When the Earth Speaks. The Kinetic Art of Bob Landstrom
From volcanic rock to kinetic sculptures, between matter and spirit
From paintings made entirely of volcanic rock to his more recent kinetic sculptures and soundscapes, Bob Landström's practice is an investigation of mystery and the invisible. An Atlanta-based artist, Landström explores the liminal space between science and spirituality through works created with a unique process using crushed and pigmented volcanic rock.
His textural works, rooted in earthly elements, intertwine reflections on dreams, the language and sensibility of plants, quantum mechanics, and energetic vibrations. Today, his research has expanded into even more experimental territories, including sound sculptures made with harmonic bowls and even emu eggs. This fall, he will also participate in the GRIT group show at Alday Hunken Gallery in Atlanta.
The connection with volcanic rock was born almost by chance, as the artist himself explains:
“I first encountered volcanic rock in the desert of the Four Corners, where I was studying Native American petroglyphs. The landscape there is extraordinary — a place where the Earth feels close, big, pressing its presence into your bones”. And he specifies:
“That land also holds an ancient volcanic field, with dozens of vents dating back some 26 million years. I brought fragments of the rock home with no intention beyond curiosity, but its materiality took hold of me: once liquid within the Earth, now solid in my hands. That transmutation — from liquid to solid — felt like an elemental reminder of creation itself. One discovery led to another, and volcanic rock became an essential part of my practice”.
And then he adds: “Over the years, I’ve developed ways of grinding and pigmenting the rock as a painting medium, constantly evolving new techniques of application. In my experimental and experiential works, it often emerges as a character of its own, carrying the voice of something primordial, a personification of physical materiality”.
This encounter marked the beginning of an ever-evolving artistic journey, where matter, energy, and contemplation transform into images and sounds that open a space of inner resonance.
Your choice of earthy materials seems intertwined with a spiritual reflection: do you consider your process closer to science or meditation?
My studio practice is research-based, and to me, that is also a meditation, a way of understanding, empathizing, and interpreting. Meditating on what we see, hear, or feel is a way of becoming that thing, so that we can speak to it with some insight.
I tend to work in the interstice where science and metaphysics overlap, where they merge and become almost indistinguishable. I don’t follow the scientific method per se, but my process carries a similar spirit: What if it works this other way? What if this is what’s happening? What might it look like if we try this? Imagination leads to meditation, which leads to expression. Or, said differently, it’s rabbit-hole digging.
There is so much beauty and wonder in those esoteric concepts, and in the way we navigate them. That’s where the merging happens.
Lately, I’ve been focused on the idea of materiality: where it comes from, how it is formed, and where it goes. Earthy materials are central to that inquiry, as are the objects, sounds, or lights that reveal transmutations from nothingness to somethingness, from chaos to order — or back again.
In your works, we find references to dreams, the language of plants, and quantum mechanics: where does the inspiration to connect such diverse fields come from?
These ideas often arrive in ways I can’t quite explain. It feels like wandering through a forest and suddenly stumbling into a rabbit hole — unexpected at first, but in hindsight, probably the right destination at the time.
For example, when I was trying to grow mushrooms, I started reading about the mycelium networks fungi build underground. I learned that other plants connect into these networks to extend their own communication systems.
Then I discovered that plants release compounds into the air to signal to one another, and finally, I came across an article with recordings of plants making sounds. Can plants talk? That opened another rabbit hole.
That line of inquiry became Florum Somnia, a series of paintings exploring plant communication and even the notion of plant sentience. What do plants dream about? They’ve been on Earth far longer than we have — are we even measuring consciousness in the right way? In one installation from that series, I connected a resistance differential synthesizer to a ficus tree and let it play music.
Quantum mechanics is another wellspring of inspiration. Where to start? There’s an endless supply of brain food there. At one point, I became fascinated by the mathematics of parallel universes. The math shows they must exist, even if we don’t fully understand their nature. That led to my Multiverse series — paintings imagining what it might look like to step into one of those alternate worlds.
There’s no rubric to follow. For me, the topics just fall from the sky rather than me seeking them out. My curiosity draws them to me. If my curiosity is piqued, then I’m hooked and off we go.
What value does "spirituality" have for you? How do you experience it?
Spirituality has always been important to me. When I was younger, I studied esotericism, which gave me a perspective on how to experience the world. That influence has stayed with me.
It’s hard for me to separate the spiritual from anything else. It’s less a distinct practice than a lens through which I think and work. For me, spirituality is woven into the act of paying attention, of noticing, of being present with experience.
You often talk about frequencies and vibrations: how much do sound and the physics of energy influence your visual practice?
They’re foundational to my practice because they’re foundational to how I see physical reality. Everything has a vibration, and everything involves energy.
I often return to the Copenhagen Interpretation of quantum mechanics, which suggests that energy exists as a wave until it encounters observation, until it meets consciousness. In that moment, the wave collapses into particles, into the matter that makes up our shared physical world.
Lately, I’ve been drawn to electromagnetic static, through radios and field sensors. Static fascinates me, the way the mind begins to detect signals within noise, like finding familiar forms in clouds. Listening to it and watching as hidden signals surface feels like witnessing something in the process of becoming. At times, I wonder if static hints at a pre-manifestation state of physical reality, a threshold before things take form.
That exploration has carried into both painting and sound. Static appears on my canvases, but it also acts as the catalyst for sound works and kinetic sculpture. Working directly with electromagnetism has expanded my vision, bridging the auditory, the visual, and the experiential.
You have recently expanded your research into kinetic sculptures and soundscapes. How do these new works relate to your volcanic rock paintings?
They’re deeply connected. Sometimes a painting is the right vehicle for an idea, and sometimes another medium speaks more clearly. At times, a combination is what’s needed.
Whether it’s material, sound, or light, I approach them as different tools in a shared toolbox. The medium shifts, but the thread of my practice — the questions I’m pursuing — remains consistent.
This fall, you will be participating in the "GRIT" group show at Alday Hunken Gallery. Can you give us a preview of the works you will be presenting?
There’s a strong energy building around this show. I’ve met some of the other artists participating, and I’m looking forward to seeing it all come together.
I’ll be bringing three paintings, each from a different period of my practice. One is deeply meditative, another more playful, and the third carries a more spiritual and contemplative weight. Together, they give a sense of the range in my work.
Of course, grit is also literal in my case. My paintings are made from crushed volcanic rock, their surfaces coarse, labored, and bearing the history of their making. That physical grit mirrors the spirit of the show itself: the unglamorous, persistent labor of showing up in the studio day after day, even when no one is watching.
What would you like the audience's experience of your works to be? More sensorial, intellectual, or spiritual?
My pieces don’t usually carry an agenda. I’m not hiding a secret or asking the viewer to solve a puzzle. The elements are there for the experience itself, and that experience can play out differently for each person.
There is often an intellectual air to the work, since it is research-based and carefully constructed, but there’s no message to decode. Every response is valid. The works may emerge from a theory-heavy place, but they aren’t meant to be pedagogical.
The comment I hear most often is simple: “It just makes me feel good”. I can’t imagine a better compliment than that.
If you had to describe the spiritual experience you hope to convey through your work, what words would you use?
I hope the work invites a contemplative space, one that is humble yet elevating. At its best, it reveals something of the hidden order of things, a sense of being connected with the whole. Ultimately, I want the experience to affirm that each person’s path is their own, a journey of wonder, resonance, and belonging. If the work opens even a brief moment of stillness and recognition, that is enough.
Interview by Fabio Pariante, X • Instagram • Website