The Ephemeral Art of Anicka Yi: A Symphony of Microbes, Machines, and Mortality
There’s something profoundly unsettling—and yet utterly captivating—about Anicka Yi’s art. Personally, I think it’s because her work forces us to confront the invisible forces shaping our world: microbes, machines, and the relentless march of time. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Yi transforms these abstract, often anxiety-inducing concepts into something almost poetic. Her installations aren’t just art; they’re living, breathing ecosystems that challenge our perceptions of permanence, control, and even what it means to be human.
Take her recent installation at Storm King Art Center, Message from the Mud. On the surface, it’s a series of columns teeming with microbial life, their acid-green and coffee-hued layers resembling an archaeological dig. But if you take a step back and think about it, this piece is a masterclass in ephemerality. The microorganisms within the columns are sensitive to light and heat, meaning the artwork will only exist for the summer season. What this really suggests is that Yi isn’t just creating art—she’s creating a moment, a fleeting dialogue between nature, time, and human ingenuity.
One thing that immediately stands out is Yi’s use of Winogradsky columns, a century-old invention by a Russian-Ukrainian microbiologist. These self-contained ecosystems are a testament to the beauty of uncertainty. Unlike her algorithmic works, which rely on precision, the columns thrive on unpredictability. What many people don’t realize is that this unpredictability mirrors life itself. The microbes could flourish or die off, depending on environmental variables. It’s a powerful metaphor for our own existence, where control is often an illusion.
From my perspective, Yi’s work is deeply rooted in protest. She’s challenging the monumentality of traditional art, particularly the minimalist sculptures of the 1960s, by embracing the impermanent. “We’re all impermanent,” she says, and her art reflects this truth. Her “anti-monuments” aren’t meant to last; they’re meant to provoke thought, to remind us of our own mortality. This raises a deeper question: In a world obsessed with legacy and permanence, what does it mean to create something that’s destined to disappear?
A detail that I find especially interesting is Yi’s collaboration with scientists. Despite having no formal background in STEM, she’s managed to bridge the gap between art and science seamlessly. Her gut health issues, for instance, led her to explore the power of bacteria, a journey that informs much of her work. This interdisciplinary approach isn’t just innovative—it’s necessary. In a time when science and art are often siloed, Yi’s practice shows us how much richer our understanding of the world can be when these fields intersect.
Her flying machines, or “aerobes,” are another example of this fusion. Inspired by jellyfish, these autonomous drones drift through spaces like ethereal creatures, their tentacles gently opening and closing. What makes this particularly fascinating is how they challenge our relationship with technology. Are they beautiful? Ominous? Playful? The answer depends on who’s looking. Massimiliano Gioni, the curator at the New Museum, notes their dual nature—they could evoke elation or unease, depending on the context. This ambiguity is intentional, I believe. Yi isn’t giving us answers; she’s inviting us to ask questions.
If you take a step back and think about it, Yi’s work is a reflection of our current moment. We’re living in an era where microbes and machines dominate headlines, from pandemics to AI. Her art doesn’t shy away from these anxieties; instead, it embraces them. Her radiolaria-inspired sculptures, for instance, are born from machine-learning algorithms trained on her earlier works. It’s a gooey exchange, as she puts it—a blending of the organic and the synthetic that feels both unsettling and inevitable.
What this really suggests is that Yi’s art isn’t just about the present; it’s about the future. Her AI project with a neuroscientist, though still undisclosed, hints at her ongoing exploration of machine consciousness. This raises a deeper question: As technology becomes increasingly intertwined with our lives, how do we maintain our humanity? Yi’s work doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does something far more valuable—it encourages us to think.
In my opinion, what sets Yi apart is her ability to find beauty in the uncomfortable. Whether it’s the discomfort of bacteria, the uncertainty of microbial life, or the eerie autonomy of her flying machines, she transforms these anxieties into something contemplative, even hopeful. Her art isn’t just a reflection of the world; it’s a lens through which we can see it differently.
As I reflect on her practice, I’m struck by its symbiosis—not just between art and science, but between the ephemeral and the eternal. Yi’s work reminds us that even in impermanence, there’s a kind of permanence. The microbes in her columns, the algorithms in her sculptures, the memories of her installations—they all leave a mark, even if it’s fleeting. And perhaps, that’s the point. In a world that’s constantly changing, Yi’s art invites us to embrace the beauty of transience, to find meaning in the moments that slip away.
So, the next time you encounter her work—whether it’s a column of microbes or a flying machine—don’t just look. Think. Feel. Question. Because in Yi’s ephemeral universe, the art isn’t just on the walls or in the air; it’s in the questions it leaves lingering in your mind.
