In Conversation: Vanessa Peterson and Tanoa Sasraku

Tanoa Sasraku and Vanessa Peterson, Associate Editor of Frieze Magazine, in conversation on the occasion of the group exhibition ‘Parent Object’ at Vardaxoglou, 29 May – 30 June 2024.

Vanessa Peterson The title of the exhibition at Vardaxoglou is ‘Parent Object’. I'm curious about a term you mentioned to me, in terms of nature as a mothering figure. Especially in connection to this idea of a dark, quiet, unpredictable landscape, such as Dartmoor. You also mentioned translating that form of mothering towards an artwork as a form of comfort. I'm really curious about that relationship. What was it about these artworks that drew you to them?

Tanoa Sasraku On Dartmoor, the conditions can change in an instant. It can be a clear day and then suddenly you can't see anything. You often see animals dead on the ground or drowned, such as ponies and sheep – these are quite intense images. Growing up there felt like a lesson about the reality of life and death and life cycles. I don't know if I felt like in some way that mirrored my experience of being mothered by an actual person or if it was an alternative to that. Growing up in Plymouth was very repressive and there was a lot of intense emotion inside me as a teenager.

I discovered Bill Brandt’s photos of the Isle of Skye during lockdown, which is also when the Terratypes were conceived. Seeing these images of the Isle of Skye, I was struck by the drama in these high-contrast, monochrome images. There's something eerie about Bill Brandt's photographs. He seems to be able to capture this fog that is also often present on the island itself. That was the first work that came to mind.

Secondly, I used to go on these trips when I was a teenager to visit my Dad in Ghana, who worked as a tailor. The Asafo flags came into my consciousness later on, and I think they’re such fascinating objects. They represent colonial Ghana or the Gold Coast as it was then named, often through the presence of the Union Jack in the top corner of the rectangular plane. In the main plane, they tell stories typically about combat and weapons. You can see different tribes and rivalries between different warring clans by the flag that had chosen to fly. To me, the flag that I have chosen is strangely minimalist, and also, a rarely documented tale of abstraction in Ghanaian culture. I went to an amazing talk at the V&A recently and asked a question about this approach to form – it's important to acknowledge the approach to abstracted form outside of Western contexts.

There was very much an understanding of abstraction then and how that could be implemented, and that's what you see here, which to me feels very contemporary.

VP It does feel very contemporary. When we first met last year, you mentioned the idea of abstracted figuration in relation to your Terratypes, by using tailoring patterns such as sleeves or trouser legs. They abstractly represent the human form – down to legs or arms. I was wondering if there is a connection there because I think that's also a very fascinating way of thinking about form.

TS In traditional figuration, there are lots of rounded edges and I like how garment patterns create an architectural floor plan of the body with sharper lines. The body is flattened into different shapes. There's a lot to do there concerning precision and control. I'm also interested in how that relates to how I remember my Dad. A lot of the Terratype works - the more recent ones - have been the ones that engage with his country of birth. My Dad was a central figure in my life and there was a lot to do with control in our dynamic and me resisting being controlled. That stayed with me a long time after his passing.

VP I can intuit that so much of your practice engages with memory of all kinds: your childhood, landscapes, your Father, and more broadly, your familial structures. It's woven into your practice and it feels like a deeply complex entanglement. You are also engaging in research about geology and many years’ worth of history held within the ground.

TS To start with the structure of the Terratype; each sheet of paper is stained or infused with some sort of data. The Terratypes are functional, as they are actual records of places: there is a split between the deep, mineral history in the pigment and the moment that it is dug up by me and then worked into the paper.

VP You're reaching and pulling back, bringing the past into the present and also positioning it in a future we cannot yet imagine. You ask us to consider how far into the future we can conceive of. Do you have specific locations in mind when you're thinking about extracting these pigments?

TS Typically I pick a place which I feel like I need to revisit in some way. That includes going to Ghana last year for the first time in nine years – I had this memory of everything being red, particularly after my Dad's funeral. My clothes were stained red. I wanted to pursue that memory and see what I could find. Dartmoor is a site that was so essential to my childhood and my teenage years and experiences. I needed to explore further the colours that were embedded in that landscape and those memories. I'm led by the place first.

