Working with Unconventional Materials in Art

Materials mean something before you do anything with them. Shea butter carries associations with care, cultural tradition, and specific communities. Burnt wood references fire, destruction, and transformation. Cassette tape evokes obsolescence and analog memory. When Rashid Johnson uses shea butter in paintings or Gregor Hildebrandt builds works from cassette tape, these materials bring their associations and physical properties directly into the work. The question for artists considering unconventional materials isn't whether to use them but when they serve your concepts better than traditional options.

Unconventional doesn't mean weird for weirdness's sake. It means materials whose associations, physical properties, or cultural meanings do conceptual work beyond being vehicles for applying color or creating form. Traditional materials like oil paint or bronze are relatively neutral—they can serve almost any subject or idea. Unconventional materials are specific. They already mean something, and you're working with or against those existing meanings.

This specificity creates both opportunity and limitation. When materials do conceptual work, they strengthen ideas that connect to their associations or properties. But they also constrain what you can address effectively. You can't make just anything from chewing gum or blood or discarded lottery tickets. The materials push certain directions and resist others. Understanding when this push serves your work versus limiting it determines whether unconventional materials strengthen practice or become gimmicks.

When Materials Serve Concepts

Alberto Burri, working in the 1950s and 60s, used burlap, wood, and plastic in paintings that blurred boundaries between painting and relief sculpture. These weren't random choices. Burri, trained as a physician, brought medical thinking to materials—suturing burlap like skin, treating canvas like a body that could be wounded and repaired. His Combustioni Plastica series used burned plastic, applying flame to create melted, scorched surfaces that referenced both destruction and transformation.

The unconventional materials did specific work. Burlap's coarseness and association with industrial use created different meanings than canvas. The burns and melts weren't effects you could achieve with paint—they were actual material transformations. Burri's medical background connected to his material choices through both technique (suturing) and concept (treating surfaces as bodies). This alignment between material, method, and meaning demonstrates how unconventional materials serve work when everything connects.

Janine Antoni made Gnaw (1992)—two 600-pound cubes, one chocolate and one lard, that she literally gnawed, removing material with her teeth over time. The remnants became lipstick and chocolate boxes displayed alongside the damaged cubes. The work addresses consumption, femininity, beauty standards, and bodily processes in ways that wouldn't function with traditional materials. You need the actual chocolate and lard. You need the evidence of teeth and process. The materials aren't standing in for something else—they're doing the work directly.

This directness distinguishes materials serving concepts from materials as gimmicks. When Tara Donovan creates installations from plastic cups, drinking straws, or pins, the everyday materials aren't shocking or novel for their own sake. Their accumulation creates unexpected visual effects—organic forms from manufactured objects, monumentality from disposable items. The materials' ordinariness matters to the work's meaning about transformation through repetition and scale.

For artists considering unconventional materials, the test involves asking what the material does that alternatives can't. If you could achieve similar effects or meanings with traditional materials, the unconventional choice might be arbitrary. If the material's specific properties, associations, or behaviors are essential to what you're making, then it's serving the work rather than decorating it.

Physical Properties vs. Cultural Associations

Materials operate through two distinct channels—their physical properties and their cultural associations. Physical properties include how materials behave, age, respond to manipulation, interact with light, smell, or change over time. Cultural associations involve what materials mean to viewers based on shared experience and context. Strong work with unconventional materials often engages both channels.

El Anatsui uses discarded bottle caps and metal scraps to create massive, shimmering wall sculptures that resemble fabric despite being metal. The physical properties matter—the way metal catches light, how individual pieces connect flexibly despite being rigid material, the weight and presence of thousands of small elements combined. But the cultural associations equally matter—aluminum bottle caps reference consumption, commerce, waste, and specifically African contexts where these materials accumulate.

The work succeeds through both channels simultaneously. Purely formal appreciation of the shimmering surfaces works. But understanding the materials' sources and meanings adds layers about global trade, consumption patterns, and transformation of waste into value. Neither reading dominates or invalidates the other. The physical and cultural dimensions reinforce each other.

