In my creative research, I primarily focus on social and political processes and interactions. Initially, I perceived SCOBY leather as a medium for realizing ideas related to complex human relationships. Tattooing SCOBY leather was a way to evoke a vivid, almost physiological response to the themes addressed, through its provocative resemblance to tattooing human skin. However, as I delved deeper into the study of the “tea fungus” as a complex living entity, I was struck by the remarkable properties of this community of microorganisms.

In this project, I want to study more deeply the microbial colony that constitutes the SCOBY culture and to create an object that, through its visual form, establishes a kind of symbolic bridge between the social processes of human society and the symbiotic community of microorganisms.

I am interested in the question of how to build relationships with non-human agents: with material, with microorganisms, with artificial intelligence—not as tools, but as active participants in an artistic statement. At the same time, I do not abandon my authorial position, but seek to expand the understanding of it. In this project, the “tea fungus” becomes not only a medium, but also a co-author of the project: I attend to its properties and allow them to influence the form of the work and the process itself.

The use of organic material also raises new ethical questions. If in the 2000s Wim Delvoye already sparked a wave of discussion about the humanity of tattooing pigs, can we go further and raise the question of the exploitation of microbes? Today, laboratories are moving away from animal testing. Radical proponents of veganism reject products involving the exploitation even of insects and, for example, do not eat honey. How far can the boundaries of such reasoning be extended?

Beyond ethical considerations, I want to create a project with an environmental message. The techniques, the medium, and my intention of respectful interaction with it lay strong potential.

Having only a very general idea of the project’s physical form in mind, I turned to my trusted source of inspiration—Pinterest. Falling into the “rabbit hole” of endless images, I encountered remarkable network-based projects. These included graphic works, metal objects, embroidery, and, of course, textile pieces.

Discovering the work of Marinette Cueco was a great joy for me. I feel close to her approach to material and to the creative process. I see SCOBY leather not only as a medium, but also as a source of inspiration and, in part, as a co-author. Just as Marinette followed grasses and leaves, guided by their texture, form, and color when creating her tapestries, I, too, want to be guided by the properties of the “tea fungus”—not only its physical qualities, but also, as I delve deeper into the study of interactions between bacteria and yeast within the culture, its social ones. Just as Marinette grew the plants from which she created her tapestries, I grow my own “fungus.”

To create my object, I need a large amount of SCOBY leather. To grow the material, a starter liquid (strong kombucha) and what we call a “tea fungus” (a cellulose biofilm or zoogloeal mat) are required. The simplest way to obtain them is by searching for listings in “free giveaway” sections on classified websites and in enthusiast communities. Tea fungus grows very quickly, and every owner eventually faces the question of what to do with the excess.

I am very drawn to the idea that home kombucha enthusiasts around the world, by sharing their cultures, meet new people, form connections, and create a kind of large social network. Engaging with this practice and reflecting on it, I begin to see new layers of metaphor in my object.

This time, I found the culture through a listing in Saint Petersburg. Transporting large jars filled with fragrant contents on the metro became both a challenge and an adventure for me. I smiled the entire way, feeling like a city eccentric. Yet in the strangeness and awkwardness of the situation, there was so much genuine joy and inspiration.

Since the goal of cultivating the “tea fungus” in my case is to produce the largest and highest-quality cellulose film possible, rather than a beverage, it is important for me to determine optimal care parameters specifically suited to this aim. The challenge is compounded by the fact that the samples I obtained were themselves experimental from the outset: they had been grown on different teas, herbs, coffee, and apparently even wine, but no detailed information was passed on to me. In the photograph, one can see how the color of the contents of the jars differs.

If the visual aspect of the project was inspired by the “tea fungus” itself—its nature, structure, and the work of other artists—then the conceptual dimension of the project was inspired by the scientific study “Kombucha: a novel model system for cooperation and conflict in a complex multi-species microbial ecosystem.”

The article presents a global review of studies on various microbial systems that share similar key stages of development. In these studies, microbial communities served as model systems for addressing important questions about the evolution of cooperation and conflict in diverse multi-species systems. Evolutionary biologists used microbial systems to tackle ecological questions. Microbial systems were also employed to study phenomena originally developed to explain human interaction, such as the “prisoner’s dilemma” and the “tragedy of the commons.”

Because kombucha reproduces easily, is non-toxic, inexpensive, and can be subjected to artificial selection to specialize in specific areas of application (including the development of antimicrobial ecosystems and new materials), the authors chose it—much to my delight—rather than other microbial systems as the object of their research.

