Igor Zigor: Crafting Against the Current

Design today moves at the speed of distribution. Images circulate before objects are even finished; trends are exhausted before materials have had time to age. The current art and design context is characterized by acceleration, and this is a result of global supply chains, algorithmic visibility, and a culture of consumption that values novelty over continuity. It is in this context that objects seem to be disconnected from their point of origin, devoid of labor, geography, and time. They are pristine and anonymous.   

And yet, beneath this polished surface, another logic persists—one that is slower, more tactile, and deeply situated. A growing number of artists and designers are re-centering material knowledge, local sourcing, and embodied practice. They are less interested in scale than in specificity, less in disruption than in depth. Their work asks not only what an object is, but where it comes from, who made it, and under what conditions.

Igor Zigor is part of this quiet but decisive shift. A self-taught craftsman and artist living and working mainly in Montreal, Quebec, Zigor moves fluidly between sculptural works, frames, experimental graphic studies, and, more recently, furniture design. His work is based on traditional methods and a great deal of craftsmanship, working with wood, ceramics, and metals, and sometimes extending these well beyond their conventional uses. In Quebec, he harvests his materials from his family lands, and his work is rooted in heritage and ecology. This is an ethical, hands-on approach to his work, which challenges the mainstream dynamics of modern production and consumption.

Simone Lorusso: In an age dominated by digital production and algorithmic aesthetics, what does it mean—politically—to insist on working primarily with your hands?

Igor Zigor: There is definitely a form of quiet protest in choosing to work primarily with my hands today. When production becomes increasingly virtual, accelerated, and detached from physical labor, insisting on manual engagement becomes a way of slowing down and reclaiming authorship.

But beyond protest, it is also something more intimate and romantic. My relationship to material is emotional and physical. Wood, clay, and metal dictate the rhythm of my practice. They resist, they push back, they surprise me. Creation becomes a negotiation between the human body and matter. It is a dialogue rather than an imposition.

I often describe it as a kind of battle, not violent, although it can sometimes haha, but mostly intense, between the body and materiality. The weight of wood, the fragility of ceramic before firing, the unpredictability of heat: these forces humble you. That confrontation creates a deeper connection. The object carries the trace of that encounter. In that sense, working with my hands is political because it re-centers presence, effort, and time in a culture that increasingly erases them.

SL: Your materials are often sourced from your family lands in Quebec. How does this act of localized sourcing challenge the globalized supply chains that define contemporary design?

IZ: It challenges the system at its root. My family land in Quebec is not just a source of material, it is a sacred heritage. Generations before me cared for this forest. They understood the cycles, the fragility, the responsibility of stewardship. I inherited not only the land but also the ethic attached to it.

When I harvest wood, it is never extractive in the industrial sense. It is selective and attentive. I observe the health of the forest, the relationships between trees, what is thriving, what is endangered. I take only what is necessary. I mostly work with what the forest gives me rather than what I initially imagined needing. That inversion is important, instead of forcing nature to answer a demand, I respond to its offerings.

In contrast to global supply chains, where materials are abstracted, transported, standardized, and disconnected from their origin, my process keeps geography visible. The object remains tied to a specific soil, a specific climate, a specific history. That localized sourcing proposes another model of production: one rooted in responsibility, reciprocity, and awareness rather than speed and scale.

SL: Craft has historically been positioned as secondary to fine art and industrial design. Do you see your practice as resisting these hierarchies, and if so, how?

IZ: I occupy an interesting position because my practice is built on learning trades; woodworking, ceramic processes, metalwork, before defining what the final object should be. Craft, for me, is not a category; it is a foundation. It is the ability to work directly with material, to understand its behavior intimately.

That knowledge gives me freedom. It allows me to move between sculptural work, functional objects, and furniture without feeling constrained by disciplinary boundaries. I can enter the territory of fine art or industrial design when I choose, but I do not feel the need to belong to either. The craft base becomes a passport across fields.

I also value collaboration deeply. Coming from a background in high-level team sports, I learned early that collective effort and mutual respect produce stronger outcomes than individual ego. As a craftsman, I often work with and for other artists and designers. I enjoy being both visible and invisible, stepping forward when I need to express something personal, and stepping back when the work serves a larger collaboration. In that sense, my practice resists hierarchy not by declaring opposition, but by moving fluidly through categories. I am less interested in labels than in the integrity of the work itself.

SL: Many contemporary objects are designed for rapid obsolescence. How does your commitment to ancestral techniques and durability function as a critique of consumer culture?

IZ: Durability is not only technical, it is ethical. When I use ancestral techniques, I am engaging methods that were developed in contexts where objects needed to last. There was no culture of disposability. Time was embedded in making.

By building pieces meant to endure, structurally and materially, I am resisting the idea that objects should be temporary or trend-driven. I want my work to age, to acquire marks, to transform. Wear becomes part of the narrative rather than a defect. This is a critique of consumer culture because it shifts the relationship from consumption to companionship. Instead of replacing objects, we live with them. They witness us. That continuity builds memory. In a system driven by planned obsolescence, proposing longevity becomes a radical act for me.

SL: In pushing wood, ceramic, and metal beyond their traditional roles, are you also questioning the social and cultural categories we impose on materials—and, by extension, on people?

