Artists Johannes Wohnseifer
Jeppe Hein — Modified Social Benches Michele Robecchi When in 2000 Jeppe Hein made his first Moving Bench, a mechanically engineered bench designed to generate a second, smaller seat anytime someone would sit on it, his assumption was that once viewers realised how it worked, they would move on to look at another work. To his surprise, most people sat and stayed instead, careless or unaware of the fact that the little projection caused by their idleness blocked the path of other visitors. This everyday lesson in people’s behaviour proved to be a significant episode in Hein’s book, and pushed him to reconsider the impact of his interactive sculptures in relation to the space, his inhabitants, and the unpredictability of the latter. Hein’s creatures follow a similar pattern to cars in a wind tunnel. They can be meticulously tested and redefined over and over again down to the last detail, but it’s only when they are out there on the track, in generally dramatically different conditions, that they go through the real baptism of fire. Hein’s time spent observing people’s reactions to his work resulted in Modified Bench #2 (2002), Smoking Bench (2003), and eventually Modified Social Benches (2006), a series of sculptures that, unlike its predecessors, was created for an outdoor space. A bench is an object that lends itself to a moderate dose of unforeseeable behaviour per se. Depending on its location, it can be a break from a walk, a seat to admire a view, a bed for the homeless, or an oasis for socialization. This last option, that of a neutral zone where perfect strangers gather together to share a common experience, is central in Hein’s discourse, as it implies that the opportunities for contemplation introduced by a bench are reflected not only on the surrounding space, but also on the people that move through it. The Modified Social Benches vary in style. Some of them are openly puzzling, almost as if they have been genetically altered, forcing the user to passively adapt to their new form; others look as if they’ve been vandalised, but not to the stage of being completely useless. Planks might have been detached and laid on an adjacent ground; a leg might be missing. Either way, the visitor is called to develop an ingenious way to utilize them. The third option is the trickiest. The benches look absolutely normal until you use them. Then you discover that the legs or the back are fixed with loose articulations, that the planks are attached only on one side, or that the bench sinks down under the weight of those who use it. The common trait of all eleven pieces is their making us aware of their presence and consequent sub-functionality in a witty and subtle way. As with many of Hein’s artworks, they’re not immediately noticeable as such, and their aim to create a confrontation between the viewer and an apparently usual object is partially disguised behind a smokescreen of fun and entertainment. What actually happens is that they trigger a process of interaction and communication that works on different levels. People’s response to certain things can be identical, but also alienating — we all turn our heads when we hear a bang or run to the closest porch when it starts to rain, and yet a sense of estrangement remains even if we’re doing the same thing at the same time in the same place. Jeppe Hein turns the matter the other way around. We might sit down or stand up, admire the bench from a convenient distance or throw ourselves over it, try to put it back together or trash it even more — a whole range of contrasting attitudes take place all around the very same object. Through a simple and clever device as a bench, Hein forces us to explore the space in which we find ourselves and to witness our neighbours’ relationship to it. There’s a fine line between a no-man’s-land and everybody’s land, and this is where Hein’s work so efficaciously succeeds — his benches are an invitation to individually stay together.
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