So what kinds of interactions take place in kombucha? A complex community of bacteria and yeast initiates the fermentation of the starter (usually black or green tea with sugar). Yeast produce the enzyme invertase, which functions as a public good by breaking down sucrose, making it available for use by both yeast and bacteria. Bacteria produce cellulose, which forms a film that can also act as a public good by protecting the liquid culture from colonization by competitors, slowing desiccation, and possibly serving as a resource reservoir.

While reading the article, I could not shake the thought of how many sociological and political science terms the authors employ. It is striking that the processes of interaction among microbes and among humans can be described using the same vocabulary. It was precisely this parallel that prompted me to conceive of the project as a site where two worlds—the microbial and the human—intersect.
I decided to explore other studies on this topic and found a similar density of terminology overlapping with the field of the social sciences. As I read, I identified the most frequently recurring “social” terms across the studies and compiled the following list:

1. Cooperation
2. Community
3. Competition
4. Conflict
5. Public good
6. Altruism
7. Cheater
8. Colonization
9. Partnership

These words will become the subjects of the tattoos woven into my network. Of course, this is only a small selection of the concepts used to describe relationships among both microbes and humans. Yet, like broad brushstrokes, they help to mark the similarity of the social nature of our different species and to suggest that human society need not be viewed as a unique phenomenon on our planet.
The vivid term “quorum sensing,” which describes a system of communication within a population (most often bacterial), became the title of the object.

Since text is a key visual component of my project, the choice of typeface was especially critical. It is the typeface that will draw attention and, as the most prominent stylistic element, set the overall tone. Initially, I wanted to choose a typeface like Courier New. Such fonts evoke typewriter typography, bringing to mind associations with laboratory samples and old labels printed in this way. However, the idea seemed superficial on the one hand, and on the other, it shifted the meaning in an unintended direction.

The final idea came to me during a lecture on biomorphism by the interdisciplinary artist Andrey Kuznetsov, held as part of the Art&Science Laboratory “Reasonable Consumption” (of which I am a resident at the time of developing the project).

Biomorphism in art is defined as the use of forms that refer to organic structures: branching, growth, fluidity, the asymmetry of living matter. This aesthetic is opposed to geometric regularity and industrial logic, as it seeks to convey a sense of natural growth and changeability. This was precisely the aesthetic my network required. I therefore decided to turn to the most biomorphic typefaces I could imagine—metal fonts.

Metal fonts, which emerged in the context of extreme musical genres, can, in my view, be considered biomorphic: their lines resemble roots or mycelium, and the letters appear more “grown” than constructed. The fractured, unstable, and intricate qualities of these forms create an impression of organic matter—spreading, pulsating, sometimes seeming to live according to its own laws.

To weave the network, I need cords.

First, I selected suitable mats: the best ones were set aside for tattooing, but mats of the appropriate density and thickness also had to be chosen for the cords. The mats are then rinsed and partially dried.

I develop tattoo sketches in Photoshop. I adjust them to shape, refine the lettering, then draw the sketches on paper and transfer them onto SCOBY leather.

I spent quite a lot of time trying to find artists who had tattooed tea fungus. I hoped to discover some advice or practical tips, to see which materials and tools might work best. But it seems that this technique has not yet been established. That means I have to find my own ways of realizing the idea.

In terms of its structure, the cellulose film differs greatly from skin, so standard tattooing methods are not suitable. Needles simply tear the film, while the ink is either pushed out by the liquid or spreads across the surface and is absorbed irreversibly as blotches.

I purchased several different tattoo machines, as well as various needles and cartridges. I disassembled and reassembled them, adapting all sorts of improvised materials—from sewing needles to lollipop sticks. I wrapped, glued, and soldered components together. I mixed every type of ink and dye that was available to me. For weeks, my hands were covered in black stains.

So far, I have managed to achieve a fairly good result. The tattoo outline is sufficiently clear, but not graphic. This is important: it creates the desired effect of an already aged tattoo rather than a simple pen drawing. The image is stable and predictable, which is also crucial.

But I continue my experiments. I am working not only on the method of application, but also on ways to preserve the tattoo. I mix oils, waxes, shellac, and glycerin. There is still a lot of work ahead.

I had never had any experience with tattooing, and this was the first time I held a machine in my hands. Through trial and error, I had to determine both the depth of puncture and the density of the fill. These parameters are entirely different from working with real skin, so tattoo artists’ tutorials could not help me, and I had to figure everything out on my own.

Nevertheless, what I am doing can truly be called tattooing: the images are created by introducing pigment into the depth of an organic medium.

