“The theater is the only place in the world where one can say this thing has happened,” insisted Antonin Artaud. As opposed to recorded or reproduced forms, theater remains an event—experienced collectively, in the present, and impossible to repeat in exactly the same way. For more than two decades, British artist Monster Chetwynd has followed this remit through a practice grounded in performance, participation, and collective action. Her works reject the fixed and the rehearsed in favor of the provisional and the unexpected. Drawing on theater, carnival, ritual, and the amateur spectacle, her performances—complete with handmade costumes, improvised architectures, papier-mâché props, oversize masks, and an ever-changing cast of collaborators—are at once exuberant and deeply considered, embracing uncertainty as a condition of the live event.
The temporary communities created by and for these performances dissolve distinctions between performer and spectator. The work unfolds through group energy, fueled by encounter and accident. In this respect, Chetwynd extends the legacy of the Happening, a form that sought to erase boundaries between art and life by placing emphasis on experience rather than objecthood.
These concerns resonate strongly in Chetwynd’s solo exhibition “A Friends Making Machine,” currently on view at the Middelheim Museum in Antwerp. Rather than treating sculpture as a fixed monument, she activates the park as a social space shaped by movement, gathering, and exchange. Her performances transform the museum landscape into a site of encounter where bodies, objects, and environments exist in a state of continual negotiation. What remains after the event is not simply documentation or residue, but the memory of a shared experience, reminding us that art can be less an object to contemplate than an event to inhabit—a fleeting but transformative moment in which people, places, and possibilities briefly converge.
Photo: Tom Cornille, Courtesy the artist and Middelheim Museum, Antwerp
Rajesh Punj: One of the things that interests me about “A Friends Making Machine” is the relationship between the performance and what remains afterwards. I was thinking about the Indian performance artist Nikhil Chopra, whose long-duration performances often leave behind drawings and environments that continue to exist after the event itself. Do you consider the consequences, the after-life of your performances?
Monster Chetwynd: I’m not normally like that. I like the live moment. I sacrifice everything for the live moment.
RP: So, how did you approach the Middelheim project?
MC: It began with Salamander Portal. There’s a children’s mental health hospital next to Middelheim sculpture park. They share a fence, but there wasn’t a direct entrance into the park; patients and visitors had to take a long route around to get in. Middelheim applied to the city to create a new access point and invited several artists to propose ideas for a gateway. My proposal was selected. I wanted to make a kind of portal from Belgian bluestone, inhabited by salamanders, almost like temple cats. At that stage, it was simply an idea, but Middelheim wanted to develop it with me, and we spent about a year and a half visiting quarries, collaborating with local fabricators, and gradually making the project happen. It was a wonderful process. As we worked together, we realized that we shared a similar way of thinking. They understood that I like collaboration, that I allow people into the process, and that I’m interested in group problem-solving. Eventually, they invited me to create the exhibition as well.
What became exciting was that the permanent commission and the exhibition could grow together. The salamanders already had a performance attached to them in my imagination. For the opening, I developed a piece around these extraordinary creatures and their regenerative powers—the fact that they can regrow limbs, organs, even parts of their brains. It was a kind of sneaky learning. We then selected four performances from my repertoire and presented them together as a miniature festival.
There were a lot of firsts involved for me. I’d never created a permanent public sculpture before. I’d never presented four performances together in a single day. I’d never attempted something that existed simultaneously as a permanent commission, a performance program, an exhibition, and a series of workshops. There are several layers operating at once. There are the sculptures themselves, which have a performative quality while remaining static. There are the live performances. Then there are workshops with educators and local groups. And finally, there is the permanent Salamander Portal. They’re all different, but together they create a larger project.
Photo: Tom Cornille, Courtesy the artist and Middelheim Museum, Antwerp
RP: What is the relationship between the sculptures and the performances? Are people who visit after the opening performances experiencing a different work?
MC: The sculptures aren’t architecture left behind from the performances. They’re not designed specifically to be performed with; they’re not sets. They’re sculptures in their own right that people can interact with if they want to. That’s important. I didn’t build a stage and then leave behind its residue. What interests me is probably closer to the idea of a folly in a landscape. Historically, certain follies became places where people gathered, imagined, performed, or told stories. I love those aspects of a park. I love making something that ignites someone’s imagination. I’m not really making a set that remains after a performance.
RP: That’s a helpful distinction, because one of the fascinating things about your work is that sculpture, installation, theater, and performance all overlap. Even the language becomes difficult.