IZ: Yes, very much so. I have always struggled with fitting into predefined boxes. Labels can be useful, but they also limit perception. My practice reflects that tension. Atelier Igor Zigor began six years ago as a framing studio. But it quickly became clear to me that a frame is not merely an edge to a painting. It can be part of the artwork, sometimes even the artwork itself. From there, my practice expanded organically into sculptural pieces and furniture. The frame became a portal, a structure, a conceptual device.

By understanding a material’s traditional role, its function, its utility, its constraints, I can then detach it from that role and recontextualize it. Wood does not have to be only structural. Ceramic does not have to be only fragile or decorative. Metal does not have to be industrial. When we blur those lines, we begin to see possibilities rather than fixed identities.

It is similar with people. When we reduce individuals to categories, profession, origin, background, we flatten their complexity. Just as materials contain more potential than their assigned function, people contain more depth than their labels suggest. My work tries to hold space for that multiplicity.

SL: Quebec carries layered histories of land, identity, and cultural preservation. How does working within this specific geography inform the political dimension of your practice?

IZ: Quebec carries deep and layered histories, but many of us grow up without fully understanding their complexity. Like many other places in the world, the colonial foundations of Quebec exist at the expense of Indigenous communities who were displaced, silenced, and dispossessed. Montreal, or Tiohtià:ke, stands on unceded Indigenous land, territory taken without treaty or consent. That history is not abstract. It shapes the land I work on and the privileges I inherit.

It can be difficult not to feel guilt or shame when confronting this past. But I believe the responsibility is not to remain in self-blame. It is to educate oneself, to acknowledge privilege, and to contribute to a shift in discourse and practice. In my work, the political dimension emerges through material and conceptual engagement. The land I source from carries history, both familial and colonial. I cannot separate my practice from that awareness. Whether I am physically harvesting wood or conceptually exploring spiritual and cultural tensions, that geography remains present. The work becomes a site of reflection on belonging, responsibility, and continuity.

SL: Self-teaching often exists outside institutional validation. How has being self-taught shaped your relationship to authority, expertise, and artistic legitimacy?

IZ: My path into art was indirect. I studied International Business and Finance and pursued a professional athletic career before injuries forced me to rethink my trajectory. Creativity had always been present in my life, but at some point it shifted from being an interest to something closer to a necessity, a calling I couldn’t ignore. Not attending an art or design institution gave me a particular kind of freedom. I wasn’t shaped by predefined methodologies or aesthetic expectations. Instead, I followed curiosity. I learned through trial and error, often the hard way. I sought out people whose skills I admired and approached learning as a self-directed, lifelong process rather than a fixed curriculum. That autonomy became foundational to my practice.

Being self-taught also shaped my relationship to authority and legitimacy. I have deep respect for knowledge and mastery, but I don’t see expertise as something that belongs exclusively to institutions. Craft demands rigor, discipline, and humility, regardless of where you learned it. In many ways, teaching myself required even greater responsibility. There was no external structure enforcing standards; I had to set them for myself.

Recognition from peers and institutions is meaningful, of course. It situates you within a discourse. But it has never been my primary motivation. What drives me is the integrity of the process, the excitement of confronting material, the tension of problem solving, the constant push toward refinement. For me, legitimacy does not come from validation alone; it comes from commitment, consistency, and an honest relationship to the work.

SL: Furniture structures everyday life—it dictates posture, proximity, and interaction. Do you see your furniture design as intervening in social behavior or collective rituals?

IZ: Yes, and very consciously. In my furniture, I’m interested in how form affects the mind and body. The aesthetic, the texture, even the presence of spikes or tension in a piece influence how someone approaches it, sits on it, or gathers around it. Some works invite closeness; others introduce alertness. That shift in posture already alters social dynamics.

I don’t separate sculptural from functional. Even my more radical or ambiguous pieces shape atmosphere and emotion. They can create intimacy, friction, curiosity, or unease. Those emotional responses directly influence how people interact within a space. For me, furniture is not just support, it is an active participant in ritual. A bench structures conversation. A table organizes hierarchy or equality. My goal is to design objects that make us slightly more aware of our mind, bodies and of each other. Even subtle awareness can transform how we gather and relate collectively.

SL: There is often a romanticization of “heritage” and “tradition” in contemporary craft discourse. How do you engage ancestral techniques without turning them into nostalgia?

IZ: Tradition, for me, is not about replication, it is about transmission and transformation. Ancestral techniques carry embedded intelligence. They are solutions refined over generations. But I do not approach them as sacred relics. I use them as tools within a contemporary context.

Sometimes I push them to their limits. I intentionally distort, burn, fracture, or hybridize processes. I allow accidents. By doing so, I prevent tradition from becoming decorative nostalgia. Instead, it becomes active and evolving. I believe heritage is not something to freeze in time. It is something to engage critically and adapt to the present.

SL: If industrial design is aligned with scalability and efficiency, what kind of social model does your slower, materially grounded practice propose instead?

IZ: My practice proposes a model based on depth rather than scale. Instead of efficiency, I value attentiveness. Instead of uniformity, specificity. Instead of speed, duration. It is not an anti-industrial position, industry has its place. But I believe there must be parallel systems that prioritize local knowledge, material literacy, and human presence. A slower practice encourages stronger relationships: between maker and material, between object and user, between land and community. It suggests an economy of care rather than volume. A model where meaning accumulates through time rather than being optimized for rapid circulation.

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Words: Simone Lorusso
Photo: Alex Lesage, Jeremy Lechatelier & Eliott Legare