Once the cords had been twisted and the tattoos dried, it was time to begin weaving the network itself. I prepared an improvised “loom” made of wooden slats, the dimensions of which could be adjusted and modified.

The weaving turned out to be far more labor-intensive than I had anticipated during the initial trials. Because of the varying texture of the SCOBY leather sheets, the cords differed in thickness, color, and rigidity, giving the network a more “living” and free appearance.
The cords tore and simply ran out in unexpected places, changing the direction of the weave and connecting the words in the tattoos in unforeseen ways. The network guided me on its own, strengthening or weakening semantic connections. The “fungus” introduced its share of chaos.

The need to reinforce the cord connections led to a new, unplanned element of the project—piercing. Using surgical steel bars, I connected the necessary parts of the work and introduced a bit more of the human and the bodily into my network.

I am developing my project within a residency at the Art&Science Laboratory “Reasonable Consumption.” In lectures and discussions, we repeatedly addressed the question of whether art can have a real impact on ecology, and as I studied this issue and individual projects, I found myself reflecting on it extensively.

On the one hand, it seems that contemporary art can play an important role in shaping ecological culture and raising awareness of global environmental issues. A distinct field has even emerged—ecological art, or eco-art. Artists, using a wide range of media from installations to public art, seek not only to visualize problems but also to encourage society to make conscious changes in its relationship with nature.

On the other hand, contemporary art is unlikely to influence the decisions of corporations and governments, which are the most powerful agents affecting the environment.

Impact and Criticism of Eco-Art

One of the key factors is the use of recycled materials, which in itself reduces pressure on nature. Works created from secondary raw materials, waste, and scrap metal not only acquire aesthetic value but also prompt viewers to reflect on the problem of waste and the importance of sustainable consumption. An example is the project Trash Peopleby the German artist HA Schult, which presents a “line” of one thousand figures made from household and industrial waste. These life-sized sculptures symbolize people as both a product and a victim of consumer society and environmental pollution. The project travels around the world and has been exhibited in Red Square in Moscow (1999), on the Great Wall of China (2001), near the pyramids of Giza (2002), by Cologne Cathedral (2006), in Piazza del Popolo in Rome (2007), in the Arctic Park (2011), and in many other locations. At the same time, a question arises: is the public benefit of the project comparable to the environmental footprint of its transportation? And do such objects sometimes risk turning from works of art with a profound ecological message into simple crafts made of waste?

Another vector is connected to the use of sustainable materials and practices in eco-art. For example, brothers Mike and Doug Starn, in their project Big Bambú: You Can’t, You Don’t, and You Won’t Stop, created a large-scale structure from thousands of bamboo poles forming a labyrinth-like construction with pedestrian walkways. The use of a renewable material and minimal environmental impact made the project an example of an eco-friendly artistic practice, although here too the question remains open regarding the resources expended on harvesting, processing, and transporting the bamboo.

Eco-art also plays a significant role in the social sphere: exhibitions and art events bring together different communities, create platforms for discussing environmental responsibility, and engage people in dialogue about the future of the planet. Artists often collaborate with environmental scientists and activists, which enhances the scientific and public significance of their projects. Art becomes not only an aesthetic statement but also a tool for ecological communication and education. Yet a doubt remains: is the audience of contemporary art broad enough for its educational impact to be considered substantial?

A strong critical argument lies in the paradoxical nature of some projects themselves: at times, the materials and processes involved in their creation have a negative impact on nature—whether through the use of unsustainable resources or the carbon footprint of transportation. There is also the risk of a superficial approach, when environmental themes are used as a fashionable trend without deep content. In institutional contexts, eco-art can sometimes turn into a symbolic gesture, incapable of bringing about real change.

Conclusions I Have Reached

Nevertheless, I maintain a cautious optimism: despite the severity of environmental problems, I cannot help but note a shift in public consciousness. This shift manifests not only in artistic projects or academic discussions, but also in everyday practices of recent decades. A new ecological culture is gradually taking shape: waste sorting and recycling are becoming routine in many cities, reusable bags are increasingly replacing plastic ones in shops, and single-use items are slowly being phased out. Attention to energy efficiency is strengthening in daily life—from the widespread transition to LED lighting to the use of low-energy household appliances. Transportation habits are also visibly changing, with the development of cycling infrastructure, the growing number of electric vehicles, and the expansion of shared mobility services. Attention to diet has likewise become significant: interest in organic products and plant-based alternatives to meat is increasing. Added to this are local initiatives—urban greening, community gardens, and educational campaigns.