Marc Quinn's Self series uses ten pints of his own blood frozen in a refrigerated case to create self-portrait sculptures. The physical properties—blood's color, viscosity, the need for refrigeration—create specific visual and spatial qualities. But the cultural associations of blood as life essence, as literally part of the artist's body, as substance loaded with medical and symbolic meanings, drive the work's conceptual impact. You can't separate the physical from the cultural here. They're inseparable aspects of how the material functions.

For artists choosing materials, consideration of both properties and associations prevents one-dimensional thinking. A material with interesting physical properties but irrelevant associations might not strengthen work. A material with loaded associations but unworkable physical properties creates practical problems. Finding materials where both aspects serve your concepts produces the strongest results.

Some materials lean more heavily toward one channel. Resin's physical properties—transparency, ability to suspend objects, color possibilities—dominate its function in much work. The material doesn't carry heavy cultural baggage, so it serves primarily formal and physical purposes. Blood or hair or religious objects carry such strong associations that their physical properties become secondary. Most unconventional materials operate somewhere between these extremes, engaging both channels in varying proportions.

Testing and Technical Challenges

Working with unconventional materials creates practical problems traditional materials solved decades or centuries ago. You can't just look up proper techniques for working with chewing gum or burnt plastic. Artists using these materials develop methods through trial and error, often failing repeatedly before finding workable approaches.

Maurizio Savini, who creates sculptures from chewing gum, had his first exhibition collapse after three months because sugar in the gum destroyed the foundation. He now uses unche wed gum heated and molded rather than actually chewed pieces, and he's developed methods for maintaining structural integrity. But arriving at these solutions required failures and experimentation that traditional sculptural materials wouldn't demand.

The testing phase for unconventional materials serves multiple purposes beyond solving technical problems. It reveals what the materials can and can't do, teaching you their possibilities and limitations. This knowledge shapes what you can attempt. Testing also helps determine whether a material's conceptual appeal outweighs its practical difficulties. Some materials that seem perfect conceptually prove unworkable physically, forcing choices between compromising the concept or accepting significant technical challenges.

Documentation during testing matters more with unconventional materials than traditional ones. You're not following established procedures—you're developing them. Recording what works and fails creates knowledge base you'll return to repeatedly. This documentation might eventually help other artists working with similar materials, but primarily it serves your own ongoing practice.

Safety considerations increase with unconventional materials. Traditional art materials have known hazards and established safety protocols. Unconventional materials might involve unknown risks. Working with blood requires biohazard precautions. Burning plastic creates toxic fumes. Some found materials contain contaminants or deteriorate unpredictably. You're responsible for understanding and mitigating these risks rather than relying on standardized safety information.

The time investment in material testing affects whether unconventional materials make sense for your practice. If you're working on a single piece using unusual materials, the learning curve might consume more time than the actual making. If unconventional materials become ongoing practice, the upfront testing investment pays off across multiple works. This timing consideration isn't about taking shortcuts but about realistic assessment of what sustained experimentation requires.

Archival Concerns and Aging

Most unconventional materials weren't designed for permanence in art contexts. They age, deteriorate, or change in ways traditional materials don't. This creates questions about conservation and whether longevity matters to your work's function and meaning.

Some artists embrace impermanence as part of the work's meaning. Felix Gonzalez-Torres(https://www.moma.org/artists/2474)' candy spill pieces deteriorate by design—viewers take candy, the pile shrinks, it gets replenished. The work's meaning includes this cycle of depletion and renewal. The materials' impermanence serves the concept rather than creating a problem to solve.

Other artists want work to last but use materials that resist preservation. Eva Hesse used latex, fiberglass, and other materials that age poorly. Her work now presents conservation challenges—pieces yellow, crack, or deteriorate despite museums' best efforts. Hesse knew materials' impermanence but prioritized their properties and meanings over longevity. This choice creates ongoing conservation problems but doesn't diminish the work's significance.

