Backstreets in the foreground
Young Brussels-based designer Arnaud Eubelen (31) creates obscure designs that highlight the poetry of the banlieues. He transforms waste from the streets of Brussels into artistic designs that are appreciated by galleries. ‘The city is my material library.’
‘It's pretty empty here at the moment because a lot has been sent out for exhibitions.’ Upon entering Arnaud Eubelen's studio in Molenbeek, the emptiness the designer refers to does not particularly strike us. Glass doors, pieces of scaffolding and wooden planks: materials commonly labelled as waste are scattered in piles. The seemingly carefree designer sits on a homemade bench consisting of bare pieces of concrete, steel and corrugated plastic — the seat. The bench is like a chameleon in the jungle.
Arnaud transforms discarded materials into furniture and objects such as lamps, chairs and sculptures. His work is highly appreciated. It will be exhibited at Paris+ par Art Basel and XXX in London. Art Antwerp is also in the running. Brussels-based Arnaud Eubelen is the new kid on the block.
Why is that? His remarkable intuition for selecting materials. Arnaud looks at waste with a different eye. He sees patina instead of dirt. ‘From the moment a piece of material is thrown away, it devalues and becomes waste,’ he explains. ‘But there is a very specific aesthetic in discarded items. A very specific patina. You get the feeling that the materials have really lived, that they are telling their story. New materials lack that.’ At the end of the day, after a trip through the suburbs of Brussels, I return to his studio to photograph some of his chairs, and I realise that he is not talking nonsense. He plays with patinas, with colours, with the texture of the materials. And his compositions are well thought out and balanced. He is simply good. The kid's got it.
Man on the street
To gather material and inspiration, Arnaud often ventures out into the city. A large part of his design practice therefore consists of... cycling. ‘The best neighbourhoods are Molenbeek and Anderlecht,’ he explains. "It's not that these neighbourhoods are necessarily dirtier, but the people there are used to simply dumping their bulky household waste on the street. The best days are Sundays. That's when everyone cleans their houses. I often cycle at six in the morning, when the streets are very quiet. Because I focus my attention on the rubbish on the pavements, cycling can sometimes be dangerous." It is neither Sunday nor morning, but we set off together on our bikes, and that comment about dangerous cycling is emphasised within five minutes: Arnaud rides like a madman through Brussels traffic and ignores the traffic lights. ‘You have to ride like a taxi driver: in harmony with the dynamics of traffic,’ he says with a laugh.
He often stands on his pedals to survey the streets, his gaze just above the roofs of the parked cars. ‘It works like a flea market; you don't know exactly what you want to buy, but you keep your eyes open for certain things.’ One of those things is glass. ‘It's transparent and has a beautiful light effect. And besides, glass on the street is something you normally avoid. It's dangerous. I find that a nice contradiction. To me, those sparkles are like gold.’ In Molenbeek, we cycle past a round mirror leaning against a façade. No one pays any attention to it except Arnaud. He stops but doesn't pick up the mirror. It's not necessary at the moment. The designer does make me look closely at the seemingly mundane mirror. ‘It forms a large hole in the façade; the trees on the other side are reflected in it.’ An objet trouvé and trompe l'oeil.
Arnaud mainly looks for large piles of rubbish, exactly the kind of thing people would rather not see lying in their street. ‘Now, I don't usually go looking for it consciously, but I scan the streets when I have to go somewhere. If you look for it consciously, you often find nothing. When I need a specific piece, a large wooden plank for example, I can search for three hours and still come home empty-handed.’
Design of the banlieues
When we have just crossed a busy intersection without paying attention to the traffic lights, he points to West Station to indicate that there is often useful rubbish there and explains that building sites are great sources of wood. The way he feels so at home in the slums raises the question of whether it is about more than just gathering materials. ‘I love the working-class neighbourhoods of the city,’ he admits. "The people are more lively there and all the houses look different. Neighbourhoods like Molenbeek and Anderlecht feel real. They are also my living environment. Given that I am mainly guided creatively by what is happening in my immediate surroundings, it is only natural that I use these neighbourhoods as sources of inspiration. I want to bring the atmosphere of these streets into the living room. And create a new image for discarded materials."
Consider his work as design from the slums. Now, he doesn't really glorify the slums to infinity. The designer is well aware that these are places with social and economic challenges. On the other hand, these neighbourhoods have one great quality: they convey a great sense of freedom. There is a certain “je m'en foutisme” because there seems to be nothing to lose here. Call it the freedom of dystopia.
