'Sustainability' within arts universities and institutions is usually born out of reduced funding and subsequent resourcefulness by tutors and technicians alike. I can remember one tutor who used scrap MDF board to build a make-shift sound booth for students to rent out, another ran puppetmaking workshops to utilise leftover materials, and they would even come into our studios and leave jumpers for when the radiators were turned off to save energy.
However, this is not to say that austerity is the only reason we had to use third-hand scrap wood or rifle through the shared skip for materials. Over my three years at art school, I noticed my practice leaning towards the concept of "found materials" (whether this be digital footage, physical archives or furniture on Facebook marketplace). This evolved from creating collages of books in charity shops to recycling storage pallets when building larger sculptures. Many artists aim to decolonise fine art spaces through the act of sustainability; reinterpreting traditional materials to bridge gaps between historical and modern colonialism. For some, this means utilising traditional textiles (notably when Nigerian artist Nengi Omuku created paintings on traditional 'Sanyan' textile owned by her grandmother), whilst for more conceptual artists, it might mean reinterpreting historical moments by creating space for non-western dialogue. Isaac Julien is known for his ability to achieve this by re-presenting historical figures/moments within black culture; his work 'Lessons of the Hour' about Frederick Douglass perfectly embodies this idea of sustainable storytelling.
Practical sustainability didn't just mean recycling materials within our university, it meant going out and connecting with people. The direct link between communication and sustainability actually fuelled many artists to become more ambitious in their practice. The wood being given to students was rarely first hand, meaning they were never too precious about it and were comfortable experimenting without fear of financial consequences. Materials were treated like living things with stories that we knew survived before us and would survive long after us. As artists, our job was to interpret this story.
Understanding and respecting where materials were sourced from lent itself to the art-making process because we weren't pulling narrative from thin air; we took time to comprehensively analyse how the object's journey would inform our final works.
When a friend of mine was given a vintage copper kitchen sink, copper became the focus of her research and directed her following choice of materials and critical theory. I'd like to say that we were actively thinking about sustainability within our practice but the real goal was to spend the least amount of money possible, and that just happened to take the form of trading and sharing amongst peers. As our ethos was "use what you are given", sustainability became second nature.
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