The archival question involves whether your work's meaning depends on physical preservation. Some work exists primarily through documentation, with physical pieces being temporary installations or performances. Some work's concepts require material presence that lasts. And some work occupies middle ground where physical longevity matters but isn't essential to all the work's meanings.

Museums and collectors increasingly expect artists using unconventional materials to provide preservation guidance—ideal conditions, expected lifespan, acceptable interventions if deterioration occurs. If you're working toward institutional collection or commercial sale, this documentation becomes part of your responsibility. If you're making work outside those systems, archival concerns might not apply.

The practical reality involves accepting that unconventional materials create uncertainties traditional materials avoid. You might not know how work will age. Materials might interact unpredictably. What seems stable during making might deteriorate faster than expected. These uncertainties are features rather than bugs when the materials serve your concepts, but they're factors to consider when choosing materials.

Found vs. Purchased Unconventional Materials

Some unconventional materials come from finding and collecting—discarded objects, natural materials, trash, or everyday items accumulated over time. Other unconventional materials require purchase, often in quantities or forms not designed for art use. This distinction affects both practical logistics and the work's meaning.

Found materials carry specificity from their origins. When Tom Deininger creates paintings from beach trash and discarded objects, the materials' sources matter to the work's environmental concerns. Using purchased simulations of trash would undermine the concept. The finding process becomes part of the work, even though viewers don't witness it. Time spent collecting materials shapes your relationship to both the materials and the work they become.

Found materials also create unpredictability—you work with what you find rather than specifying exactly what you need. This limitation forces adaptation and can generate directions you wouldn't have chosen working with controlled materials. The constraint becomes generative rather than just restrictive.

Purchased unconventional materials offer more control but different meanings. When Damien Hirst creates works with dead animals in formaldehyde, the animals are purchased specifically for art use. This changes the work's relationship to death, preservation, and spectacle compared to found dead animals. Neither approach is inherently better, but the distinction affects meaning.

Some materials exist in both categories. Cassette tapes can be collected from thrift stores and yard sales or purchased in bulk from suppliers. The choice between found and purchased affects more than just sourcing—it changes your relationship to the materials and potentially their meanings in the work. Found tapes carry more specificity about their origins and previous use. Purchased blanks are more neutral but offer consistency.

The labor of finding versus purchasing also affects practice. Collecting materials requires time and often produces surplus—more than you'll use for current work but potentially valuable for future pieces. This creates storage challenges but also builds material vocabularies. Purchasing for specific projects is more efficient but doesn't develop the ongoing relationship with materials that collecting does.

When Unconventional Materials Become Traditional

Some materials enter art use as unconventional choices but become established enough to no longer be surprising. Collage materials, found objects, and industrial materials that were radical in early 20th century avant-garde practices are now conventional options in contemporary art education and practice.

This normalization process changes how materials function. When Marcel Duchamp presented a urinal as sculpture in 1917, the object's displacement from functional context to art context created the work's meaning. When contemporary artists use found objects, this displacement no longer carries the same charge. The strategy has become familiar enough that it needs stronger conceptual frameworks to generate similar impact.

Some unconventional materials retain their charge longer because they're harder to acquire, more dangerous to work with, or more culturally loaded. Blood, human hair, religious objects, or materials with strong political associations resist normalization because they maintain their specificity and resonance even as art audiences become familiar with their use.

The practical implication involves recognizing that material choices made thirty or fifty years ago that were genuinely radical might not function the same way now. If you're choosing unconventional materials because they seem transgressive or surprising, that effect degrades as audiences become familiar with the strategy. The materials need to serve concepts beyond shock value or novelty to maintain relevance as they become more common in contemporary practice.

