Thomas Hirschhorn at the Robert Walser-Sculpture, Biel/Bienne, Switzerland, 2019.
Photo: Enrique Muñoz García
Thomas Hirschhorn at the Robert Walser-Sculpture, Biel/Bienne, Switzerland, 2019. Photo: Enrique Muñoz García
Thomas Hirschhorn: “I am happy that I found Art as my tool. I use it to intervene in the world, modestly.”
Mahsan: Let’s start with the beginning of your journey as an artist. You studied at the Kunstgewerbeschule Zurich, but what first got you interested in art?
Thomas: I grew up in a family where art didn’t play any part. I didn’t know what art was for a long time. At home, there were no discussions about art. My contact with art came late, only when I was at the Kunstgewerbeschule in Zurich and met people my age who were interested in art and took me to museums. I was already 20 years old then. I started studying, and that’s when the real discovery of art began. Not with the idea of “is this something for me?” but just through the experience of art: seeing works, going to exhibitions, and talking about them with friends. That was a very important time for me. Not because of the studies themselves, but because I discovered the importance of art. For me, art is connected to what I call emancipation. Personal, human emancipation.
Mahsan: This is a question I often ask: do you think being an artist is something you’re born with, something that can be learned, or maybe a mix of both? Or do you connect with Joseph Beuys’ idea that everyone is an artist?
Thomas: Yes, I love this idea. I’m a big fan of Joseph Beuys’ work. But the question is: what does it mean to be an artist? For me, during my time of emancipation, it was never really a problem to be an artist, or not. Looking back now, I actually see it as an advantage. I never asked myself, “Am I born an artist?” Definitely not, that was never the question. The important question is: what to do? What work of art should I make? That’s the real question. What can I do now? So yes, now I’m an artist but that’s just a sentence, what matters is: what do I do? What work do I produce? After my studies, I needed a lot of time to figure that out and find a path. I had been making work, but didn’t yet call it art.
At some point, I had to declare: this work I’m doing belongs to the art world, to art history. That was an important declaration which came after I had already been living in Paris for about five years. I was already 30 or maybe 32. From that moment on, it wasn’t about whether I was an artist or not. The decision was: my work is art, and I place it in the context of art history and the art world. Since then, things haven’t been easy, but they’ve been clear. The measure was set: it’s about my work, the art world, and art history. That’s exciting and it’s a big affirmation. From that point on, I’ve just done my work. This is art.
So, the question “Was I born an artist?” No, not at all. At the time, I had colleagues who said, “I was born an artist,” or “I always knew I was an artist.” But me? Never. That wasn’t my experience and I started to see how that kind of statement can be intimidating. It’s a way of creating distance. It took me a long time to reject that idea and understand that it wasn’t my way, not my trajectory.
Mahsan: You’ve mentioned that you didn’t come from an art-related family. But growing up, did you have moments of exchange or gathering with friends that felt essential for your growth, or for imagining change? Or did the absence of those experiences inspire you to create spaces for dialogue and exchange in your work?
Thomas: It was the moments of presence of artworks and discussions, discovering things like exhibitions. Visiting exhibitions was something deeply enriching. I didn’t have that before. So it was that possibility of a personal enrichment through art. That’s how I understood the experience. Just by encountering it—not by making anything myself, but just by seeing and feeling it. With my background, I could immediately relate to it. I could feel involved, implicated, even without having any knowledge or information, it reached out to me directly. Not all art, of course, but with some artists like Andy Warhol or Joseph Beuys for example, I felt a direct connection. And through that, through the artworks themselves I began learning about the artist, about ideas, about many things. But it all started with the artwork.
Mahsan: What aspects of Beuys’s and Warhol’s works or lives did you find interesting or influential?
Thomas: With Beuys, it was immediately the materiality that really challenged me. The felt, the fat, the copper, their kind of energy, the dialogue and even confrontation between materials. Each carries a different inner energy, and I felt immediately involved. And later on, when I learned more, what really became important to me was Beuys’ way of addressing others directly, without any intermediary. That’s something I found very powerful.
With Andy Warhol, it was the understanding of surface. The importance of surface. The idea that a work, which could be seen as very superficial, actually opens up another dimension. In that dimension, you find a different way of seeing the world. For example, the American consumer world, or a way of life, or questions of economy and society. This all comes from the superficiality of his work. That was a major lesson for me.
