Let’s start at the beginning. What first drew you to art? Was there a pivotal moment early on that made things click?

I kind of always knew I wanted to make art. At first, I was really into fashion, but at some point, I started thinking, no, that’s too superficial and too much about beauty. I had this strange compulsion to prove that I was “smart,” which, in hindsight, was really just me not yet understanding that I could do what I actually wanted to do. That shift–when I allowed myself to do my own thing–was a big one. That’s why now you’ll see thongs in my work. It’s what I like and what I wear. It has that fashion element, but it’s not really fashion. It’s more about things from the home–objects you’re surrounded by, and part of my everyday life that I wear or own and don't wear. It’s also about wearability.

There’s an emotional honesty in that, using what’s already there.

Exactly. I’m obsessed with the idea of being honest with myself in my work. It’s why the question why am I using this or that material? became so central for me. I’ve always been messy. I’ve always loved clothes. Every time I cleaned my closet, I’d find things and think, this is cool, I'd love to do something with it. The work started from two directions. One was very rebellious, a kind of aggressive reaction to Goldsmiths, where I did my MFA. I hated how over-intellectualized everything felt. Then there was the reality of being at home during COVID, planning my degree show and having limited materials that made me realize it was much simpler than I thought it was. I was interested in everyday actions and the absence of the body and that was enough. That moment of isolation gave me space to experiment with what I actually wanted to do.

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What were those early experiments like?

They came from frustration, but also curiosity. At Goldsmiths, I went in with this naïve excitement–thinking, amazing, I’m going to learn sculpture. I had done a BA in Milan, where everything was very post-internet-y and conceptual. So I craved something tangible. I wanted to cast. I wanted to learn to make. In my first year at Goldsmiths, I started working with resin, which I’ve always been drawn to. It’s transparent, shiny, fluid–there’s something bodily about it. I have always been interested in the inside of the body, the unseen but felt inside the body, and resin became this perfect material to explore this sense.

And this led to the first major work?

Yes, during our interim show in the first year, I committed to a bigger piece. I wanted to create a transparent cast that would hold something inside, but I struggled so much with decisions around form. Like, what shape do I want? Why? It was an overwhelming decision as I didn't have the answer. One day, I was taking a bath and a T-shirt fell in. And I thought, this is it. I loved how the t-shirt decided the form on its own. It removed that pressure to choose. That’s how the piece Salmonella Superbugs came to be. It had a T-shirt embedded inside the resin, free-floating on a somehow organic container shape. I’ll send you a photo. It was a breakthrough moment.

There's a tension there, between control and surrender. Containment, but also letting go.

Totally. That contrast became a core part of my work. I loved how that shirt took its own form inside the mold. Since then, I’ve pushed that further, editing out the containers and using the unworn clothes as containers on their own, experimenting with how textiles behave in resin. I’ve developed a deep knowledge of how different materials react–how silk becomes transparent when wet, how towels retain weight. It might seem spontaneous, but there’s a lot of trial and error involved.

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That makes me think of your drawings and paintings–the abstraction of intimacy you mention. Even a black thong becomes a drawing in your hands. It’s poetic, but also visceral.

Yes! People often read the work as feminist–and it is, but in an ingrained, lived way. It’s not about making a statement. It’s about everyday things, the messiness of life, and elevating that. You put a thong in a handle, and people bring their own interpretations. I’m more interested in how these objects behave, how they shift meaning when framed differently.

How do you collect these snippets? Are they always from your own life?

Mostly. I'm with myself all the time, after all. But I’m a big observer, especially at the gym or the tube! (It sounds creepy, I know.) I notice things and mentally abstract them. I take photos when I can, and they live in my phone until I revisit them in the studio. Sometimes I’ll literally undress in the studio to replicate a moment. It has to be real. The clothes are always used–they carry memory, weight, a softness you can’t fake.

Resin really captures that immediacy.

Yes, and that’s why I’m still using it even if I’ve tried to grow away from it. It’s like photographic emulsion, it freezes time. I reenact a gesture, and resin preserves it, flaws and all. The material is fast and reactive. You can’t control everything. And that’s part of the pleasure.

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Let’s talk about eroticism. Not in an obvious or reductive way, but more in terms of what’s implied, withheld, or abstracted. Of course, there’s the use of underwear, thongs, garments–items that culturally or visually carry certain connotations–but I’m more interested in how eroticism seems to function through absence, through the not-quite-visible. There’s a kind of withholding that feels intentional. It’s in the snippets, the folds, the way the viewer has to move around the piece to really see it. Do you think of your work as erotic? Or maybe, how do you understand eroticism in  relation to your practice, if at all?