This doesn't mean avoiding materials just because they've been used before. It means understanding that materials' cultural functions change over time and adjusting your use accordingly. A material that was unconventional when Rauschenberg used it might be conventional now, requiring different conceptual framing to remain effective.

Material Specificity and Audience Understanding

Some unconventional materials require cultural knowledge to recognize their significance. When Adebunmi Gbadebo uses soil from former slave plantations or Diné artist Cannupa Hanska Luger incorporates materials specific to indigenous contexts, the materials' meanings depend partly on viewers recognizing their sources and significance.

This creates a double function—the work operates visually and physically for all viewers, but full understanding requires specific cultural knowledge. The question becomes whether work should be fully legible to all audiences or whether some meanings can remain specific to viewers with relevant cultural context.

Most artists working with culturally specific unconventional materials provide some contextual information through titles, statements, or exhibition labels. But the work doesn't explain itself completely—it expects viewers to meet it partway. This is true for all art to some degree, but unconventional materials with cultural specificity increase the knowledge gap between informed and uninformed viewing.

The risk involves materials' meanings becoming invisible to viewers unfamiliar with their significance. If you're using soil from a specific location because that location's history matters to your work, but viewers just see generic dirt, the material's conceptual function fails. Balancing between work that requires extensive explanation and work that operates purely through visual and physical properties determines how materials function for different audiences.

Some artists solve this through making the materials' sources visible in the work itself—incorporating labels, text, or contextual elements that provide information without requiring external explanation. Others accept that full understanding requires engagement beyond immediate viewing. Neither solution is universally better—it depends on your priorities regarding accessibility and legibility.

Practical Considerations for Studio Practice

Working with unconventional materials changes studio logistics significantly. Traditional painting or sculpture studios accommodate established materials' requirements—ventilation for solvents, storage for paintings, workspace for messy processes. Unconventional materials create unique demands.

Food-based materials like chocolate or candy attract pests and require climate control. Blood requires biohazard protocols and proper disposal. Large quantities of found objects need substantial storage. Materials that off-gas require ventilation beyond standard studio setups. Each material creates specific practical requirements that affect where and how you can work.

The workspace demands influence material choices as much as conceptual concerns. If your studio can't accommodate materials' requirements, you either modify the studio, choose different materials, or work in alternative locations. Artists using unconventional materials often develop non-traditional studio relationships—working in specific locations for specific projects rather than maintaining consistent studio spaces.

Equipment needs also differ. Traditional art materials have established tool ecosystems. Unconventional materials might require improvised tools, modified equipment, or entirely new implements. The development of these tools becomes part of your practice, sometimes taking as much time as the actual making.

Material costs vary wildly for unconventional options. Some found materials are free aside from collection labor. Some purchased unconventional materials cost substantially more than traditional equivalents. Resin, for instance, can exceed paint costs significantly. Metals or specialized materials might be expensive in quantities needed for large works. These cost considerations affect what's feasible, especially early in careers or for larger-scale projects.

Supplier relationships matter differently with unconventional materials. Traditional art suppliers don't stock everything—you might source materials from industrial suppliers, specialty manufacturers, or unconventional retail environments. Building knowledge about where materials come from and how to acquire them becomes ongoing practical work alongside the artistic practice itself.

Documentation Challenges

Unconventional materials often photograph poorly or resist reproduction in ways that make documentation difficult. Shiny metal surfaces might read as flat in photos. Textures created by accumulated small elements might not translate to two-dimensional images. Scale relationships that work in person might not communicate through documentation.

This documentation challenge affects how work circulates beyond direct viewing. Gallery and museum websites, publications, and online portfolios all rely on images. If your work doesn't photograph well, you're at disadvantage in systems that prioritize visual documentation. This isn't reason to avoid unconventional materials, but it's factor to consider and potentially address through better photography or alternative documentation strategies.

Video documentation sometimes works better than still images for materials with specific physical properties—reflectivity, transparency, or temporal changes. But video requires different skills and creates different presentation challenges. Not all venues accept video documentation, and not all viewers engage with it as readily as still images.