Mahsan: What I find interesting about Warhol is that we never really know if he was actually superficial or if he was just pretending to be. Maybe it was a kind of sarcasm, or his way of playing with people’s expectations. He never gave clear answers, always stayed vague. I think that made his work more open and more powerful.
Thomas: Yes, that’s exactly the point. He was so superficial, that opens thing up. If you want to go deeper, you need a surface, and Warhol understood that. He gave us that surface; that’s an important gesture for me.
Mahsan: Have there been moments where something from the audience, especially a non-exclusive one surprised or taught you something? Or even times when their conversations with each other made you feel the work was truly alive?
Thomas: Yes, of course. When I started working with the notion of the non-exclusive audience, I learned a lot from people who had different problems other than art, who weren’t generally interested in art as I am. They see things that surprise me, and there are things that happen which are funny and important. The questions and the demands they place on art, even if they don’t fully understand what art is, really make me think. They are asking the right questions. Those moments are always enriching.
Mahsan: I remember watching a video about Gramsci Monument—the radio talk with DJ Baby Dee. The way they created their own space to talk was so interesting and fun. It felt natural, like they were really part of the monument, using humor and conversation to make art something everyone could be a part of.
Thomas: Yes, these are beautiful moments, but I don’t want to just talk about one anecdote. There are some moments of grace that happen when working with non-exclusive audiences. For example, when I went to the Bronx to decide upon the location of the Gramsci Monument, I visited many venues in New York. I went to Forest Houses in 2013 and met a social worker named Clyde Thomson. What he asked me after my presentation was decisive and why the work ended up there. He asked: “What is the benefit for our community?” I answered, “I’m not working for your community, I’m working for art.” He understood right away. He wasn’t surprised; he was open and thought: “Okay, someone comes and says he’s working for art, that’s something different.” That was a beautiful moment. Clyde had the intelligence and sensitivity to see that I was being honest as an artist. I wasn’t selling him a project; I was trying to connect with him, one-to-one. The fact that Clyde understood this meant a lot to me. That’s when I realized that art has a direct power. Even if the non-exclusive audience isn’t initially interested, there’s still the chance for a real encounter. That’s why Forest Houses became the place for the Gramsci Monument.
Thomas Hirschhorn, Gramsci Monument, Gramsci Theatre, Forest Houses, The Bronx, New York, 2013. Photo: Romain Lopez. Courtesy Dia Art Foundation
Thomas Hirschhorn, Gramsci Monument, Gramsci Archive and Library, Forest Houses, The Bronx, New York, 2013. Photo: Romain Lopez.
Courtesy Dia Art Foundation.
Mahsan: Let’s talk about your key text, your manifesto: Doing Art Politically – What Does This Mean? Do you feel like you’ve fulfilled that mission so far?
Thomas: I haven’t fulfilled it yet; I’m still working on my mission. I’m happy to keep working for it and fighting for my work. I’m happy to be part of the movement, to still be invited to do new projects, and to be an artist. With each work, I try to give form to what I believe. So, I’m happy! Of course, it’s not enough yet. People still don’t understand, they don’t always get the point, so there’s still a lot to do.
Mahsan: You often include your favorite philosophers and writers in your work, why these ones in particular? Do you connect more with their ideas, their lives, or are there some you’re drawn to simply out of fascination?
Thomas: I decided that, when I dedicate a work or a monument to someone, I must love that person. I need to love both their work and their life. There are people whose work I love, but I’m not interested in their life, or I might love a person but not be as interested in their work. For me, there must be both: the life and the work. This love is what gives me the power to create, to make that decision, and fight for it. For example, with Robert Walser, or now with Simone Weil, I love both their life and their writings. I must completely agree with what they’re saying. The idea is that it is love, and not a political context or historical reasons, that drives me to do something for someone. It’s personal, maybe even exaggerated, and non-rational, but love is a good reason to do something. That’s why I think monuments today are falling, being dismantled or destroyed. They were built without love. Only monuments with love can survive.
Mahsan: From what I see in your work and understand from you, it seems that your philosophy of life, and even your dreams, are deeply present in your art—everything feels connected. There’s a connection between the kind of artist you are and the philosophers you like, who also seem to have embodied their philosophy in their lives, not just in their writings. They live their philosophy, not separating theory from life.
