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‘I choose materials to fit the ideas I have in each specific case. For the staircase, for instance, I chose zinc-plated piping. At first it looks very precious, very shiny, but over time it turns grey. It’s a material that can be used to create a special appearance very cheaply. I always like it when the translation between idea and material is very direct.’

‘Yes, the work has presence, but architecture has presence, too, and that’s something I’m interested in. From the outset, I’ve often worked with building materials because I’ve always dealt with the theme of building. I’ve worked a great deal with drywall panels and scaffolding poles.’

‘I’ve rarely or never worked with aluminium, for example, although it’s a material I like. But it has something soft about it, and it’s not suitable for houses, it’s not used much in construction. It’s more of a display material. What I have worked with a great deal is wood, brick, breezeblock, industrial materials, things you can buy in any builder’s supply store and then use in different contexts, making them work differently. Which is also a kind of deconstruction.’

‘It goes back to my time at art college. I began by studying painting in Berlin, but I abandoned that and went to the California Institute of the Arts in Los Angeles. I’d had enough of the art discourse I was stuck in. All the people I hung out with back then were painting. But for me it was too much mental masturbation. I was looking for something that had a universal necessity. Which brought me to architecture. The structure of the two systems, art and architecture, is very similar. And for me, architecture offered a good way out of painting. An interest in gender was very widespread in the 1990s, and it was an interest I shared.’

‘That came from different places. In intellectual terms, there were the works of Nietzsche, Heidegger, Thomas Bernhard, thinkers for whom I had come to Germany because I wanted to read them in the original. It all came together as an artistic concept during my time at Cal Arts. The campus played a part, the architecture of the place. It was also there that I first encountered a kind of collegiality, even the formation of lobby groups among fellow students, among women, that I hadn’t known in Berlin. Many experiences and observations also played a part. Like the way rooms have a character and how one reacts to that. This was not being addressed in the art context at the time. But when you make sculpture, you can’t do it without an awareness of the spaces in which you’re doing it. At this time I was generally addicted to literature, I read anything and everything that was published on architecture and gender.’

‘During my studies, I read tons of books about what a wall is in architectural, phenomenological, and psychological terms. A wall is perhaps the best symbol for what is built. But walls are also barriers. You hear things through the wall. Or you don’t see things because there’s a wall in the way. Works are hung on the wall. When Rudi Fuchs ran the documenta, he said at a press conference that he had now built real walls – not cardboard ones but real walls made of stone. To make a proper space for an exhibition. Without walls, then, no art …’

‘Well, from a phenomenological point of view, the wall is a great motif. Think of Wallfuckin, too, where a woman rubs herself against a wall. You can charge up walls in all kinds of ways.’

‘People often ask this question, but I always refuse to agree, saying instead that my works are not aggressive. I don’t make the works with an aggressive intention. And I myself don’t find them aggressive. On the contrary, perhaps I’ve always tried to make works that were beautiful, although that’s something I’ve never wanted to allow myself.’

‘No, in the banal sense, the way you might say: Oh, that’s beautiful. Instead of which people always say my works are a bit unwieldy. In any case, I do look for direct confrontation with the audience. And that’s something I like in other artists, too. As Bruce Nauman says: “Make me think!” I don’t want artworks to put me to sleep, but I don’t necessarily want artworks to hit me either. I want some kind of a reaction.’

‘Yes, I like what Lenin said, that one should be more radical than reality.’

‘Shock for shock’s sake is an empty gesture. First and foremost, a shock blinds people. Someone who’s shocked doesn’t think. No, I don’t believe I actually know how to shock. But I do like to use provocation – either deliberately or inadvertently – so the viewer doesn’t go straight to sleep. Such a provocation might be like in my current show at Max Hetzler, confronting a visitor with a huge mirror in a huge space. One sees only oneself, sometimes fat, sometimes thin. And at this moment, one is part of the installation.’

‘Absolutely, most people in this country are. One place I experienced something entirely different was at the Shanghai Biennial in 2003. On the day of the opening, many people stood outside the cordon around the museum, where only those with invitations were allowed in. They held up newspapers with reports about the exhibition as if it were a pop concert. There was a tremendous desire to see art. I’ve never experienced that kind of curiosity here. Art has become terribly fashionable.’

‘Yes, of course. This work outside Art Basel was perfect. And it turned out precisely as I had imagined. People passed by and freshened up their lipstick in the mirror or fixed their hair while walking. Two years ago, when this piece was installed in Rotterdam, I made a short documentary film. I’m glad I have it. All that’s left of most works is photographs, and they don’t show how people reacted. In Basel, there was also the fact that a work by Dan Graham was installed in an open space nearby, and among other things, my piece referred to Graham’s pavilions. Some people got Dan Graham’s work and mine mixed up. From the outside, they are quite similar. I was very pleased with that. The ironic comment in the work clearly didn’t go unnoticed.’

‘In 2007, I travelled to New Orleans to prepare the first biennial. As you do in such situations, I and a few other artists who were there did some sightseeing. We were also taken to places where the impact of Katrina was most clearly visible. I took many photographs there, and around the city. In 2008/2009, I used these pictures as the basis for drawings that I originally wanted to combine with quotations from Dorothy Parker. I like her cynical, malicious comments. But in the end I left them out. I searched the Internet for other pictures of storm damage in the United States. The resulting collection extends from 1927 to the present. In all, I made around thirty drawings, at the same time as the financial crisis, which also had strong roots in the American real estate sector. I left out many details from the photographs so it’s no longer possible to identify the city where the destruction took place. But what is still identifiable is the typical aesthetic of American houses. During my time at Cal Arts, I took a great many photographs in the suburbs of Los Angeles. I was very interested in the simplicity of these buildings that consist of wood, drywall panels, and a simple electricity and water system. It’s a type of building and living that’s designed to last for no more than thirty years, after that everything could decay. Hurricanes best represent a kind of total destruction, and everything associated with that. As Katrina showed, the consequences are massively linked with political and social issues.’

‘Yes, I’ve always drawn a lot, and I’ve been planning an exhibition of drawings for a long time. The drawings that make up Hurricane and Other Catastrophes aren’t very typical of the way I normally draw. What I had in mind was the works of Jack Goldstein, who was very interested in disasters. His works are very strong and somehow very cold. They have an absurd precision because they capture the exact moment when something happens. It’s always a matter of seconds in which something collapses with a crash…. Generally, I only ever make drawings when preparing a work, collecting quotations, etcetera. I like to draw. I drew the hurricanes in six months, and during that time I did almost nothing else. Drawing calls for a special kind of concentration. At some point I stopped, I couldn’t go on, and finally it was enough.’