Utopian Objects and Material Fiction: Laura Dominici Designs the Art of Idleness

In "Neckroll" and "The State of Idleness," you work with plaster, pigments, and glue. Can you explain the technical challenges involved in shaping and finishing these pieces, especially without molds?

The Idleness Pillows are modelled and carved entirely by hand. Since plaster hardens quickly, I add glue to slow the process, though time is still limited. At a certain point, the plaster heats up and becomes rock hard. What I don't manage to do while modelling, I refine later by carving. The longest part is the sanding, where I aim for a surface with a stone-like appearance. Starting with 100 grit sandpaper, I gradually work my way up to 5000 grit.

The monotonous rhythm of sanding, with its sound and the emerging marbled pattern, is a great way to let the mind wander and fall into a trance-like state.

What happens during the process can be seen in the finished objects — pillows that hold the imprint of idleness that won't fade. During idleness, the most important thing is what happens inside the head. This is invisible. But what is visible are the imprints of static body positions, like the traces of elbows in a pillow on a window bench.

These sculptures are meant to accompany the user as they think. Each pillow has its own user manual.

Neckroll is a new addition to the Idleness Pillows. It is a small series for which I partly use a mould. While the shape and colours can be reproduced, the pattern is unique to each piece.

Terrazzo, used in projects like "Zeitscheiben," is traditionally a flooring material. What drove you to use it sculpturally?

Terrazzo is usually used as flooring, but in Zeitscheiben, I use it as a display case. It's made from cement, water, and aggregates (such as sand or stones), which are revealed through sanding to create the characteristic surface.

In Zeitscheiben, I use whole ceramic objects—cups, bowls, piggy banks, figurines—as aggregates. These are moulded into cubes, forming display cases that are then cut open, revealing the cross-sections of the embedded objects, which appear differently with each cut. A view with new eyes.

For my diploma at the Angewandte, I explored this idea further by sawing the display case by hand, emphasizing the idea that seeing differently takes time. I documented the process in a series of four episodes, each showing a different cut and offering deeper insight.

Your use of fractional sandblasting on glass in "Hello" alters its transparency and texture. How do you control this process?

Hello Lamp is made from mouth-blown glass in the Czech Republic. I collaborated with a local craftsman to achieve the fractional sandblasting. The clear areas are masked and protected during sandblasting.

This experimental work focuses on shaping and directing light. I imagined the non-sandblasted areas as the faces of the lamp heads. Depending on their position, the light changes—almost as if they were communicating.

How do you test the ergonomic and functional aspects of conceptual pieces like "Magic Tapestry"?

Magic Tapestry is a conceptual object that also functions as furniture. It addresses the changing nature of work, particularly the rise of hot desking in open-plan offices. As personal workspaces vanish, I imagined a scenario with no physical furniture at all.

I tested tapestry and board sizes and experimented with materials to ensure the piece remained minimal yet functional.

It is a handwoven carpet (using local wool from Haslach, Austria) and a small board of anodised aluminium. It can be hung, carried, or unfolded to become a cross-legged workspace.

Many of your works deal with imagination and fiction, as in "Tulips." What is the role of materiality in manifesting these narratives?

I aim to create utopian objects that spark the viewer's imagination. Materiality—its haptic and visual aspects—has the power to evoke fiction. My pieces use slow production techniques that demand time to both make and experience.

Tulips – Prospect of Something Fantastic is built around this idea. The viewer’s imagination is the real space where it exists. The bulbs are hand-carved and sanded, made from fantasy marble—a mix of plaster, pigment, and glue. Their soft, colourful surfaces invite exploration.

Inspired by 17th-century Dutch tulip mania, when speculative trade surrounded tulips, I reimagine the bulb as an object of desire and fiction. The idea of value—and its shifts—is central. For instance, Scagliola, once a cheap imitation of marble, is now more valuable than the original due to its labour-intensive process.

"Magic Tapestry" creates a portable workspace. How do you design objects that respond to the evolving relationship between technology, personal space, and physical design?

The evolving role of technology is reflected not only in the function of the object but also in its materials and manufacturing process.

Historically, tapestries were part of a wandering kingdom’s household goods, carried from palace to palace and used as thermal insulation and decor. I imagined today’s laptop users as modern-day wanderers, ruling businesses from cafés and coworking spaces.

The weaving aspect links past and present. Weaving was among the first crafts automated during industrialization, notably by the Jacquard loom, which used a binary punch card system—an early form of computation. That shift reduced production time and caused massive job losses, triggering uprisings.

The tapestries are hand-woven by me using local Austrian wool, with dates woven in to show how long the process takes—contrasting it with the digital work that later happens on it.

The anodised aluminium board evokes the look and feel of a laptop. Once unrolled, the carpet opens a room, marks territory, and grounds the user in a digital world. It becomes a workspace in motion—one that you can carry, unroll, and reclaim.

You often use plaster, a material known for its versatility but also fragility. How do you ensure the durability of your pieces?

My plaster work is rooted in traditional stucco techniques. I add glue to the mix—not only to delay setting but to also strengthen the material. I densify the surface with multiple rounds of sanding and filling.

Once completely dry, I seal the surface with poppy seed oil. This not only protects the surface but also enhances the colours.

Though not scratch-resistant, these objects will last indefinitely if not exposed to prolonged moisture. For items meant to be touched, I leave the surface unpolished for a velvety texture. For non-interactive pieces, I polish the surface to a shiny finish, increasing its hardness.

In projects like "Tulips," you examine value tied to expectation. In a consumer-driven design economy, how do you address the ethical implications of this?

Yes, Tulips is directly inspired by tulip mania, when expectation created value—even for flowers that never existed. The anticipation, not the object itself, held the real worth.

I’m not trying to undermine ownership or value, but to question their origins. In today's consumer culture, ethical responsibility includes using materials wisely, but also reflecting on what makes something valuable in the first place. Is it the object, the promise, or the projection?