Thomas: Yes, that’s a very important point: the life and the work. I’m not an art historian, I’m an artist, so I can say this. Sometimes I get upset by art historians or art critics who try to relativize. There are things to relativize, but when I say there is love, there’s nothing to relativize. I love Andy Warhol, even his last works, everything. That’s important, and it was also a decision I made because it gives you power. But of course, I don’t love everybody. I think it’s a good way to communicate, and it goes beyond art criticism and the whole relativization approach.
Mahsan: I’ve learned the most about philosophy and art on my own, even though I studied them at university. But I don’t always agree with the methodology used in academia. For me, understanding a philosopher or an artist isn’t always about studying their entire body of work from A to Z. Sometimes, there are only certain parts of their work that resonate with me; other times, it’s the whole thing, and sometimes, nothing at all. What matters most is the connection I feel when I think, “OK, I’m thinking like someone else,” even if it’s in a different way. It’s a cathartic experience, and it makes me feel understood in some way.
Thomas: There’s Gilles Deleuze, who said and even taught “Take what you can.” When I say love, it’s against this laid-back, observational perspective. It’s an act of resistance against someone who takes an overlooking view or tries to put things into a context. So, it’s also an affirmation, an act of resistance against the whole academic system and everything associated with it.
Mahsan: “Doing art politically means being a warrior” is another part of your manifesto. I also noticed a sentence about being an outsider and a hero in your work exhibited at the Palais de Tokyo. It made me think that we don’t always need to be shouting in the streets to bring about change. I’m not criticizing that kind of activism, but I’ve read about and seen people whose very lives were acts of resistance. Sometimes a person’s art or the way they live becomes an act of rebellion in itself. And I feel your work is exactly like that.
Thomas: I took that sentence from Hélio Oiticica, the Brazilian artist, who wrote beautifully: “Be an outsider, be a hero.” He made this work, and I think it’s beautiful because that’s just it: seeing things differently and being a hero in doing so. I completely agree with that. To do your own work in your own way is already a form of resistance, of course.
When I say “doing art politically,” it includes this as well. But often, people don’t understand. Today, “political art” is often used in a way that reduces a human being’s possibilities and even reduces the possibility of critique. In the art world, when people say, “That’s political art,” it’s already an attempt to neutralize it. That’s why I never use the term “political artist” or even “engaged artist.” For example, when someone says, “engaged art” or “engaged artist,” I think, yes, I’m engaged like every artist who is truly engaged in their work. For me, there is no separate category.
Mahsan: Why did you choose these four philosophers for making monuments?
Thomas: I made a schema to clarify at some point, I decided that this would be my form-and-force field. As an artist, I always want my work to relate to love, politics, aesthetics and philosophy. I believe all these elements should be present, maybe not in equal parts. One work might be more philosophical, another more political, or more about love or aesthetics. That’s why I created this schema. It helps me. Each time I create something, I ask myself, “Am I within this form and force field?” And also, why?
I’m now doing works dedicated to other philosophers or writers, but I don’t call them monuments, even though they could be. Next year I’m doing a big project about Simone Weil in Switzerland, but I call it a pavilion, just to avoid using the word monument. But it’s the same idea.
Mahsan: You already talked about this, because I had this question about you working on model for a monument right now, especially around the idea of falling monuments. I wanted to ask if it’s connected to the current state of the world we’re living in?
Thomas: Yes. These monuments need to fall because people are realizing they were wrong, that they celebrate things we should question. That’s why they’re coming down. I’m interested in how that expresses the people’s will. It reflects our time, our world, and also wrong decisions made in the past. So, I ask: “Who decides to make a monument? Who deserves one? What form should it take, and where should it stand?” These questions are part of the work. They help people see that something is wrong and needs to be challenged, corrected, or understood differently. I’m also interested in the form that comes out of that, the form of a monument.
For example, in the former USSR, many monuments were taken down and placed in what looks like a graveyard. It’s not a graveyard, but it feels like one. It’s fascinating to see these forms are still there but not on their pedestals, no longer in the places they once stood. Now, they’re somewhere they don’t disturb anyone. They’ve become relics of the past. I think that’s a very interesting form.
Thomas Hirschhorn, MEME, 2025; cardboard, prints, felt pen. Courtesy of the artist.
Mahsan: Are you a dreamer?
Thomas: I’m dreaming, of course. I dream that my work gets the importance it deserves. That somebody really understands it. I dream that someone will see that my work, even though it’s precarious or time-limited, is only precarious in terms of material or object. It is not precarious in its real power, which is to create memory. I dream that someone will understand that, and stop asking me, “Hmm, what happens after?” So, that’s for example, a very concrete dream.