That’s such a good question. Honestly, I’ve thought about this a lot, probably more than I realize. I wouldn’t say that my work is intentionally erotic, but I do think there's something about it that gestures toward the erotic in a way that’s… not literal, but very present. For me, it’s more about the absence of the body–the body that was there, maybe, or could have been there. The body that wore that underwear, that moved through that piece of clothing. The viewer sees the imprint of that presence, but never the body itself. And that’s where I think the tension is. It’s not like,“oh, here’s a sexy thong, so this is sexy art.” That’s way too simplistic. It’s more like: who was here? Whose gesture is this? The work reenacts something the body could have done, might have done, but it’s unclear. There’s a suggestion, and that suggestion creates space for projection. It creates a little bit of friction. I think that’s where something like eroticism starts to appear. It’s not about seduction. It’s about mystery. About not knowing. About feeling a little bit thrown off. Also, and this is important to me, it’s not really about me. The body isn’t my body. That black thong isn’t necessarily mine. It could be anyone’s. That’s the point. The work isn’t autobiographical in that way. It’s more like the pieces become vessels for a kind of collective experience. A shared ambiguity. I don’t even see it as particularly female, although people often assume that because of the materials. But it’s really more about the universality of those traces. Anyone could project themselves into that absence. And maybe that’s the erotic part–the space it leaves open for others to enter.

Scale plays into that too. There’s often a need to shift, crouch, lean in. The viewer becomes complicit.

Absolutely. I think so much about the viewer when installing a show. There’s always a negative space where a body could be. For instance, I have a piece that’s installed waist-down, titled From the Waist Up. That kind of inversion fascinates me. I’m also thinking about how chrome reflects and distorts your body, how the viewer is fragmented in the surface. It’s like a dance. Without viewers, the show isn’t complete.

You’ve compared your work to film stills, moments in motion. Do you see your exhibitions as part of one continuous narrative?

Yes, 100%. Each show responds to the one before it. It’s a conversation with myself. I work in series. I repeat gestures. It’s like going running: the first time I recreate a new gesture is awkward, but then it becomes familiar. That repetition gives me confidence, grounds the work.

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Let’s talk materials. You've developed a deep sensitivity to textiles and resin. Are there materials you’re curious to explore next?

I think a lot about medium–what it means to work in sculpture, in drawing, in photography and how I can somehow penetrate the notion of mediums. Resin is awful for your health, so I often say I’ll stop using it, and then I don’t. I’ve thought about marble–maybe I’ll carve something one day. I even signed up for a course! But I’m impatient. Photography has become more important to me too–playing with paper, framing, surfaces. That’s been exciting.

Let’s talk a bit about your upcoming show at Neven, which has been described as a kind of continuation of the ZÉRUÌ show . What are you most excited about with this one? Is there something specific–about the space, the work, the context–that feels especially meaningful?

Honestly, I’m completely obsessed with the location. It’s right on a busy street, with this massive window that makes it feel almost like a vitrine. People are constantly passing by, or stuck in traffic, and they’ll just see the work, maybe without even realizing they’re looking at art. I love that. That unexpected encounter. It breaks the usual gallery experience wide open.

That area is also really familiar to me. I go there often to look for materials–handles, hardware, random objects–and there’s something beautiful about showing the work in the same neighborhood where so many of its parts came from. It feels like reinserting the work into its own ecosystem. I keep thinking about the guy I bought door handles from. What’s he going to think if he walks past and sees them in a sculpture? That’s what I’m really interested in–how people who wouldn’t normally walk into a gallery might still connect with the work. Maybe just by noticing a material, or having a moment of confusion, like is this a gallery, or a radiator shop? That ambiguity excites me. And when someone like the guy from the glass shop shows up to the opening, that feels incredibly rewarding. It’s not about art theory. It’s about creating openings, where people can relate to the work on their own terms.

So yeah, it’s the space, the neighborhood, the idea that the city becomes part of the exhibition. That’s the dream.

Final question. If someone walks away from your work with one feeling, one lingering thought, what would you want it to be?

I’m not interested in making people think. I want them to feel. I want them to experience a strange absence–something in their stomach. That’s enough for me.

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Isabella Benshimol Toro (b. 1994, Caracas, Venezuela) is a London-based Venezuelan artist whose work explores themes of intimacy, domesticity, and the ephemeral nature of everyday life.

Lore Alender is a writer and publicist based in London.

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