MC: Exactly. And I’ve never made permanent sculpture before; that’s not my default language. Over the years, there have been experiments: the slugs outside Tate Britain, playgrounds in Istanbul and Dagenham, but permanence isn’t where my instincts lie. What fascinates me about Middelheim is that some of the spontaneity and freshness that I associate with live performance remains present in works that are going to remain for six months or longer. I feel almost arrogant saying it, but I’m genuinely thrilled. I walk around and look at some of these things and I’m shocked. I think, “Did I really make that?” Though I didn’t physically put the wood or the metal into the field myself, they somehow still look as though they came directly from my imagination. That’s a strange and enjoyable feeling. Some experiments work better than others. One of the sculptures is made from cardboard, something that absolutely isn’t intended for outdoor conditions, and yet it has a completely different quality because it’s handmade and vulnerable. What surprised me most was how well the scale worked. There were a lot of gambles. I genuinely didn’t know whether certain things would work in the landscape.
Photo: Tom Cornille, Courtesy the artist and Middelheim Museum, Antwerp
RP: How important is the setting?
MC: Very important. I’ve always liked being outdoors. I love Land Art. I love being outside the white cube. I love domestic spaces. I love nightclubs. I love all sorts of places for art. Ironically, I’ve done nothing but major museum exhibitions. But I love being on the same level as the audience. I love being somewhere that feels open and grassroots.
I should also say that I don’t believe the white cube is a neutral space. I’ve never understood that idea. White walls and gray floors don’t feel neutral to me at all. That’s one reason why I often cover spaces with huge, photocopied images and printed backdrops. Ever since art school, I’ve been interested in transforming a space rather than accepting it as it is. Whether it’s a gallery or a sculpture park, I’m always interested in creating another world. I still throw fancy-dress parties; I really enjoy that level of human interaction and need it.
I’m pleased by what has been built, and there’s a reason. There was a lot of group problem-solving, a lot of people working really well together. “A Friends Making Machine”wasn’t my phrase. It came from the people involved. When you meet people and build something together, whether through stage fright, excitement, or simply the experience of doing something collectively, you become bonded in a particular way. The phrase was already circulating, and the Middelheim people picked up on it. Maybe it’s cheesy. Maybe it’s too abstract. But it’s definitely linked to the force of what I’m interested in, which is the live moment—the click of bonded fun that suddenly happens between people.
RP: How do you meet and choose the people you work with? And how do those encounters give birth to what you’re doing?
MC: Mainly it’s the people around me; quite literally the person next to me on a bus. When I have an idea, an epiphany, or something suddenly hits me, when I come across something that agitates me or brings me to a moment of realization, I immediately want to tell somebody. I’ll turn to the person next to me and say, “Oh my God, I’ve just realized…” and then explain. They’ll often reply, “I know exactly what you mean.” Then I’ll say, “Should we do something about it? Do you want to make something?” And, weirdly, they often do. It really begins from that moment. At the same time, after many years of working this way, there are now a lot of people with whom I’ve worked repeatedly.
Photo: Tom Cornille, Courtesy the artist and Middelheim Museum, Antwerp
RP: So, you naturally go back to certain people?
MC: Nearly always. I ask everyone, and the people who can come, come. What’s become amazing is that a kind of shared understanding develops over time. I noticed it very strongly when I was working in Bergen. By the fifth project, the audience almost knew what to do. I didn’t have to explain anything. It was extraordinary. The audience understood, the performers understood, everybody knew how things worked. No one had ever discussed it. It had simply developed.
Each performance typically contains different stories and different messages. I’ll train people for an hour or two, and there might be A, B, C, and D. You put them together and perhaps you have 20 minutes of action. The first time everybody performs together is either at the rehearsal or the event itself. Things then develop through repetition. Twenty minutes becomes an hour. Some moments are exciting, some become tired. People change roles because they’re bored. Things shift. It’s always a movable feast.
But now, I’ve begun taking elements from different performances and bringing them together in what I jokingly call a “best of” version. Normally the performances make sense as complete works because the messages sit alongside one another. They create a cultural puzzle. But these “best of” versions are completely wrong in some ways. They’re like a luxury wrong chocolate box. What’s fun about it is that everyone already knows what to do. They know whether they’re miming Heretics, pretending to be in a barn dance, or doing something from The Wicker Man. They’ll just slip into different roles. It’s interesting for me. It’s a new thing.
RP: Does that mean there’s a great deal of improvisation taking place?
MC: Normally I allow improvisation, but within quite strict formats. There’s always a structure—not something as complicated as a chessboard, but there is a grid. It doesn’t have to be drawn on the floor. You simply say: “Stay by that tree while this music is playing. Then, when the siren sounds, move over there.” So, there’s a framework, and then there’s improvisation within it. I work like that because of speed. People need to understand everything quickly. It’s very much like a barn dance. Someone calls something out, people learn it immediately, and within minutes they’re participating and enjoying themselves.
What I find really interesting is that many of the things I’ve spent years working on in live performance seem somehow to have filtered through into the permanent works. It makes sense when you think about it. It’s definitely the same approach, the same attitude toward spontaneity, collective problem-solving, teamwork, collaboration, and making things together. I know it sounds over the top, but I think they’ve all transferred into the sculptures now.
“A Friends Making Machine” is on view at the Middelheim Museum, Antwerp, through October 11, 2026.
