Exploring Dimensions – An Interview with Patrick Jacobs

Patrick Jacobs shares insights on his artistic journey and the interplay between nature, identity, and perception in his work

Patrick Jacobs discusses his artistic evolution, the influence of his education, and the thematic depth of his miniature sculptures and immersive installations.

Patrick Jacobs stands as a distinctive voice in contemporary art, seamlessly blending elements of sculpture, installation, and printmaking to explore the intricate relationships between landscape, identity, and the human experience. Born in 1971 and armed with a Master of Fine Arts in sculpture from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Jacobs has carved a niche for himself through his immersive dioramas and hyper-realistic miniature sculptures. His works invite viewers into poetic and often ambiguous realms, where the natural world becomes a canvas for introspection and exploration of desire. With exhibitions spanning the globe and a portfolio that has garnered critical acclaim, Jacobs’ ability to evoke curiosity and contemplation through meticulous craftsmanship sets him apart in the art world.

Through his art, Jacobs reflects on profound themes that resonate with our contemporary anxieties while simultaneously fostering a sense of wonder. He delves into the intersection of the familiar and the uncanny, inviting audiences to reconsider their perceptions of everyday environments. As he engages with topics such as pseudo-science and the interplay of natural phenomena, Jacobs crafts an experience that is both immersive and thought-provoking. Readers are invited to explore the depths of his artistic journey, gaining insights into the mind of an artist whose vision continues to reshape our understanding of the spaces we inhabit and the stories they tell.

Patrick Jacobs masterfully transforms the natural world into poetic, immersive experiences, inviting viewers to engage with complex themes of identity and perception.

How did your educational experiences, particularly at the University of Klagenfurt and the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, influence your approach to creating art?

In college, I received separate degrees in history and fine art. When I pursued post graduate studies in history at the University of Klagenfurt, Austria, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma. I had to make a decision about what I wanted to be. As much as I loved the discipline of history, I realized that I would be a better artist than historian. Or, that art would be for me more rewarding than academia.

The School of the Art Institute of Chicago made me a self-reliant artist. The School has a great reputation in a wonderful city, connected to a world-renowned art museum. But, at least when I was there, it was a place best suited for those who were self-disciplined. We were all really on our own. No one held my hand, urged me on or guided me through career planning for the future or even connected me with a gallery. It prepared me for the reality of the art world, and more broadly, life in general. Far from nurturing, its fundamental lesson was sobering: “it’s up to you to find what interests you and make something of it.”

Can you talk about the role that the concept of pseudo-science and natural phenomena plays in your artistic process?

As I child, I built “haunted houses” out of wooden blocks, replete with drapery and furniture made from tissue, cardboard, scotch tape and pillow stuffing. I sometimes imagined their occupants, but I inevitably saw them more as psychic spaces, entities unto themselves.

In school and later, I experimented with a variety of alternatives from a live “winged” goat on an elevated platform, stage-set sculptures made of insects and bones, pig-head dinners for faculty, etc. All were a presentation or staging of a natural or supernatural spectacle. A flock of deceased birds on a sidewalk suggested a tragic collision with a building window. Or a large scale, immersive pink forest recalled the membranes and organs of the human body.

How can we experience the world around us in new ways that make us aware? How curious it is when we see better the familiar when it’s made unfamiliar. In a way, nothing has really changed. I am in my 50’s and still making haunted houses. Perhaps by other means. But they are really the same thing.

What inspired you to create hyper-realistic miniature sculptures, and how do you choose the environments you depict?

I once set about to build a very large fiberglass sculpture for a student show at one of the school’s galleries. To help visualize it, I made a maquette, a scaled-down model of the gallery with a miniaturized version of the sculpture inside of it. But, when I cut a round hole in the wall of the maquette and inserted a meniscus lens, I was able to peer into it with a sense of being transported. My perception of space altered and it became more real.

Using this format, I shifted to recreating photographs of domestic spaces from pest control magazines, which I was investigating at the time, into three-dimensional spaces in the same scale. These miniature “rooms” were then also viewed through a meniscus lens. The idea of embedding them in the architecture of the wall was inspired by the Thorne Rooms at the Art Institute. This series of miniature historical period rooms was magical. Lighted from within, you could see – experience – the bedroom of Louis XIV or Hampton Court through a pane of glass mounted into the wall.

Could you explain the significance of using portholes to view your dioramas, and how this decision affects the viewer’s experience?

The porthole is really determined by the shape of the lens, a circular piece of glass with a negative focal length. With a concave surface, they make objects look smaller as they recede in space. They work in the opposite way that a magnifying glass or convex shaped glass does.

Initially the oculus represented the detached eye of the wary homeowner scanning the home and garden for unwanted pests. But, for some time now the impetus has shifted increasingly to imaginative worlds of reverie, of light and colour.

What challenges do you encounter working with materials like paper, plastic, acrylic gel, and metal to achieve the level of realism in your dioramas?

The biggest challenge is, I think, making the viewer implicit in something that is on the surface far-fetched in a seamless and self-sustaining way. It is ludicrous to suggest that a world made from bits of stuff all glued together in a wall could exist at all. But, a piece of plastic or tin, angled just slightly to catch the light may suggest a river snaking across the horizon, a clump of foam a mountain, a dab of green paint, a distant meadow. In the mind, mere inches become miles.

Your work often involves protagonists in conflict with an anxious and paranoid world. How do these themes resonate with you, and how do you hope viewers interpret them?

In my work, the protagonists are often implied. They may include a weed or a stump. Or they may be a figurative manifestation of the landscape itself. Sometimes they lure us in and then, the rug gets pulled out from under us. We are left, I hope, wondering where we are going from here….

EDITOR’S HIGHLIGHTS