All of these steps may seem local, and many of them are openly debatable. Yet taken together, they form a new type of culture—a culture of mindful attention to resources and the planet. This is where I see the value of eco-art: it does not replace practical action, but helps to recognize its significance, turning everyday habits into elements of a broader cultural and ethical system. A waste-processing plant can be built in months, but persuading people to sort their waste takes decades. Eco-art is one of the tools that helps to accelerate this process.

Reflecting on the limits of eco-art’s possibilities, I see its strength where results are difficult to measure using familiar categories. Art rarely changes a situation “here and now,” but it works with the horizon of the future: it creates imagined scenarios in which ecological responsibility becomes a natural part of life. These scenarios, even if utopian, shape a cultural space in which care for nature is perceived not as a forced measure, but as an aesthetic and ethical choice.

Young viewers, encountering eco-art in museums, in public spaces, or through educational projects, gain experiences that become embedded in their value systems and later manifest in habits, political preferences, and social initiatives. Here, art becomes a gentle yet effective force—it makes environmental responsibility part of identity.

In this sense, eco-art can be seen as the cultural foundation for future change: even if it does not dictate immediate solutions, it shapes an atmosphere in which sustainable development ceases to be a slogan and becomes part of a shared understanding of a normal, dignified life.

I examined the projects of well-known artists very critically, so I have no right to avoid analyzing the environmental sustainability of my own project. I will try to be objective.

My project is built around a material that grows on its own. I provide the necessary conditions for this: temperature, protection from insects, and a nutrient medium made of sweetened tea. This material also contains the core idea of the project itself: it emerges not as a product of industry, but as the result of a symbiosis between microorganisms and my labor.

The process itself also matters. I manually twisted SCOBY strips into cords, connected them into a network, and experimented with tattooing. These actions are slow, almost craft-like. There is an ecological meaning in this “slowness”: I consciously limit the use of energy-intensive technologies where hands and time are sufficient.

However, the environmental dimension of my project is not limited to material and technique. It is also embedded in the theme itself. SCOBY is a living community of yeast and bacteria, in which the cellulose film and enzymes become “public goods” for all participants. Translating this principle into human language gives rise to the vocabulary of my tattooed inscriptions: “cooperation,” “conflict,” “competition,” “public good.” I propose looking at human society in the same way as a microbial community: not only through the lens of rivalry, but also through interdependence, where the well-being of one is possible only in connection with the well-being of others. This rejection of anthropocentrism also contains an ecological dimension—an expansion of our understanding of cooperation beyond the human.

I keep a project diary, documenting every step: mood boards, experimental tables, tattoo results, and preservation formulas. This openness makes it possible not only to trace the path of the material, but also to reproduce it. In the field of sustainability, it is precisely process transparency that enables collective improvement of methods, rather than endlessly reinventing the wheel in isolation.

However, an honest conversation about ecology is impossible without criticism.

Bacterial cellulose is indeed biogenic, but it feeds on tea and sugar, which themselves have a carbon footprint. At this stage, my project does not use secondary raw materials such as molasses or coffee grounds—materials that could turn SCOBY cultivation into a truly closed cycle.

Another risk zone is electricity: boiling water, lighting and heating the studio, operating the tattoo machine. I am not yet recording the energy profile, which means I cannot seriously speak about reducing the footprint. The same applies to water use: for feeding the culture, washing cellulose mats, and cleaning dishes. I try to use minimal amounts of water, but the volume is still significant.
For growing the culture, I use not only glass but also plastic. Even though this plastic will be reused many times, the very fact of its presence in my practice is a drawback in terms of environmental sustainability.

Finally, there is the issue of waste generated by the work. I do not tattoo people, so aseptic and antiseptic rules are less strict: cartridges and needles for the machines will be reused many times, and later they can be disassembled and taken to recycling collection points. The issue of disposing of contaminated wipes remains unresolved for me, but I dry them and reuse them multiple times, as long as they remain intact and continue to absorb moisture. This significantly reduces their quantity. Test pieces of SCOBY leather and its offcuts, unsuitable for tattooing or cords, are currently dried and stored. There are not many of them, and since I use the most environmentally friendly substances possible for processing, I plan in the future to consider disposal through composting.

If the work travels, the “dirtiest” part of its biography will not be cultivation, but logistics—flights and shipments. So far, I have limited myself to transporting jars on the metro, but international exhibition (who knows!) will require entirely different solutions.

It is important for me to see both the strengths and the weak points. Only in this way can the project move toward genuine sustainability: from working with local culture and hand weaving to a more systematic responsibility for raw materials, energy, and the future movement of the work around the world.