Vladimir Arkhipov's contribution to the 27th Sao Paulo biennial of contemporary art consists of a washing-machine barrel turned into a planter, a television stand made from part of a discarded refrigerator, a bulky makeshift wheelbarrow, a hand-operated meat grinder with a motor affixed for automated use, and several other objects built from refuse, scraps and found materials. The artist did not make these objects himself. Rather, he borrowed them from residents of Brazil's largest city who had built them for their own use, and his installation gives the creators credit with photographs, videos and texts documenting his contact with them.
Arkhipov refers to such objects as "material folklore" and has been collecting them since 1994, mostly in and around Moscow and his native city of Ryazan. Early on, some saw his project as an expose of Russian poverty, using homemade appliances to reflect the shortages of the Soviet era and the economic collapse of the 1990s.
Lately, though, Arkhipov has been taking his show on the road -- most recently to Sao Paulo -- and the more he travels, the more convincingly he proves that spontaneous invention is a phenomenon that transcends political and socioeconomic borders. His objects attest to a fundamental, universal spirit of human creativity, and he believes this is more important than anything he as a professionally trained sculptor could create. "When a professional artist makes a work of art, he is obligated to think about how it's going to work in a space, how he's going to sell it," Arkhipov said in a recent talk at the National Center for Contemporary Art. "Homemade functional objects have a purity, a lack of aesthetic reflection that no professional artist can have."
The Sao Paulo biennial -- the oldest and most influential international forum for contemporary art after its counterpart in Venice -- has welcomed Russian artists in the past; recent participants include conceptual architect Alexander Brodsky and Styrofoam sculptor Sergei Shekhovtsov. But this year, the organizers scrapped the principle of national representation that had guaranteed Russia a platform in the past, opting instead for a sprawling exhibition on a single theme. It was titled "How to Live Together," and Arkhipov was selected because his work explores the creative ways in which people adapt their domestic environment to the demands of everyday life.
Arkhipov arrived in Sao Paulo three weeks before the biennial opened, and was given a driver and translator to help him seek out Brazilians who might contribute their handiwork to his display. He said he felt pressed for time because of the difficulties of navigating Sao Paulo, a city whose sprawl, he said, dwarfs even that of Moscow.
Despite the linguistic and cultural barriers, not to mention the tight deadlines, Arkhipov employed the same word-of-mouth search method he uses in Russia. In Sao Paulo, he started out by questioning his driver's friends and relatives about amateur inventors they knew. Gradually, he constructed a chain of mutual acquaintances whose introductions encouraged people to open their homes and inventions to him.
Arkhipov kept true to his 12-year-old criteria. For an object to suit his collection, it must be functional -- not decorative -- and visually unique. It also has to be used by the creator and his household. Arkhipov followed a lead to a man who built his own radios, but did not ask to borrow one after realizing that the man sold them. But this was not a dead end; Arkhipov then went to meet the radio technician's son, whose many noncommercial inventions included a trident for keeping stray cats out of the garbage.
Arkhipov asked his Brazilian subjects the same questions he does in Russia, and got similar answers. "When I ask people, 'Why did you make that?' no one ever says they are poor and have no money," he said. "They say, 'I like to make things with my hands.' They say, 'I like doing this.' They say, 'I couldn't find it in the store, so I made it myself.' "
Reactions to Arkhipov's inquries tend to start with suspicion or confusion, but eventually turn to pride. "When someone sees another person taking interest in what he has done, he gets excited and starts to recall how and why he made it," the artist said.
While the emotional reactions are universal, the objects themselves can vary depending on local needs and conditions. Arkhipov discovered that wheelbarrows like the one he chose to display at the biennial are a common sight in the outskirts of Sao Paulo -- people build them to collect garbage, which they then recycle to earn up to $50 per day. He also met a professor of humanities who made a gas mask out of a coffee canister and funnel. On days when Sao Paulo's heavy air pollution becomes truly unbearable, the professor fills it with essential oils and breathes into it.
When the biennial closes Dec. 17, the objects will be returned to their creators. Arkhipov never keeps anything unless the inventor, proud that his or her creation has been dubbed a work of art, insists on donating it. "It's hard to refuse," Arkhipov said.
Arkhipov likes to point out that while homemade objects are commonly found among people who cannot afford to buy the mass-produced equivalent, casual inventors can be found in all social strata. While attending a luncheon at the villa of a wealthy art collector in central Sao Paulo, Arkhipov spotted a giant barrel with a handle attached. His millionaire host had built it to roll out sod.
All walks of life are represented in Arkhipov's collection of objects from Russia. It is documented, complete with photographs and commentary from the creators, on his web site at www. folkforms .ru, as well as in a new book, "Home-Made: Contemporary Russian Folk Artifacts." Released in London earlier this year, the book was translated by Andrew Bromfield and its foreword was written by Susan B. Glasser, a former Moscow correspondent for The Washington Post.
"Home-Made" features a wide range of characters. There is a foul-mouthed farmer from the Kaluga region who made a whip of old belts to scare his cattle. Then there is an arty young Muscovite who plays a guitar fashioned from rough pieces of wood because "the sound it makes is wild -- you can never tell what it'll do next." One Moscow region woman still cherishes a corduroy dachshund she made at Pioneer camp. There is also a clever sewing accessory: a water bottle that holds spools on different levels to prevent thread from tangling.
The objects in Arkhipov's collection recall the ready-mades of Marcel Duchamp, who shook up the art world in the 1910s by submitting a bicycle wheel and a urinal to exhibitions. But Duchamp left the makers of ready-mades anonymous, whereas Arkhipov tells the stories of each individual creator. Duchamp was ultimately interested in challenging the definition of art. His dry intellectual play set the tone for much of the art that followed in the 20th century, but this tone bothers Arkhipov; it is what compelled him to work in a medium that he thinks is more honest.
To label the works he collects, Arkhipov often uses the word tvorchestvo, or creative work. He likes to point out that it has the same root as tvorets, or creator, whereas the word for art, iskusstvo, shares its etymology with the biblical word for temptation, iskus.
"Today, when most artists do not believe in anything, they make art. There is no creation left in art. So what is an honest artist to do?" Arkhipov writes in his book. "Since I require a viewer and I am doomed to self-conscious aesthetic reflection, I cannot be absolutely honest and sincere. But I know that every day hundreds of millions of people discover their connection with God in some way when they create."
At the same time, Arkhipov realizes that displaying homemade appliances in museums and galleries blurs his own distinctions. His project can change the way the creators perceive their handiwork. "Sometimes they're not sure if they can use their things after they've been in an exhibition," Arkhipov said at his talk. "They think, 'Maybe I should hang this on the wall.' "
"Home-Made: Contemporary Russian Folk Artifacts" is published by Fuel.