The 94^th ARTCaffè hosted Anthony Leenders. The artist connected from Gent, Belgium, and the talk was co-hosted by ARTCaffè's connecting node Bernadette Verhaeghe.

Anthony introduced his practice, that aims tocreate a regenerative landscape that invites us to contemplate and guides us to a more harmonized way of living towards our planet. He perceives his creations as playful entities that serve as actors, amplifiers and bridges, connecting our inner and external living environment, with nature as a transient but also bearable catalyst.

‍

Anthony Leenders: To begin, I think it's important to highlight that I work within a system—one that is deeply performance-oriented, where fast culture, rapid responses to media, and the global urgency for change dominate. This context directly relates to the title I chose for today’s talk.

"Rivers Shaping Mountains" is, for me, about acknowledging the inevitable existence of hierarchy—the structures and systems that are not always easily movable, as there will always be a form of superposition. At the same time, it serves as a reminder that a mountain has a kind of plasticity and is, in its own way, shapeable. Through small actions or artistic interventions, we might gradually shift its foundations—just as a river, over time, polishes a rock, softening its edges.

I always think of a quote from the movie Cloud Atlas. There’s a scene where a young composer runs into an office to show his father a great piece of music he has composed, hoping to have it published. His father dismisses him, saying he will never be a great composer and should abandon his dreams. In that moment, a friend in the room responds: "What is an ocean but a multitude of drops?"

That quote deeply resonates with me and my practice. I see my work as a way of seeking answers or fostering change in a gentle, gradual way—not by providing a single, all-encompassing solution, but by offering small, persistent gestures that help nudge things in the right direction.

I'll start where most things begin: my atelier, the space where everything takes shape. Before reaching the highly polished works, it all starts in this somewhat chaotic environment, where I build from the ground up. The materials I use are often organic—mostly natural elements I come across during night walks, visits to the forest, or even through dumpster diving. I am particularly drawn to objects and materials that carry a certain history, as I find them interesting to work with.

I have a designated area in my atelier where I collect and store materials I find intriguing but haven’t yet fully explored. In a way, I think of it as a kind of kitchen, where I can experiment by combining different "ingredients" to see if they work together, if they create a new aesthetic, or tell a story. It’s about testing whether two seemingly unrelated elements, when brought together, can transform into something more.

This process of experimentation is fundamental to my practice. On one side, my work is very hands-on, deeply connected to materiality. On the other, I also develop more conceptual works, which stem from my reflections on how we can better connect the landscape—the external world—with our inner world. These ideas take shape as I write them down, allowing them to sit for a while before returning to them. Over time, as I continue to travel and engage with materials, I begin to bring these concepts into physical form.

The chair “Pampa” was completed after the COVID period. The main idea was to work with canes—or pampa grass. A single straw is not particularly strong, but when combined, they gain remarkable resilience. Rather than creating a large surface, I wanted to design something minimal—a simple, functional support that provides just enough stability without overcompensating for comfort. Sitting is important, but I personally like to stay active, so I often explore the fine balance between support and limitation. In today's society, we excel at maximizing comfort—often to an excessive degree. I find it interesting to challenge that tendency.

In the leg of the piece, I placed a paper document—a kind of afterlife for the work. It describes when and how to replace the cane, where to source the organic materials, and how to harvest the grasses. This project is very much about considering what happens after we are gone—or even just what happens to an object when I am no longer present to maintain it. It’s about revaluing the materials we use, even if it’s just a chair, a piece of metal, or a seemingly simple object.

One day, while hiking in the Argentine mountains, I had an extraordinary experience. At one point, I found myself completely immersed in nature, with no sign of human presence. As I approached a waterfall, I stumbled upon a small oasis—it felt like a profound moment. I had just finished working on Pampa, and this encounter deepened my interest in embedding memories into objects—finding ways to carry a tangible trace of an experience with me.

Continuing in this vein, I developed “Iris”, another project based on going outside, searching for materials, and engaging with natural landscapes. Over time, these objects become charged with meaning, forming a personal connection—almost like memory vessels that bring a sense of peace. What I also appreciate about “Iris” is that it carries a kind of archetypal quality, almost like a hut. It acts as a shelter, a space that reconnects us to our roots—to the way we originally inhabited and interacted with our environments.

