AND GOOD INTENTIONS CAN HAVE BAD CONSEQUENCES. A CONVERSATION WITH CONSTANTINE ZLATEV

– I know your passion for rock climbing and your dream of the legendary cliffs in Yosemite Park brought you to the USA. Did you have an idea to pursue art then and how did you go from nature to industrial design?

– Coming to California in 1997 to climb the granite cliffs of Yosemite was a lucky chance. The climbing community there was very diverse, people from all trades and professions formed this small community. Rock climbing was not a commercialized sport and most people who participated in it were very outgoing and down to earth. This helped me to easily make connections, make friends, and integrate into the American world. I spent the first few years traveling around North America with the main goal of climbing, occasionally doing various odd jobs to maintain that lifestyle.

Yosemite was the most special of places to climb, it had a rich history of inspiring people who had once lived, worked or just spent time there. John Muir was one of them, a pioneering naturalist and environmental philosopher who advocated for the preservation of wildlife in the United States. Ansel Adams, American landscape photographer known for his black and white images of the American West. John Salate, Swiss-born American rock climber, blacksmith, and inventor. Ray Jardine – an aeronautical engineer whose inventions revolutionized rock climbing. Yvonne Shonard – climber and businessman, founder of Patagonia, someone I met personally and whose actions in the business world made a deep impression on me and later influenced my choice of design career.

Sometime in 2003, I decided to sew a pair of special rock climbing pants. The project required more skill, for which I checked out books from the library on construction and pattern drafting. I knew how to sew from the clothing technical school in Bulgaria, so the project turned out to be a success. The frequent compliments on my home-made pants encouraged me to keep sewing, which eventually led to my decision to start a small mountaineering clothing company called Rockhopper. I produced the first batch of rock climbing pants in Bulgaria, then imported them to the US where they were sold in San Francisco through Planet Granite and Mission Cliffs climbing gyms. Trying to make a sustainable business out of Rockhopper was no easy task. It soon became clear that if I wanted to design and manufacture my own products, it would be very helpful to have the proper education to do so. So this led me to consider going back to school and as business studies didn’t appeal to me much, I chose to study product design. In the fall of 2005, I enrolled in the Industrial Design program at California College of the Arts in San Francisco.

I came back to school with a lot of energy, good motivation and enthusiasm. I liked the teacher-led subjects, which gave more creative freedom. Every semester we worked on different projects, such as computer design, furniture, lighting, fashion…

At the beginning of the fourth year, after the designer Ives Bahar left the post as dean, there was some confusion among the industrial design faculty. I consulted with the school advisor about the possibility of working on an independent degree project, and she advised that one way was to transfer to an individual major. I took the advice and so went on to interdisciplinary study, combining design, traditional crafts and art. With the individual major, I had more freedom to build my program. I was able to choose classes that interested me the most, such as textile design and printing, wood furniture, metal forging and welding, and ceramics. I studied sculpture and glass with the famous sculptor Clifford Rainey, then dean of the glass program. During my last semester in school I took a class called Interface with Professor Barney Haynes. The class taught new technologies for artists and how to use microprocessors and programming in their work. This class got my full interest and attention and laid the foundation for my robotic art installations. In fact, the installation “The Street Musician” was the result of this class and the first of all my mechano-robotic art installations. North Pitney, one of the instructors in the class, said of my project that it would look beautiful in the corner, but it would never work. After the successful final presentation, North came up to me and said, “Someone up in heaven really wanted you to make this project happen.”

– In your bio you write that you’ve worked on projects for the world of computer technology and mechanical design for space satellites. Tell me more about that, because it seems to me that there’s a direct connection to the work that you create.

– The design experience and use of industrial machinery and processes in my work definitely influence the finished visual appearance of the pieces. I love and enjoy the process of creating – going from idea to final concept justification. Some of my art installations can be considerably complex and completion requires several stages through which many expected or unexpected difficulties must be overcome. It is usually a long journey of constant learning and experimentation with different materials and processes.

