AM: You seem to move away from traditional materials moving between nylon and latex, and painting for example.
LC:Yes, when I studied Social Anthropology I came across Levi Strauss’ definition of bricolage 
(from “The Savage Mind”) as an unorthodox way of working. He uses the term to describe an approach that is
‘hands on’ or intuitive. The bricoleur does not use formal tools appropriate for a specific task. 
Instead you grab whatever’s at hand and collage it together. I think I am especially experimental when it
comes to materials for performances… Recently I have been interested in using muslin, ink and starch paste to make 
top hats. I always use a lot of cardboard and latex, and I couldn’t live without my glue gun, and I recently had a
breakthrough with plumbing piping.


AM: And when constructing a performance, linking together these totally disparate subjects, how do you
form a narrative?  They often feel well thought out, but still random.
LC: This is the best way to describe them. I research them heavily, but at the same time there is completely 
random association. There’s a little bit of Hokusai’s octopus, next to the Emperor Nero’s sex life, next 
to Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell. In trying to get a balance of what you are presenting, the cultural references should 
be jarring but also self-referential enough for someone to make the associations and yet also enjoy the obvious
juxtapositions. It’s meant to be read quite easily like the way people dissect advertising.


AM: You also make these playbills that help give the audience direction.
LC: The booklets give the original source material, for example a section of text from the book that I’ve researched 
or images. Also it’s really important to give the credit list. I’m pretty sure the secret to collaborating is giving full
credit to the parts that make the whole.


AM: In terms of the performances there is a definite amateurish quality. Could you talk a little about who the
participants are and what the preparations are for the execution?
LC: I guess the main thing is that the performers are not professional. Most of the performers are friends, family or 
people who I’ve met out dancing in clubs. The casting is important. It’s important for me that the people that turn up 
can see how the costumes are made, and the effort that has gone into them, but also to see that
someone’s been cast really well. That might sound bizarre, but if, say, someone looks disturbingly like the Hulk or 
makes the most fantastic poodle in their physical shape, and is also really willing to do it, someone in the
audience could pick up on that and enjoy it. So yes, casting is important because there is a sensitivity
to the role that each of the performers play. You can pick up on the feeling that someone’s excited about doing what 
they’re doing, like being in a poodle costume. It is important that there are some subtle and well thought out
aspects to hold it together.


AM: Since there is usually only one rehearsal, a lot of the role-playing seems left to intuition.
There is an interesting slipping between the role and self-consciousness within the role…
LC:Yes, this comes from Brecht’s theater in the round, where you don’t suspend belief, the difference
of changing in front of someone and stating that you are now representing a role. 
Someone saying, “I’m going to be the old woman” and putting on the costume in front of the audience is
the same as a performer being in character and then pausing to sip a beer or check their phone.
I use simple structures to lay out a pattern for performers to work within.
These are ‘hooks’ offering something to hold on to within the performance, such as a square drawn on the
floor; the performers know that within their expressive ecstasy, when the music changes, they should get to the 
next corner. There’s a balance between giving them enough information so that they feel like they know what they’re
doing but not so much as to take away improvisation and cause the need for more rehearsal.

AM:You tend to use the audience with a notion of active spectatorship, engaging far beyond them merely looking. 
How does that relate to something like The Walk to Dover which is disengaged with no audience at all?
LC: It really was a case of the romantic gesture of leaving the city and walking into the countryside.
The audience participation could be in following the Walk in their mind’s eye, the romantic notion of knowing that 
we were walking. Similar to the land artists, it was like leaving the gallery. 
Anyone could have joined and walked with us. One group of kids on bikes got down on their knees and gave us
“Wayne’s World” salutes as we walked through their estate. The crucial part of the work was really
the actual walking. I realize now, if I do anything like that again I will bear in mind that you don’t need any sort of 
performance, it can be totally ephemeral, like a gesture.