‍“Morpheus” was named after one of the demigods in Greek mythology—the god of sleepand dreams. This work began while I was sitting in my study on a particularly sunny, windy day. As the clouds passed by, the light in the room kept shifting—it would suddenly dim, then brighten again, creating a soft, rhythmic fluctuation. We’ve all experienced this at some point—the way natural light breathes through space. I wanted to integrate that play of light into an object.

At the center of the piece, there is a light source, and the way it functions helps create a calming atmosphere. In this sense, the object became a kind of tool—something that could encourage relaxation or even help induce sleep.

I first decided to create this work when I was invited to participate in a festival at the Design Museum in Gent. The festival was called Act & Be Wild, and focused on themes of action and change. On the right, you can see a windmill that I created using mostly recycled materials. I wanted to give it a somewhat playful, unconventional look—because modern windmills, while functional, often feel too sleek and sterile.

I thought it would be interesting—even humorous—to place one of my works on the museum’s rooftop, making a direct connection between the outside world and the interior space. The work functions as a direct translation of what’s happening outside—the light inside starts to "breathe" in response to the wind. The object itself becomes a kind of signal—reacting to even the slightest breeze or, conversely, to powerful gusts.

I find it fascinating to think about how climate and weather patterns—the way storms form, the way winds shift—are in many ways mirrored within us, on a psychological level. The turbulence of nature often reflects the turbulence of our emotions. I like to imagine that these forces—whether occurring within our minds or on a planetary scale—are deeply interconnected. Even the friction between tectonic plates, the movements of the Earth, can be seen as metaphors for the tensions and shifts we experience internally. 

The piece “Papillons” is another example of my exploration of interior and exterior spaces.

The idea started with a material: Capiz shells, a type of translucent oyster shell. My father found them at a second-hand market and brought them to me. When I first opened the bag, I was immediately fascinated by their qualities—they had a certain transparency and a delicate way of catching light. While I didn’t initially intend to focus on their reflective nature, I noticed that when I arranged them together, they naturally formed a V-shape, reminiscent of a butterfly in flight.

This association with butterflies made me think about movement—about how they react to sunlight. This led me to the idea of incorporating a small solar panel into the work. The intention was to place the installation outside, where the sun would activate it. The nine butterfly-like elements would then begin to gently open and close, creating a hypnotic, almost meditative motion. I liked the idea that, while working indoors, you could glance outside and see these delicate forms moving in response to sunlight, almost reminding you to step outside and enjoy nature.

“Naiad”, one of my most joyful sculptures, and perhaps one of my largest, was born from a very different inspiration. I was thinking about rain—how it often makes people feel gloomy or lethargic, yet at the same time, water is life. It is, arguably, the most essential element for existence.

With Naiad, I wanted to embrace this paradox. I designed the sculpture to be part of a rainwater filtration system, partially mimicking the natural water cycle. Instead of seeing rain as something that interrupts or weighs us down, I wanted to create a work that highlights its beauty, necessity, and rhythm—transforming the way we interact with it.

This piece is made entirely of ceramics, and consists of 30 individual tiles, which fit together seamlessly—you can remove and rearrange them, though at first glance, you might not even notice this modularity.

To create the texture, I pressed pieces of clay on to my wrists, then used a steel brush to carve tiny holes into the surface. This texture serves multiple purposes: it allows the ceramic to absorb some water, and it also creates an ideal surface for mosses and algae to grow. In particular, I focused on species that can help regulate the acidity of rainwater—something increasingly important in urban environments where pollution impacts water quality.

While this isn’t a complete filtration system, it can be seen as one step in the process. The scales also introduce oxygen into the water, an aspect often overlooked in modern infrastructure. Today, water flows through sealed pipes and tubes, becoming something detached, processed, and invisible—almost lifeless. Yet, there’s a big difference between water that simply runs through a tap and water which retains its vitality. This is something you can observe in the way water crystallizes, how it shapes its surroundings, and how it interacts with its environment.

For me, the most important aspect of this work is that it claims space for something truly essential—water, its presence, and its sacredness. It is, in a way, an ode to water and its fundamental role in our lives.