Jonathan Callan's work speaks to me in the sense of how he uses books as sculptural tools. The stack of books with plaster erupting out of them, for me, is a representation of the weight of history that is potentially contained inside them. It feels sometimes immovable – you can't shift that weight. There's a simplicity in Jonathan's approach to stacking paper that I find very poetic.

VP When I think about your Terratypes, I think about the colour of red: in multiple tones leading to rusty oranges. When you mentioned Ghana, it made me remember my grandfather’s house in Accra. At a certain point, the road becomes unpaved and the ground is this incredible orange rusty colour. I don't think I can compare it to anything else. You mention your Father: watching him work, the red and black colours of the mourning attire worn at his funeral. My Uncle died when I was in my late teens and I remember my father wearing a red ribbon, even back in the UK, as a way to mourn his loss.

TS A lot of what drives me, and the reason why I do the work I do is the fact I'm a lot younger than my brothers. In 1998, my parents split up and I moved to Plymouth and grew up with my Mother – I think I always really romanticised this idea of the family, feeling like I had existed 15 years too late. Essentially, I'm trying to go back in time and somehow insert myself into my family structure of the past even though I know it's not possible. It's a strange task of revisiting sites when no one's there anymore. It’s a way for me to try and find a way back to my family.

In the hang for the show, looming over my work on the opposite wall is a huge, protruding, shaped red canvas by Richard Smith. There was something in this object dynamic that mirrored how I felt and still feel in relation to my Dad. When I would come back from Ghana and see the light in England… It makes Ghana feel like a fantasy. Everything is so rich there. I have these snippets of experiences from Ghana: being in that red coastal landscape, being in my Dad's studio and his funeral. These are the three touch points. I would always revisit those events.

VP Those three points are crucial to the work: how does it feel to engage with those memories in that way? In the making process, I imagine there are several sensations and a vast range of emotions which come up as you're in the process of making and excavating these emotional layers and depths. I also wonder whether those feelings change when the work moves from the studio to the gallery space, for example.

TS That's a good question. It can be quite upsetting to see the work in different contexts. I sometimes feel I haven't spent enough time with them in the studio before they leave. It was such an emotional experience working on them. I was trying to work through so many things. I spent an afternoon with Margarita Gluzberg discussing her work that is included in the show. I came away with this powerful sense that these orb-like forms are vessels for grief-pouring. A condition for Margarita to feel like these works are functional, is that they are permitted to change and be repeatedly reworked after their display. They share a vulnerability with the Terratypes in this way. Both are porous and embody this life in a way that can feel quite unstable.

VP That’s eerie. They become otherworldly, taking on a life of their own. One might say that spirits linger in the work long after they’ve left your studio. I remember, as a child, going to my granddad's place. I was whistling at night and several family members rushed in and told me not to do that. If you do it at night. you're calling the spirits of the deceased into the space with you. Another interesting thing was taking a photo: you can’t say you’re “taking” a photograph, it’s rather “making” one. I realised that spirituality is deeply connected with everyday life there. I'm so curious about your relationship with the medium of photography. Going back to early photography. Photography is deeply connected to the uncanny.

TS I'm very interested in early photographic processes. The title for these works, Terratypes, is a way to insert them into the canon of photography. There's a process of capture (from the pigment) and then what I see as a process of developing them by soaking them in a body of water. Also, the fact that the newsprint is light-sensitive. Anastasia Xirouchakis’ photograph included in the show is an example of an artist leaning into that notion of spirit trapping that you describe, in relation to fear and superstition. The X-Ray of her dead Grandmother’s torso is conjured into a representation of the trapped or emerging soul, with one playful gesture.

VP What was the process like for you in terms of being an artist curating a show? It’s great to see an artist’s affinities on display – what moves them outside of their practice. Seeing these works and your works alongside each other, I can see a direct throughline. Our affinities are always a product of what we have seen and been exposed to, but it must be meaningful to be able to connect these works in this way in a gallery setting. How did you find that process?

TS Easy. It felt like a moment where I thought “Finally!” It's not like I've been waiting to curate a show, but as soon as Alex suggested it, I immediately put it together – it felt natural to pull these works together and also really important. It's an emotional thing for me. It felt like a nice way to work through the past five years of making and everything that's happened. I feel very excited about sharing this with people and it’s nice to think that other people might find and be introduced to some of my peers who haven't shown much before, contextualised alongside older artists with the works dating from the start of the Second World War until this year.