When did you start researching the physicality of the body in your work?

 

AT: I am not sure exactly when it started, but my interest in the body stems from a desire to understand its inner mechanisms—a curiosity about how things work beneath the skin. So much of the body resists full comprehension; it exists though sensation, intuition, and the unknowable. The skin acts as both a boundary and a veil, enclosing what cannot be seen, only felt.

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YC: How do you view the growing interest in biomaterials within contemporary artistic practices?

 

AT: There’s something compelling about engaging with self-sufficient practices— it offers both a sense of control and a connection to natural processes of life, decay, and renewal. My own practice mirrors this rhythm. The work unfolds on its own time: each new “skin” harvested from the kombucha marks the close of one cycle and the beginning of another. 

 

In an on-demand technological culture, the act of “farming” or creating from scratch can feel almost irrational—its slow pace and unpredictable, in contrast to the immediacy we’ve come to expect. In New York, the rhythms of nature are easily drowned out by artificial environments. It’s this dissonance that I think has sparked a growing interest in biomaterials and natural processes. As a counter-reaction, to resist standardization and to seek a different way of being.

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YC: What were people’s reactions when you first started making artwork with kombucha in Sweden, especially since the material wasn’t as well-known then as it is now?

 

AT: There were mixed reactions depending on the audience. During my first performance wearing the kombucha dress, I hadn’t yet figured out how to neutralize its pungent smell—it was incredibly strong! Some viewers were intrigued by the visceral intensity of the piece, while others were visibly put off. The smell was not my initial intention, but turned out to be a compelling addition to the work. It was so intense that the result was that the people would only associate my work with the acidy smell… I did a second project, an installation that was quite smelly too…

 

The work often triggered confusion, and I was repeatedly asked about the origin of the work — was it from an animal, or even human? Where did it come from? Was it dangerous? The familiarity of these questions, especially within the Swedish context, was striking.

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YC: How do you feel the difference between your previous practice and right now?

 

AT: The evolution in my practice is subtle and challenging to articulate precisely, but it reflects the gradual accumulation of experience over time. In Sweden, I was at the early stages of discovering my artistic expression. Now, although I feel as though I am starting anew in the U.S., the foundational experiences I have gained mean I am not starting from scratch.

 

Adapting to the artistic environment in New York compared to Stockholm has presented its own set of challenges. The contrasts are more pronounced, and the pace of life here is intense, but stimulating. The diversity of New York City offers a context or many contexts I never experienced before, which I really love and value. 

 

My studio practice has shifted due to factors such as the high cost of studio space. I am trying to navigate these challenges with flexibility and an open mind, continuously adapting and evolving my approach as I go along.

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YC: Has any feedback from the audience stayed with you?

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AT: One memorable audience feedback came during the exhibition of The Baby Bucha Project (2018) at Gustavsberg Konsthall in Sweden. A friend alerted me that my work had ignited a heated debate in a Swedish Facebook group. The reactions ranged from dismissing the piece as “trash” to defending it as “powerful art,” and one user accused me of criminal wrongdoing, for allegedly harming a human being. Initially, I took these comments personally and felt a little disheartened. But realized that the power of the work lies in the conversations it continues to generate beyond the studio. That ongoing life—and the different responses it provokes—is, for me, an achievement.