For me, it is essential to have a good initial idea that is strong enough to inspire me to start working and keep me motivated over the long months or even years it takes to complete a project.

Most ideas come when I’m on the go, at work or when I’m traveling or just walking somewhere. Often one project leads me to another. Sometimes when I’m researching a topic, I learn interesting history and facts that can influence the conceptual level or the final look of a piece.

– What was the first work in the series that dealt with violence and war? Was there a specific reason for its creation?

– Searching for music for The Street Musician, 2010, my first robotic flute using industrial pneumatic components, I heard a piece called A Pair of Cavals, 2011. It was a tune played by two dulcimer players playing together in sync. Listening to the music of the two kavals, I got the idea to make a robotic double flute and wondered if it would be possible to do it with the double barrels of a shotgun. Curiosity to try the idea and see if it would be possible was what got me started on the project. Also, the thought of disabling a weapon and turning it into a musical instrument resonated with my frustration with gun violence in the United States, where mass shootings taking the lives of innocent people were becoming more and more ridiculous and common.

Shortly after the San Francisco debut of “Chifte Cavali,” the work was invited to two exhibitions in the same period. Rather than turn down one offer, I decided to make a second flute from a rifle. Thus, in 2012, Chifte Kawali was included in an exhibition at the Marin Museum of Contemporary Art, and the new work, The Last Gun, 2012, was exhibited at the University of South Dakota Gallery. “The Last Weapon” is more portable and has traveled frequently. In 2013 she was awarded first prize for sculpture and installation at the 7th Arte Laguna in Venice, Italy.

These first two works and the positive reaction to them led me to create art out of guns, and in the years that followed this kind of work became my response to the ever escalating news of violence in the world around us.

Initially I bought the guns for my artwork from gun shops. In 2018, I was invited to participate in the Art of Peace exhibition, for which I received deactivated gun parts from The Robby Poblete Foundation, a non-profit organization whose mission is to take unwanted firearms out of circulation. The parts were provided through a gun buyback event hosted by the San Francisco Police Department. Ahimsa (“Do No Harm”), 2018, a kinetic sculpture functioning as a slide projector made from a revolver, was created from these parts. Later, individuals also wished to donate weapons to me to be transformed into art. “Pinocchio’s Luger,” a kinetic sculpture measuring the veracity of facts from the Internet, was created from a gun donated by the son of a U.S. military veteran who participated in World War II.

Over time, I began to easily recognize the parts of the guns, even when dismantled and removed from the original devices. Sometimes I feel like I run into them all the time and get this weird feeling that they came into my life with the help of some fantastic force 🙁 But still, it’s something that can be logically explained by how widespread and normalized guns are.

– How did you come up with the idea to pair beautiful Venetian glass with guns? And what kind of things came out of that combination?

– Back in 2008, sculptor Lawrence Labianca, a former teacher of mine, got me interested in working with glass by taking me to a sand casting session at the glass studios on campus. I can certainly say that in that one evening I fell in love with the working process and with glass as a material. There’s something about the atmosphere of a glass studio – the heat of the roaring furnaces, the brightness in the colors of the molten glass, the skillful and hardworking craftsmen, the simple furnishings and tools used for this craft that hasn’t changed in centuries. All of this together makes me feel a real, deep happiness when I have the chance to be in a professional glass studio. This initial attraction and curiosity led me to take a few more glass working classes during my design studies.

When I came to Venice in 2013, one of the must-do things for me was to visit Murano Island, a place where glass has been worked with for centuries. At the glass museum in Murano, I viewed an extensive collection of glass beads and it was at this point that I began to learn about the old glass trade bead industry and its historical significance. In 2014, I applied to an open call for a month-long residency at the Abate Zanetti Glass School in Murano.

The initial idea that won me the opportunity to work there was simple and good-natured. My suggestion was to create a sculpture in the shape of two cannon shells, whose deadly explosive bodies would be replaced by similarly shaped, beautiful and colourful Murano glass beads.