On a different note, I designed a desk for myself sometime ago. What I love about it is how I envisioned it holding all my paperswhile still embodying a sense of lightness. It serves as a reminder not to takework too seriously and to maintain a sense of balance.

When I first imagined this piece, I pictured three sheets of paper floating—as if everything was effortlessly suspended in the air. That’s the essence I wanted to capture. When designing functional pieces, I always aim to achieve a sense of airiness and lightness—a refined minimalism, but not an absolute one. I still want the object to feel alive, to remind us that materials aren’t just static things—they hold energy, presence, and the potential to interact with us.

One day, a client asked for a version of my previous design, but a bench instead of a desk. The challenge was to maintain its lightness while making it significantly stronger. I played a lot with trompe-l'œil effects, thinning out the edges while integrating a large metal support bridge underneath, ensuring it could bear substantial weight. My goal was for the object to last over a hundred years, seamlessly blending durability with its delicate appearance. While I strive for a pure, essential form, I also make sure my pieces retain the mark of the hand—a human presence within their structure. To achieve this, I experimented with the welding process, incorporating small imperfections and details that add warmth and personalityto the object.

I love taking my time with craftsmanship, and in this particular piece, I spent countless hours carving tiny repetitive patterns into the surface. The process itself became meditative—a simple, repetitive act that required focus yet allowed my mind to wander freely. In a way, it was quite liberating—a rhythm of creation that brought both precision and calmness to the experience.

When it comes to mindful exercises, the work “Alba” is a perfect example. It’s made from Alabaster stone, and my intention was to create an object that claims space for the small yet meaningful things in life. At its core, there is a small box—a space meant to hold a delicate keepsake, like a flower from your first date or a ring thatholds special meaning. It’s about cherishing these fragments of memory, giving them a physical presence rather than letting them fade into the past. In a way, it’s about making space for remembrance.

“Alba” was the firstpiece in what I plan to develop into a series titled "Housing a Memory" —eachwork unique, with different shapes and materials, tailored to the memory it holds.

‍“Faro” follows a similar philosophy, though its focus is slightly different—it is more of a tool for manifestation. I wanted to create an object that would allow me to write down an intention, a dream, or a desire—something I wished to pursue—and to make it feel like a beacon. I felt faro (which means lighthouse in Spanish) was a fitting name, as if it were a symbolic guide, something that holds and protects a thought or goal, much like a lighthouse signals a safe path.

The idea was for it to be sealed and protected, yet still offer a glimpse of the note inside as you walk by. It’s not about reading the words themselves, but rather about sustaining the essence of the intention—because, in the end, what we seek is rarely about something literal. It’s about energy, direction, and change over time.

I played with materials to reinforce this concept. Alabaster stone, the white cylindrical form, carries an interesting historical connection—used in ancient Egypt, it was often found near burial sites, shaped like eggs, because it was believed to capture the sun’s energy. Egyptians placed it in tombs to help souls travel faster to the sun god.

I love continuing this kind of material storytelling, as I believe that materials can amplify intentions—that they hold a kind of silent power. The copper mesh around the piece could even be seen as a protective layer, shielding it from external interference, while the steel base acts as a grounding element, centralizing thoughts and energy.

‍

“Kronos” was again named after one of the Greek demigods. Perhaps you could think of him as the younger brother of Cronus, who represents structured, linear time—the rigid system ofhours, minutes, and schedules that dictate our world. Our entire economy relies on this structured time. If we were to suddenly remove the 24-hour clock, the system would likely collapse, as it is our primary tool for regulating and coordinating daily life.

With Kronos, I wanted to propose an alternative way of experiencing time—not as something to be measured with precision, but as something to be felt in a more fluid, intuitive way.

Since time is deeply influenced by gravity, I decided to use gravity as the activating force in this piece. The process behind the piece creates both a starting point and an end point, yet without offering any clear visual representation of the passage of time. Unlike a conventional clock, you cannot see how much time has passed or how much remains—you can only sense it.

Even if you try to calibrate it to a precise duration, the natural variations in the size of the sand grains will subtly alter the speed at which the mechanism moves. A speck of dust in the tube might slow the flow, causing unpredictable shifts in timing.

