Living Spaces: Art, Architecture, and Transformation

Hey, Art Lover!

Spaces tell stories—not just about the people who live in them, but about the ideas they embody and the transformations they undergo. I first began thinking about this through the work of artist Alex Schweder, whose “performance architecture” uses spaces to explore how we interact and adapt, treating walls and rooms as stages for the drama of human behavior. This concept resonates in Richard Barnes’s Unabomber series, where a remote cabin transforms into a powerful artifact of rebellion and isolation. Then there’s Gordon Matta-Clark, who viewed architecture not as a finished product but as a living, breathing medium, carving into buildings to reveal their hidden histories. Together, these artists remind us that spaces are not just backdrops—they are central players in the stories we tell about ourselves and the world around us.

Alex Schweder: Architecture That Breathes, Bends, and Occasionally Farts

When you think about architecture, you probably picture towering skyscrapers, glassy condos, or rows of suburban homes that all look vaguely identical. What you likely don’t imagine is an inflatable room functioning like a bouncy castle, or a structure that wobbles, bends, and flexes like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. That’s where Alex Schweder comes in. Part architect, part performance artist, Alex takes the serious, often overly rigid world of architecture and gives it a much-needed stretch—sometimes literally. His work challenges our assumptions about what buildings should do, how they interact with us, and why they’re so inflexible when the people who live in them are anything but.

Alex’s best-known works often involve inflatables—giant, pillow-like structures that might be mistaken for minimalist bouncy castles if they weren’t so clever. One such project, The Sound and the Future, is a massive inflatable space that breathes, expands, and contracts depending on its use. It’s playful and practical, like if you asked a kid and an engineer to design a house together. But it’s not just fun for fun’s sake. Alex uses these air-filled works to challenge the deeply entrenched notion that architecture must always be solid, heavy, and immovable. Why can’t a home be soft? Why can’t it adapt to us instead of forcing us to conform to it?

The result feels less like a house and more like a living, breathing organism. While we’re used to associating permanence with strength, Alex flips that idea on its head, showing that temporary, lightweight, and even inflatable materials can offer a different kind of shelter—one that responds to its occupants.

But Alex doesn’t stop at inflatables. Another major facet of his work is what he calls “performance architecture.” Performance architecture isn’t about literal theatrics. Instead, Alex designs spaces that require people to interact with them dynamically, essentially turning architecture into a form of choreography.

Take Stability, for example—a project involving a seesaw-like structure that two people must balance together for the space to function. The structure works only if its inhabitants cooperate. It’s a clever way of asking, “How do we live with each other?” Alex turns something as mundane as standing still into a social experiment, making us hyper-aware of how our environments shape our interactions. His work suggests that architecture isn’t just the backdrop to our lives—it actively influences how we connect with others.

Then there’s Practices of Living Architecture, a collaboration with architect Ward Shelley. Imagine a giant two-story hamster wheel, big enough for two people to live inside, which rotates only when its occupants walk in unison. It’s absurd, brilliant, and just a little uncomfortable—a perfect metaphor for domestic life. The wheel strips living down to its essentials. There’s no room for sprawling kitchens or Pinterest-perfect mid-century modern furniture. It’s just you, the other person on the wheel, and the constant negotiation of shared space.

While the sheer ridiculousness of living in a giant wheel might make you laugh, Alex’s work raises serious questions: How much space do we actually need? Why do we cling to permanence when our lives are constantly in flux? What would happen if we stopped trying to control our environments and let them respond to us instead?

What sets Alex apart is the humor he brings to his work. This is, after all, a man who once described his inflatable houses as “farting” when they deflate. His sense of humor disarms, making complex ideas about space and architecture surprisingly accessible. It’s hard to feel intimidated by high-minded concepts when the person explaining them is giggling about the sound effects of an inflatable building. Alex uses humor to draw people in, spark their curiosity, and encourage them to rethink architecture.

Beneath the humor, though, Alex’s work carries a serious critique of modern architecture. Buildings are designed to be permanent, unyielding symbols of order and stability, but Alex’s work suggests this approach ignores the messiness of real life. He doesn’t just want us to live in architecture—he wants us to play with it, challenge it, and see it as a partner in our daily lives.

Alex’s work reminds us that architecture is ultimately about people. The spaces we occupy shape our lives, and we have the power to shape them in return. Why shouldn’t our homes breathe, flex, and move alongside us? Why shouldn’t architecture be a little fun, a little weird, and a lot more human?