The work in Murano turned out to be very different from my expectations. Abate Zanetti was a busy factory and at the time the pressure was felt to produce a variety of glass products in time for the approaching holidays. In addition, there was a strict work ethic and hierarchy in the hot glass shop. Each of the amazing craftsmen had a minimum of 15 years of experience, and to become one, one had to dedicate at least 10 years to slowly learn the secrets of the craft and climb step by step up the ladder of mastery. Murano was not like America, where the first time you set foot in a glass studio they will let you rake molten glass straight from the furnace. And so, shortly after my residency began, I realized that I would not be able to physically participate in making glass for my proposed piece. But soon after my initial disappointment with the rules, I realized the value of the restrictions imposed.

Before Murano, I always looked at glass as a difficult and unpredictable material. In glass studios in the United States, it was normal to see unforeseen incidents where glass objects would break off the glass tube and fall to the floor at one point or another in production. It was surprising to me that I did not witness any such incidents during the entire month I spent at Abate Zanetti.

I often hear people talk about tradition and craft being lost today, and many call for its protection and revival, but I don’t meet many people who are willing to invest 10 years in slowly mastering a craft in order to gain the experience and qualifications needed to practice it freely.

As I pondered all this, my frustration with Murano’s rules quickly evaporated, and I continued to help long hours in the hot shop, opening and closing the wooden molds for the master glaziers. During breaks I questioned them and researched methods by which my work could be accomplished. When the glass masters told me that it was no longer possible to find a specialized mold for the traditional rosette beads of my proposal, we discussed the problem and they helped me come up with an alternative way to make large commercial beads by fusing layers of colored glass rods.In the meantime, I went to the effort and made 3D computer models and realistic renderings of the artwork, which helped to communicate more clearly the details and desired colors of the design. The colored glass murrine for my piece “Morammo I” were artfully crafted by master glassblower Giovanni Nicola of Murano. During the residency I was able to further my research and learn more of the history of commercial beads, which helped me to continue working on this topic and create new pieces in this series. In 2015-2016, I continued to work with Murano glass, creating the Morammo II sculptures, Octagraphs, as well as glass ammunition chains – Trade Beads I, Millefiori, and Self Sabotage, which I was able to accomplish on my own through the facilities of Public Glass, a professional glass studio in San Francisco, California.

– Why is it so important for you today to go back in history and trace the development of different violent practices over the centuries? I’m thinking of the use of the once precious stained glass as a bargaining chip in the slave trade and expensive goods. What do you mean by combining beads and objects from the modern military arsenal?

– I’ve always loved history and enjoy reading the narratives that accompany artifacts in museums. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to the old history of Murano glass.

Glass work in Murano has been developed over centuries, probably built on knowledge passed down from the Romans or even more ancient times. Each famous family of craftsmen kept their own secret recipes and techniques for glassmaking. The complexity of the colours and patterns in Murano glass is unique. The amazing craftsmen there truly loved their profession, they took pride in supporting their families by producing the most beautiful glassware. The artisans who created the Rosetta and Millefiori glass beads had no idea that their beautiful creations would be used by merchants to purchase slaves and aid in the exploitation of less developed nations.

Like the Murano glass masters of the past, I know superb engineers today who work for the weapons industry and design modern weapons. They have no ill intentions with the work they do, and truly believe they are putting their best skills to work to protect their families and countries. Unfortunately, once created in excess, weapons can be used for far different purposes. Often in modern times, arms transfers can exert powerful influence or pressure on the political and economic dogmas of developing countries.

This is where I see the link between the historical trade beads of Murano glass and the contemporary global arms industry, which bears strong neocolonial characteristics. As with the old glass beads, the arms trade today may have consequences that are far removed from the moral intentions of their creators.

– What is the place of music in your installations and how did you choose these particular musical works?

– I have often admired music’s ability to reach deep and evoke strong spiritual emotions in people.This is not so easy for visual art.Often in my work I am inspired by music or films.

I think that media that combine visual and acoustic elements can have a much stronger impact.