AM:With Dover you were separating yourself completely from the safety of the art context, and then suddenly you’ve 
passersby, people in their cars… In a more formal setting, for instance what you did with Cousin Itt in The
Walker Gallery, Liverpool, giving guided tours to an uninitiated and uninformed public, wasn’t there a  certain 
unpredictability to the situation?
LC: I thought I had hedged my bets by using someone like Cousin Itt. He’s meant to be a hit with the ladies. 
You know, to be set at ease, because he’s so comic, he’s all hair! Similarly with Jabba, when I look at him he is 
a lovable monster. Not menacing in any way. His little grim mouth is ridiculous. In my opinion Jabba and Cousin Itt 
are real communicators!


AM: With Jabba it was quite a particular situation as you were hosting a forum for talking about world politics…
LC: Yes, he is meant to be talking about world affairs. The human language he knows is Farsi.
The incredibly sexy female who translates Jabba’s Farsi into English is the Sunday Times correspondent for Iran. 
To be honest I seem to have a natural link with a non-art audience as I use source material that is from popular culture.
When I was at college, the people who went crazy about my work were the security guards.
What is an uninformed audience anyway? I don’t think you need to be art educated to be able to analyze advertising. 
It’s a normal enough part of anyone’s day-to-day skills


AM: You get your audience to somehow be in character, whether it’s the guest of a to0ur, or the participant on a round 
table on world politics. With the Iron Age Pasta Necklace Workshop (2005) at Artissima in Turin you
were shattering social hierarchies by humiliating collectors with your characters. 
There is a definite softening of the austerity of a subject.
LC: It’s a case of trying to make something that’s erudite and academic, and out of sight, completely within reach. 
Cousin Itt gave an informed (though translated) gallery tour on George Stubbs. I am trying to make things like
the delicate Roman jewelry in the British Museum accessible, totally goofy and fun, and interesting, disseminating 
information but hopefully not in a condescending way and also not in a way that is totally recognizable.
The problem is, like any format, once it is recognizable it slightly collapses. It’s like that classic Simpsons line when 
Marge Simpson says, “I’m just afraid of the unfamiliar.” It has to have that slight quality of unfamiliarity to be intriguing, 
to allow people to let down their guard and be involved and engaged. I am using lots of established patterns definitely, 
but also looking at what’s of interest at the moment, such as trying to locate a gap between traditional theater and
carnival. Maybe it’s the fact that the art world has had a lot of physical body politic performance and now it’s 
welcoming artists that are using theater as their research source. I’m focusing on what I think is interesting at this 
moment, but not in a calculated or cold way. It’s more intuitive.


AM: Are there any other disciplines that you would like to incorporate in your work?
LC: I’d like to improve my pattern-cutting skills. I’d love to make and wear my own medieval clothes for a whole year. 
I’m also changing my name to Spartacus Chetwynd. 


Aaron Moulton is News Editor of Flash Art.

Lali Chetwynd was born in 1973. She lives and works in London.

Solo shows: 
2007: Giti Nourbakhsch, Berlin; Massimo de Carlo, Milan; Migros Museum, Zurich. 
2004: Millers Terrace, London. Recent performances: 
2006: Delirious, Serpentine Pavilion, London; Humanzee Picnic, BMCA, Blackpool;
'The Fall of Man, Giti Nourbakhsch, Berlin; Debt Counciling, Itchy Park III, Lime House Town Hall, London.

Selected group shows: 2006: “L’Apres-midi d’un Faun,” Eleni Koroneou, Athens; Tate Triennale, London. 
2005: “London in Zurich,” Hauser & Wirth, Zurich; “Bridge Freezes before Road,” Gladstone Gallery, New York; Becks
Futures, ICA, London; “Herald St & The Modern Institute Present,” Gavin Brown’s enterprise, New York; “Other
People’s Projects,” White Columns, New York. 
2004: New Contemporaries, Liverpool/London.