So, the next time you feel boxed in by your surroundings, think of Alex Schweder. He’s proof that architecture doesn’t have to be static, serious, or suffocating. Sometimes it just needs a little air—and a lot of imagination.

Richard Barnes’s “Unabomber”: Photography, Obsession, and a Cabin Full of Questions

I’ve written about Richard Barnes’s work before because, honestly, I’m a huge fan. His ability to dig into the layers of history, architecture, and human behavior is nothing short of brilliant. Whether he’s photographing natural history dioramas or capturing the interplay between people and urban decay, Richard has a way of turning complex, often dark stories into hauntingly beautiful images. His Unabomber series is no exception—it’s one of his most provocative projects, taking a subject so infamous and enigmatic and framing it in a way that lingers in your mind long after you’ve walked away.

The Unabomber series centers around the cabin where Ted Kaczynski, a.k.a. the Unabomber, lived in near-total isolation for almost two decades while orchestrating a domestic terrorism campaign that terrorized the United States. From 1978 to 1995, Kaczynski mailed or delivered homemade bombs to targets ranging from university professors to airlines. His motive? A radical rejection of modern technology and industrial society, laid out in his 35,000-word manifesto, Industrial Society and Its Future. His actions killed three people and injured 23 more, making him one of the FBI’s most-wanted criminals before his arrest in 1996.

The cabin, located in the Montana wilderness, was central to Kaczynski’s identity. It was where he lived, plotted, wrote, and built his bombs. Measuring a mere 10 by 12 feet, it lacked electricity and running water, embodying Kaczynski’s anti-modern philosophy. After his arrest, the cabin was seized by authorities and transported to an FBI facility in California as evidence. In a bizarre twist, the humble structure became a symbol—a kind of macabre relic of modern history.

Enter Richard Barnes. In Unabomber, Barnes transforms the cabin into a statement about the relationship between space, ideology, and human nature. His stark, almost clinical images of the cabin as it was moved and displayed by the FBI are unsettling. The cabin, lifted from its secluded natural environment, is shown as an artifact—removed from its context and stripped of its intended privacy. It’s a literal and figurative dissection of a man’s life and philosophy, laid bare for public scrutiny.

What makes Richard’s work so compelling is his ability to resist sensationalism. Let’s face it, the Unabomber’s story is ripe for dramatic treatment—it’s got everything: a madman, a manifesto, a remote cabin, and a manhunt. But Richard doesn’t go for drama. His photographs are measured and meticulous, as if he’s reminding us that the cabin itself, for all its baggage, is still just a wooden box in the woods. And yet, it’s so much more than that, too.

The images also highlight the absurdity of what happens when an object becomes imbued with cultural meaning. Seeing the cabin shrink-wrapped and mounted on a trailer, you’re struck by how something so small and unassuming could symbolize so much horror, paranoia, and philosophical debate. It’s almost comical in its simplicity—a rickety wooden shed treated with the same reverence as the Rosetta Stone.

What I find fascinating about this series is how it underscores the tension between privacy and exposure. The cabin was Kaczynski’s fortress, his escape from a world he despised. By photographing it as a piece of evidence, relocated and displayed, Richard captures the ultimate violation of that privacy. Of course, Kaczynski forfeited his claim to solitude through his actions, but the images make you wonder about the ways we preserve or exploit the memory of people like him. Are we memorializing their crimes? Deconstructing their ideologies? Or just gawking at the physical remains of their existence?

Richard’s Unabomber series also raises bigger questions about how we frame history. The FBI turned Kaczynski’s cabin into an exhibit, and Richard’s photographs, in turn, document that decision. The result is a multi-layered commentary on curation—what gets remembered, what gets erased, and how we shape the narrative around infamous figures. It’s a reminder that history is as much about presentation as it is about facts.

Richard’s approach to the Unabomber series reflects what I admire most about his work: he doesn’t tell you what to think. His photographs are open-ended, inviting you to draw your own conclusions about the cabin, Kaczynski, and the strange ways we turn criminals into cultural phenomena. He has a gift for turning artifacts into questions, and the Unabomberseries is full of them.

Writing about Richard Barnes always feels a bit like untangling a puzzle, and this series is no exception. It’s not just about the photographs or the subject matter—it’s about the spaces in between, the things left unsaid. The Unabomber series is a story about isolation, obsession, and the strange ways we process tragedy and terror.