This lack of control is precisely the point. Kronos is designed to encourage an experience of time that is less rigid, less dictated by numbers and schedules. Instead, it invites you to activate a moment, engage with it fully, and then surrender to the unknown—allowing time to unfold at its own rhythm.

To me, one of the most essential objects in a space is something designed for meditation—something that helps us truly focus on the present moment. That’s why I created a meditation stool as part of an ongoing series, using discarded roof slates. I sourced an entire batch from a friend who runs a shop dedicated to collecting, cleaning, and repurposing reusable materials from construction sites.

Structurally, it’s a seating object, with a steelframe beneath for support. Recently, it was adopted by the Design Museum in Gent as part of their collection.

After making the first meditation stool, I experimented with leftover materials, playing around with different compositions and forms. The final result was unexpectedly playful yet still retained a sense of harmony and balance.

What I particularly love about this series is its texture. The natural roughness of the stone evokes imagery of mountain landscapes, reinforcing a connection to nature. I believe that incorporating raw, natural materials into interior spaces introduces a certain calm and grounding energy—a subtle yet powerful element in shaping how we feel in our environments.

Since my first series of meditation stools, I needed more slates. I found a supplier two hours from home and, upon arrival, noticed a purple tint on the surface. When I asked about it, he assured me it was just surface dust and could be washed off.

However, once I brought the materials back, I realized that the shape and properties of the slate were different from what I had worked with before. This new batch was unchangeable, forcing me to rethink my approach.

Surprisingly, the new design emerged organically. The stool now sits lower to the ground, providing just enough support while maintaining a minimal structure. By carefully adjusting the angles, it offers more comfort than one might expect, without overcompensating—a recurring theme in my work. This piece is a grounding chair, designed to let the legs relax freely while applying gentle pressure points along the back—something I found to be unexpectedly soothing.

Unfortunately, not all the slate pieces were strong enough to be functional. Many turned out to be too brittle, limiting their use in the final design. But even then, I saw potential in their imperfections, leading me to explore new ways of working with these materials. I began experimenting with composition, pushing my approach in a more radical direction.

Initially, I placed these two volumes side by side and felt a certain tension and energy between them—something intangible yet undeniable. I couldn’t quite grasp it at first, so I sought a way to visualize the invisible—to make the sensation perceptible. This led me to introduce the blue lines, which were added later in the process. They act as a kind of force field, capturing and amplifying the dynamic interplay between the two forms.

In a way, I wanted this piece to become something beyond its own materiality—a vessel that doesn’t merely exist as an object but as an energy in itself.

This work was a turning point for me. Until this moment, I had always felt the need to create something functional, something that had a purpose beyond its presence. But here, for the first time, I allowed myself to let go of function entirely and simply let the piece be. It was an important step in my practice—one where I truly embraced sculpture as a valid and independent expression.

‍

“Auris” follows a similar approach. I found this huge piece of tree bark during one of my nightwalks. I brought it home and kept staring at it for almost two years, trying to understand what I wanted to do with it. It was such a unique piece that I felt I needed to let it speak to me first before deciding how to work with it.

I started reflecting on the role of tree bark—how it serves as a bridge between the outer world and the tree’s inner life, both protecting and connecting.

To enhance this idea, I decided to embalm it, using tree resin to create a natural varnish. I mixed it with marble dust, forming a protective layer that almost petrified the surface. The result is this blooming whiteness, giving the piece a calm, almost meditative quality. The bark remains the exterior, while at the center, I placed alabaster stone, a material that shares a similar softness and luminosity. This creates a beautiful continuity between the materials.

As I was carving and chiseling the alabaster, the vibrations of the table began forming natural patterns on the stone’s surface. Instead of engraving something literal or symbolic, I chose to preserve and enhance the sespontaneous marks, allowing the process of creation itself to become part of the final piece—continuing its story.

At a certain point, I had to decide what this piece would ultimately become. I wanted to create a sense of depth—a feeling of something vast and unknowable. To achieve this, I painted the inner void with the darkest black available on the market, which absorbs almost all light.

This creates a sense of emptiness—or perhaps, an endless space. It invites you to wonder: What lies beyond? What exists within?