Beholding Simone Post’s artwork is impressive in its own right, but learning her thought process behind it adds another dimension entirely. Post is doing much more than playing around with unconventional materials like candy and marshmallows, though on the surface that’s the crux of her practice. This materiality is central to her creativity, as the found and repurposed media she works in speaks through her and informs precisely what she makes in her sculptures, immersive experiences, and installations world-wide. Working with unexpected and unpredictable materials like marshmallows, that have a life of their own and change over time, has inspired Post to consider themes like impermanence in her work, and the beauty within what’s fleeting.
Post reflects beautifully on her work and these ideas below.
Where did your interest in using unconventional, highly tactile materials originate? What are your favorite materials to work with and why?
I’ve always been drawn to materials that already carry a story. Growing up, my mother taught sewing classes at home, so I was surrounded by fabrics, patterns and sewing machines from an early age. Making things by hand simply felt like a natural language to me. Over time, that curiosity expanded beyond textiles into all kinds of everyday materials, but somehow textiles always form its base.
I’ve always been drawn to materials that already carry a story.
I’m particularly interested in materials that are often overlooked or considered temporary. Marshmallows, discarded textiles, worn objects—they all have a certain vulnerability that immediately tells us something about time. They’re soft, fragile, imperfect and constantly changing. I don’t try to hide those qualities; I embrace them.
For me, the material is never just a material. It already contains meaning. Through working with it intensively—sometimes for months—I get to know it intimately. I like that slow process of discovering what a material wants to become. The making itself becomes a way of thinking.
I like that slow process of discovering what a material wants to become. The making itself becomes a way of thinking.
What are some of the main challenges you face in using these sorts of unconventional materials, especially at such a large scale?
The biggest challenge is that unconventional materials don’t come with instructions. There isn’t a handbook explaining how thousands of marshmallows behave over time, or how discarded textiles can become a monumental architectural installation. Every project starts almost like a research experiment.
I usually spend a long time developing techniques before I even begin making the final work. Because many of the materials I use are soft, fragile or unpredictable, I have to invent construction methods that allow them to exist on a much larger scale while still preserving their character.
Ironically, I hate and enjoy that uncertainty at the same time. It forces me to stay curious and to collaborate with the material rather than trying to control it completely. I think that openness is also connected to what the work is about. Life isn’t fixed either. Things change, age, and sometimes resist our plans. My materials constantly remind me of that, and, of course, I am also sometimes just frustrated that things are sticky, melting, and that time changes everything.
What’s your workspace like? I’m imagining a massive room filled with candy!
People often expect my studio to be overflowing with candy, and sometimes it actually is. But just as often it’s filled with mountains of textiles, ceramic tests, color samples, prototypes, and half-finished experiments.
I like my studio to function as a place for discovery. It’s somewhere between a workshop, a laboratory, and a playground. There are always materials lying around waiting to be combined in unexpected ways. I don’t separate thinking from making very much. Most ideas emerge while my hands are busy.
I don’t separate thinking from making very much. Most ideas emerge while my hands are busy.
The atmosphere is quite analogue. I love simple techniques and working directly with materials. Spending time with them teaches me things that I could never discover by sketching alone. The space is always changing, but, yes, there is almost always a wall filled with boxes of sorted candies.
Can you elaborate on growing up in such a creative environment, with your mom teaching sewing classes in your home? How did that influence you as a person and artist?
Looking back, I realize how formative it was. Sewing machines were simply part of everyday life. People came to our house to learn how to make things, to repair clothing, or to experiment with fabrics. Creativity wasn’t presented as something extraordinary—it was just something you did.
That environment taught me to value making with your hands. It also taught me patience. Sewing is a slow process that requires attention, and I think that way of working still underlies everything I do today.
Rather than forcing an idea onto a material, I’m interested in discovering what becomes possible through working with it closely.
Although my work has moved far beyond textiles, that early experience shaped how I relate to materials. I still approach them with curiosity and respect. Rather than forcing an idea onto a material, I’m interested in discovering what becomes possible through working with it closely.
There’s also something very hopeful about making. You take ordinary things—sometimes things that have been discarded—and imagine a completely different future for them. That has stayed with me throughout my practice.
But at the same time, my parents were very against me going to pursue a professional career in making. My mother had a very hard time earning money. My grandmother mandated that she start working in a textile factory when she was 13 years old, while she actually wanted to study like her brothers. So when I was young, it didn’t seem like something to really aim for if you also had other options.
What are some of your favorite projects or installations that you think best reflect who you are as an artist?
I think each project represents a different aspect of my practice, but the Marshmallow Chandelier for Venice is certainly an important one. It combines visual exuberance with an extremely fragile material. People are often first attracted by its beauty or sense of wonder, and only afterwards begin to think about its impermanence. That layered experience is something I always hope to achieve.
My large textile installations are equally important because they reveal my fascination with labour, repetition, and transformation. Spending months weaving together discarded or everyday materials becomes a way of giving them new value. From a distance, the works can feel almost monumental, but up close, they remain incredibly tactile and intimate.
More recently, I’ve also become increasingly interested in architecture and creating environments that people physically move through. I like the idea that a work isn’t simply looked at but experienced with the whole body.
What sort of message or commentary would you say you are making with your art practice?
I don’t think of my work as delivering a single message. I’m much more interested in creating experiences that encourage people to pause and look differently.
If there is an underlying thread, it’s probably the idea that life is an ongoing lesson in letting go. Everything changes—our bodies, our surroundings, the objects we keep, the things we lose. Rather than resisting that impermanence, I’m interested in embracing it. I think there’s something surprisingly hopeful in accepting that nothing remains the same.
In a world that often celebrates permanence, speed, and perfection, I’m interested in softness, tactility, care, and transformation.
That’s also why I work with materials that are soft, temporary, or have already lived another life. They remind us that vulnerability isn’t something to hide. In a world that often celebrates permanence, speed, and perfection, I’m interested in softness, tactility, care, and transformation.
I hope my work invites people to experience those ideas through the materials themselves. The works are colourful, playful, and seductive, but beneath that, they ask us to reconsider what we value, what we hold onto, and how we might find beauty in things that are constantly changing.
But at the same time, it is also just my way of dealing with all this uncertainty.
