For Jim Sanborn, who has been creating science-based public artworks, installations, and sculptures for several decades, art-making doubles as an exploration of hidden worlds, a way to “make the invisible visible.” He has investigated natural forces like magnetism and the Coriolis effect, Euclidean and Cartesian geometry, and nuclear science, as well as secretive institutional and criminal systems. Over time, his projects have taken numerous turns—from projected earthworks that leave no trace to re-creations of iconic laboratories, to “forgeries” of Khmer antiquities—but they remain based in formidable research and always retain an aura of surprise and fascination.
Sanborn’s works ask us to think. He invites us to look at things from different angles and put the pieces together, much like detectives at a crime scene. More importantly, he asks us to think beyond the complex subjects of his work to consider how the hidden, and the keeping of secrets, intersects with human nature. Such concerns lie at the heart of Kryptos (1989), his cult-status commission for the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters. After decades of guarding the solution to its last encrypted message, Sanborn auctioned off the code last year, tired of hacking attempts and threats. He hopes that the new anonymous owner will maintain silence.
Elaine A. King: You studied art history and social anthropology at Randolph–Macon College and then went on to receive an MFA in sculpture at Pratt. Early on, you made environmental installations seemingly inspired by Arte Povera. How did you take this direction?
Jim Sanborn: Pratt was the only formal art education that I received, and in retrospect, that education came mostly from the New York art scene. Germano Celant’s book on Arte Povera was first published in the U.S. in 1969, and I started at Pratt in 1970—needless to say, Arte Povera was hot. All of the New York galleries and museums were showing this work, so, of course, it inundated my practice and freed me from the more conservative influences of the time. . .
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