Some artists address documentation challenges by treating documentation as separate artistic problem requiring specific attention and skills. Professional documentation becomes investment in making work accessible beyond direct viewing. Other artists accept that work exists primarily through direct experience and treat documentation as secondary supplement rather than primary way audiences encounter the work.

The documentation issue also affects materials' selection in practice. Materials that photograph well create advantages in contemporary art world where images circulate far more widely than physical works. This doesn't mean choosing materials primarily for documentation, but it's reality that affects how work gets seen and understood beyond galleries and studios.

When Unconventional Materials Make Sense

Several conditions suggest unconventional materials might serve your practice better than traditional alternatives. First, when the materials' specific associations or properties connect directly to your conceptual concerns in ways traditional materials don't. Second, when working with these materials reveals aspects of your subjects that standard materials would miss. Third, when the materials' unfamiliarity forces new approaches that traditional materials' established techniques don't encourage.

Unconventional materials also make sense when you have genuine relationships to them—through professional background, cultural identity, or sustained engagement. Burri's medical training informed his approach to burlap and burning. Antoni's feminist concerns connected to her use of chocolate and lard. These relationships between materials and meaning prevent choices from feeling arbitrary or purely strategic.

The materials should also be practically workable within your studio situation and skill set. Ambitious material choices that exceed your technical abilities or facilities create frustration rather than strong work. Better to work successfully with manageable unconventional materials than fail with impossible ones.

Finally, unconventional materials make sense when you're committed to sustained engagement rather than one-off experiments. The learning curve and technical development required reward ongoing practice more than occasional use. Artists who build practices around specific unconventional materials typically produce stronger work than those who try different materials for each project.

When Traditional Materials Work Better

Many situations call for traditional materials despite attractions of unconventional alternatives. When your concepts don't specifically require loaded materials or unusual properties, traditional options offer technical knowledge, established suppliers, and predictable behavior without fighting material limitations.

Traditional materials also work better when documentation matters significantly to how your work circulates. Paint photographs reliably. Canvas doesn't create archival nightmares. Bronze lasts centuries without special intervention. These practical advantages matter for artists working toward institutional collection or commercial gallery contexts where conservation and reproduction are essential.

If you're developing fundamental skills in painting, drawing, or sculpture, traditional materials let you focus on core techniques without simultaneously solving material challenges. The technical baseline traditional materials provide supports learning in ways unconventional materials' unpredictability doesn't.

Traditional materials' relative neutrality also serves certain conceptual approaches. When materials should recede to let subject, composition, or other factors dominate, neutral vehicles work better than materials that assert their own meanings. Not every concept benefits from materials with strong associations.

Moving Forward

Working with unconventional materials successfully requires clarity about why specific materials serve your work better than traditional alternatives. The materials' physical properties, cultural associations, and practical behaviors should all connect to what you're trying to make and say. When these factors align, unconventional materials strengthen work substantially. When materials are unconventional for their own sake, they become distractions rather than assets.

The artists whose unconventional material use remains significant typically develop sustained relationships with their chosen materials. They learn what materials can do through extended experimentation. They solve technical problems that arise. They understand materials' cultural meanings and associations well enough to work with or against them purposefully. This depth of engagement separates gimmicky material use from serious practice.

For artists considering whether unconventional materials belong in their work, the questions to ask involve whether the materials do something necessary that alternatives can't, whether you're willing to solve the technical problems they create, and whether their associations and properties genuinely serve your concepts. When answers align, unconventional materials can transform practice. When they don't, traditional materials' efficiency and reliability might serve better.

The contemporary art world values material innovation, but innovation for its own sake produces hollow results. Materials choices should follow from conceptual necessity rather than desires to be novel or shocking. The strongest work with unconventional materials doesn't announce its unusualness—it uses materials so purposefully that their specific properties and meanings become inseparable from what the work does and means.