In the installations The Last Gun and A Pair of Cavaliers, the concept is based on the altered function of guns, more specifically the transformation of guns into musical flutes. And that is why in these works the music matters as much as the mechanics and visual aesthetics. However, given the nature of the industrial materials used, the goal was not to create perfect musical instruments capable of playing like virtuosos. These installations are their own kind of “instruments”. They play recognizable melodies, but the inherent mechanical sound of their machine-like nature remains prevalent. In addition, both flute installations use music as a way to convey information and depict a data set related to global armed conflicts of a given period. The specific musical selections are deliberate, chosen based on the data used, as well as aligned with the musical capabilities of the flutes themselves. Both installations are interpretations of the same concept. The main differences are in the flutes themselves.

The work The Last Gun is inspired by the American Indian flute, but is designed to play in a full octave C4 chromatic scale. One barrel plays the basic notes and the other the raised notes.

The musical inspiration for it comes from the soundtrack of the movie The Last of the Mohicans, which is set during the historically decisive Seven Years War, a global conflict involving all the major European and North American powers of the time.The ultimate results of this war shaped the world for centuries to come.The Last Gun charts the rise and fall of global armed conflict between 1989 and 2022.

The flute’s response is based on a value judgment in which the rise of global conflicts triggers the flute to play a somber tune from the film’s soundtrack. And for every value indicating a decline in conflict, the flute plays a cheery tune called The Kiss (The Gael).

“The Gaul” is modeled after the wooden dulcimer, a shepherd’s instrument widespread in the Balkans. The piece consists of two flutes that can play together or independently of each other. One barrel plays in C4 and the other in C5 octave. During the exhibition at Structura Gallery, “Chifte cavali” depicted the number of UN peacekeeping missions from 1988-2021, playing the tune “Dilmano, dilbero” for each year that peace missions decreased and the tune “Zay, Zay, Clear Sunshine” for years when peace missions increased.

– Where is the place of the artist in contemporary society? How do you see your role in it?

– Artists can reflect the world around them, both the broad social and cultural landscape and the intimate human life. I think art nowadays is more liberated and less and less constrained by certain styles or movements. It’s harder to categorize based on medium or technique because it’s increasingly an expression of what’s happening today, in the moment. I find that a good thing. While future historians might define this era as “activism” or something else, in the present moment it feels like a very individual, open form of expression. It’s not a cohesive mass or trend, but rather a true freedom of expression – unbound by labels, market pressures, or any kind of artistic constraints. At least that’s the contemporary art I like to pay attention to.

With my work, I choose to highlight some issues that I see in contemporary society, hoping that through my work I can reach out to others and inspire change, not in the art world itself, but in the broader context of our society, especially in terms of values, life choices, and professional careers. I don’t aim to convince everyone of my views, but rather to encourage critical thinking and a thoughtful and engaged approach to these topics.These are my personal hopes and aspirations for my art, but ultimately my role in art is not something I have control over. That is determined by forces outside of one person’s influence, be it an artist 🙂

The Gateway work is visually inspired by the Japanese Torii gates that mark the entrance to a sacred space within a shrine. I don’t usually make art prompted by personal issues, but in the process of creating Gateway, it transformed into a piece that has really deep, personal meaning for me.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, I spent nine months in Bulgaria, living in isolation with my family and my elderly father. We felt safe and welcome home in Bulgaria, and when we didn’t have much to do during the blockade I came up with the idea to build a megalithic stone gate to commemorate my return after many years abroad.

During the pandemic, the only help available to me was close family members such as my wife, my sister or my elderly father. I worked mainly alone, making my own tools and equipment as needed. I relied on simple and practical methods to transport and shape the heavy stones for the work. As the work progressed, the sculpture became a new flame of connection between me and my father, Krustyo, with whom I had not shared much for many years. Sadly, and unexpectedly, he passed away just days before the project was completed. For me, the stone gate symbolizes not only the happiness of returning home, but also the grief of my beloved father’s sad passing into the afterlife.

Questions by: Maria Vassileva