Gordon Matta-Clark: The Guy Who Cut Buildings in Half (and Made It Art)

Gordon Matta-Clark’s work was wildly original, audacious, and borderline insane: he made art out of buildings, by taking saws to them .

Let’s be clear: this wasn’t your typical renovation. Gordon Matta-Clark didn’t add a skylight or knock out a wall to create an open floor plan. He literally sliced entire buildings apart, turning their guts into massive sculptures. Why? Because, as he saw it, architecture was ripe for a good reality check. He didn’t care about the rules of real estate or what the neighbors thought. For him, cutting into a house or a warehouse wasn’t destruction—it was revelation.

Born in 1943, Matta-Clark came from a family that practically oozed creativity. His father, Roberto Matta, was a surrealist painter, and his mother, Anne Clark, was an artist too. So, you could say Gordon was destined for the arts. But instead of following his parents into the world of painting, he went rogue. He studied architecture at Cornell, which was a little ironic considering what he’d eventually do to buildings. He never became an architect in the traditional sense—no blueprints, no zoning permits, and certainly no client consultations. Instead, he used his knowledge to carve up structures in ways that made you question what a building even is.

Take one of his most famous works, Splitting (1974). Matta-Clark found an abandoned two-story house in New Jersey and, instead of fixing it up like a normal person, he sliced it clean in half down the middle. Yes, the entire house. The result was a surreal, jaw-dropping gap that made the house look like it was caught mid-yawn. You could see straight through it, which was as beautiful as it was disorienting. The sunlight poured in where it shouldn’t, the angles of the walls and ceilings became wild geometric shapes, and the whole thing felt like a life-sized optical illusion.

Splitting was Matta-Clark’s way of challenging how we think about space. A house is supposed to be solid, stable, and, above all, private. By cutting it open, he turned it inside out, forcing people to see something familiar in a completely new way. It was a critique of suburban conformity, sure, but it was also a poetic meditation on impermanence. Buildings, like everything else, fall apart. Matta-Clark just sped up the process—and made it gorgeous.

Another iconic project was Day’s End (1975), where Matta-Clark went after a derelict pier on the Hudson River in New York. This time, he created massive openings in the walls and roof, turning the industrial space into a cathedral of light and air. The pier, once a forgotten relic, suddenly became a magical, almost spiritual place where light and water and structure came together in a way no architect would ever plan. Of course, the city didn’t love it. Matta-Clark didn’t exactly have permission to carve up the pier, so he got in a bit of trouble (okay, a lot of trouble). But that was part of his charm. He didn’t ask for permission because he didn’t believe art needed anyone’s approval.

One of the most striking things about Matta-Clark’s work is that it wasn’t designed to last. Most of the buildings he cut up were demolished soon after he finished with them. This wasn’t a flaw in the plan—it was the point. Matta-Clark’s art was as much about the process as the result. The cutting, the slicing, the opening up of space—all of that was the art. The fact that it disappeared afterward only added to its power.

And yet, Matta-Clark’s work is far from forgotten. Even though the physical structures are gone, the photos, films, and drawings he made during these projects keep his vision alive. They’re haunting, surreal, and weirdly beautiful, capturing buildings in their brief, in-between state—no longer functional, not yet rubble.

What makes Matta-Clark’s work so fascinating is that it sits somewhere between architecture, sculpture, and performance. It’s impossible to pin down. Was he an architect who hated buildings? A sculptor who used houses as raw material? A provocateur who just liked to mess with people’s heads? The answer is yes. To all of it.

But for all his intellectual rigor, there’s something deeply playful about his work. It’s as if he looked at the rigidity of architecture and thought, “What if we just… didn’t?” He approached buildings the way a kid approaches a cardboard box—with curiosity, irreverence, and a sense of possibility.

Matta-Clark passed away tragically young, at just 35, but his influence looms large. His work paved the way for artists and architects to think differently about space, material, and permanence. He showed that buildings aren’t just containers for living—they’re ideas, ripe for questioning, bending, and even cutting in half.

On a Personal Note…

This week, after an intense Krav Maga training session, I tested how many people would hug be back as I approached them drenched in sweat. Here’s the video: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DCrogGJxJGO/?igsh=MXJvenZvbzQyNTFvZQ==

Happy Thanksgiving! See you next week.

Pato