His fascination with dystopia dates back to his childhood. ‘I grew up in Cheratte, a small mining town north of Liège. As a child, the abandoned industrial buildings were my playground and, around the age of eighteen, the subject of my photography. I then attended school in Liège and Brussels before returning to Liège. That city has shaped my practice’. In Liège, he also visited the many abandoned construction sites and industrial buildings — for example, along the Meuse — to hang out and take photographs. His photography would form the starting point for his design. ‘In Liège, I was part of a collective called La Superette. That's where I developed my style by exhibiting there and building furniture for the space. That's also where I got the idea to work effectively with waste from the street, which I hadn't done before.’ Arnaud suddenly realised that raw materials are simply omnipresent. ‘What's more, these raw materials have a direct link to the city. They embody the atmosphere of urbanisation, without you having to force it as a designer. Nowadays, I find buying materials strange. It's too easy. Now I have to work hard to be able to build something.’ In addition to the obvious ecological aspect of reuse, this way of working simply feels more sincere.
Old mechanics
‘An important part of my work consists of immersing myself in this reality,’ he says. Our final stop is the Vossenmarkt in the Marolles, the most famous flea market in the country. Strolling through the market with Arnaud is a different experience. While two tourists marvel at an old analogue camera, Arnaud rummages through cardboard boxes. ‘I come here when I'm looking for something specific, often electrical items or tools.’ He quickly finds what he's looking for: a convex lampshade for four euros. It ends up on his self-constructed, fold-out luggage rack.
‘Just walking around here, seeing all these objects together, gives me ideas. Sometimes the sellers display their wares in an interesting way and unconsciously create good combinations of materials. But I don't buy too much here. It's mainly stuff for indoors. I want the outside world. Otherwise, my work becomes too domestic.’
After rummaging around a bit more, he finds an old catalogue from Yale from 1932, a brand of door locks. He leafs through it, mesmerised. ‘The photos in this book show pretty much how I design,’ he says. Arnaud points to technical drawings where the parts of each lock are clearly visible and separated from each other. Arnaud also deliberately shows the parts and materials in his work. ‘I always try to show the entire anatomy of the object, a bit like an Ikea manual.’ Arnaud is not only concerned with the beauty of old materials, but also that of old, analogue mechanics: the position of a particular bolt, the curve of a wire, the interaction between two plates. Within the almost chaotic mass of materials, the simplicity of the technique resonates. ‘I really use the simplest ways of building. My work is very low-tech.’
Dystopia
We cycle along his “boulevard of stuff”, the XXX. Twice he makes a sharp U-turn to drive down a street he has just passed. His eagle eyes had spotted another mountain of rubbish. And so we find ourselves standing in front of another pile of junk. “How can you suddenly conjure up such a huge pile of rubbish from your house and put it on the street?”, he wonders philosophically. The pile represents a certain despair. But when I look at it long enough, I discern an aesthetic quality: strangely enough, the combination of laminate flooring and bin bags can work particularly well photographically. Arnaud's ideas are beginning to dawn on me too.
Well, a neighbourhood in decline, the average Belgian would think. Arnaud sees the decline of the entire world in it and finds that apocalyptic thought beautiful. His work refers to sci-fi films such as Blade Runner, where darkness and kipple — the word sci-fi writer Philip K. Dick invented to describe ever-growing waste — create the atmosphere. ‘Such end-of-the-world films have a major influence on my practice,’ he admits. "My work also deals with the end of our technological society, when the abundance of materials is over and people have to work with what is available: waste. That is gradually becoming the case. A scarcity is imminent. Building materials have become ridiculously expensive. Initiatives such as Rotor, which recover and sell building materials, will become the norm in the future."
Anti-design
“Haha! Technically speaking, you’re selling street waste to wealthy design enthusiasts,” I remark as we sit in the sun in the heart of Molenbeek eating a three-euro Moroccan pea soup, which we both season with far too much olive oil and chilli powder — great minds think alike. With his robotic design, the young rebel deliberately shows no respect for the prevailing paradigms of the design world: clarity, functionality, craftsmanship and beauty. He fights against the stereotype of sleek, stylised objects. ‘Now, I'm not so much against design education, which has taught me a lot. For me, it's about raising awareness of new ways of producing. Creating from your own economic status and without obstacles such as comfort.’ He rolls a cigarette. ‘I want to open up a new field in this world of stuff. I don't sit down and draw. I cycle around. That's my design process.’ With a burning palate, we return to the studio.