Mahsan: And the other part of the question is, have you ever dreamed of changing the world? I know it’s not possible to change everything, but do you believe in small changes, in small encounters or small moments of understanding?
Thomas: Yes, of course. I believe that we can contribute, through art, to changing the world. For example, we can reach someone’s sensibility, maybe their empathy, maybe their critical thinking. Their ability to question things, not just in the art world but also in politics, or in how we use language. I believe it’s our mission as artists. I believe that this possibility of contributing is a power. A lot of people are doing it in other ways, like social workers for example. They do it in their own field. They can’t change everything, but they can make an important contribution. And artists can do that too.
Mahsan: Exactly. I feel that in the world we are living in now, what we truly need is love and empathy. These are the things that can really make a difference. I often ask myself, after all the anger and shouting in the streets, which are completely understandable and maybe even necessary, what comes next? It might sound like a cliché, but I believe love and empathy are powerful forces for change.
Thomas: I am happy that I have Art. When I was young, I had friends who were interested in politics and organized. They went to the streets, they took action. I did not really believe in it, I went along but didn’t feel part of it. That’s why I am very happy that I have my tool. Art, for me, is a tool. And I am happy to use this tool. Of course, I respect those who are militant, but I don’t think it is the only way to make a change. They also need to confront the big questions of the collective. When a collective power grows, is it still pure? Simone Weil wrote beautifully about this question: About how, when political engagement grows in importance and the group grows bigger, it costs something for the individual, you must give something away. The decisions made by the collective should also be questioned. So, I am happy that I found Art as my tool. I use it to intervene in the world, modestly. I am not sure I am always using it in the best way, but it is my tool, and I use it.
Mahsan: Speaking about the collective, I sometimes wonder if some people are just repeating what others are saying, without fully believing it themselves. I am not against activism at all, and I have a lot of respect for it too. It is hard to tell, but I keep asking myself this question: how can we stay true to our individuality without getting completely lost in the collective?
Thomas: It is also often a question of media, unfortunately. For example, there are people attacking artworks in museums, which is very different from someone attacking a monument. Monuments are attacked because of what they stand for, because they represent colonizers, oppressors, dictators, tyrants, or whatever. They are attacked for those reasons, not because they are artworks. But today, there are engaged people, and I have no problem with that, who attack artworks simply because of the media attention it brings to another cause. This is not about the artwork itself. There is some kind of purity that gets lost when this happens. Something essential is given up. I think the soul gets lost here. That’s why I love Simone Weil, because she always insists on the importance of the soul. I believe that we, as artists, making artworks, must also insist on the soul. Because this is a form of resistance. And if you give away the soul, it will not be saved.
Mahsan: I read in one of your interviews that Stalker by Andrei Tarkovsky is your favorite film. What is it about the film that speaks to you?
Thomas: Yes, it’s my favorite of all films. The whole film is a big work of art. But if I had to pick one scene, it’s the part where the Stalker guides the physician and the philosopher. He doesn’t know the way and throws something ahead and follows the direction where it lands. I think this idea, this way of moving forward without knowing, is very beautiful. Sometimes, I feel like the Stalker because I don’t know the way either. The film is full of deep questions about life and destiny. I love the Stalker’s story with his wife and child. He suffers a lot and has many roles to play. There’s also a kind of humble spirituality about him. The philosopher and the physician are more intellectual but aren’t as fulfilled. The Stalker has something special. I think Stalker is an inspiring film about human life.
Mahsan: I agree, as it’s one of my favorite films too. In this film, I feel like Tarkovsky really captures three types of people we encounter in the world: the writer, the professor, and the stalker. The writer and the professor have lost their faith. At first, we might think the stalker is the naïve one, but in the end, it’s clear that he holds on to something deeper. The writer and the professor, despite their knowledge, reach a point where they can’t move beyond their intellect. They’ve lost their faith, and when that happens, there’s nothing left. Without love and faith, what is there? It’s such a beautiful idea. So, would you say faith is also something that keeps you doing your work?
Thomas: Absolutely. Faith is also an important word for me. Faith in my work, in others, in myself.
Thomas Hirschhorn, POST Simone Weil, 2025;
cardboard, prints, felt pen. Courtesy of the artist
Thomas Hirschhorn, CARDBOARD, 2024;
cardboard, prints, felt pen. Courtesy of the artist