In the quiet galleries of Cleo the Project Space in Savannah, Georgia, visitors are encountering an unusual blend of the mechanical and the floral, where discarded household gadgets spring to life adorned with artificial blooms. Artist Rachel Youn has crafted a series of kinetic sculptures that transform everyday items like neck massagers, vacuum cleaners, and electronic baby rockers into anthropomorphic figures, evoking a mix of affection, sadness, and subtle eroticism. The exhibition, featuring these humanlike creations, runs through April 25, 2026, inviting viewers to reflect on the intimate relationships people form with the machines that populate their homes.
Youn, who sources materials from secondhand marketplaces like Facebook Marketplace, repurposes these once-desired devices into artworks that mimic human gestures and emotions. One standout piece, titled Slow Burn, consists of an artificial orchid clamped to a neck massager with metal hardware and mounted on a gallery wall via a monitor arm. The massager's motor drives rods that rhythmically open and close the flower's petals, creating a mesmerizing, almost hypnotic motion. According to Youn, this repetitive action symbolizes a "flower forced to furl and unfurl infinitely for the viewer," alluding to cycles of self-destruction and entrapment in comforting yet confining routines.
The sculptures' lifecycle mirrors their themes of impermanence and labor. Motors eventually burn out, and hardware wears down during gallery displays, prompting Youn to address the finite nature of these mechanical beings. "I’ve run into a situation before [where] something like that happens," Youn said in a recent interview. "Then somebody has to let me know, and then I have to have the time and care to instruct on how to fix things or replace parts." This ongoing maintenance underscores the artist's view that objects, like bodies, require tending, even as they degrade under entropy's inevitable pull.
Growing up in a Baptist Christian Korean immigrant household profoundly shaped Youn's artistic path. As the daughter of a pastor, Youn navigated expectations of piety and performance, particularly around womanhood and self-presentation. "Being a pastor’s daughter, seeing my mom being a pastor’s wife, how you have to present yourself a certain way, has been in the background of my mind," Youn reflected. Despite familial pressures—her father once hoped she'd join the Air Force—the family supported her art pursuits after she secured a school scholarship, on the condition that her work spread the word of God. Youn, who describes herself as a "closeted atheist," has since channeled those experiences into themes of shame, Christian guilt, and resistance against organized religion.
Youn's journey into sculpture began with an interest in illustration and animation during undergraduate studies. Lacking prior experience in three-dimensional work, the artist was initially intimidated by shop classes but drawn to the expressive potential of movement. "I really had no precedent for sculpture. I’d never done anything three-dimensional and working in shops scared me," Youn explained. Influenced by animation's ability to anthropomorphize without hyperrealism, Youn's pieces avoid faces yet evoke relatable emotions—frustration, pity, or humor—through their "weird motions." This approach, Youn noted, provides broader access points for viewers, allowing diverse projections onto the abstract forms.
Over time, the work has evolved toward greater eroticism, emerging somewhat unexpectedly. Fake plants paired with massagers sparked narratives around domestic and sexual labor, comfort, and human-machine intimacy. "It just kind of happened, and I was honestly kind of embarrassed," Youn admitted about the sensual undertones. The sculptures perform endlessly, their motions suggesting a sexuality that's both mundane and trapped in repetition. Youn draws parallels to concepts like "gooning," where excessive pleasure loses its spark without contrast, and to the historical trope of the housewife driven to hysteria by monotonous labors. "The most important thing in life is contrast," Youn emphasized. "You have to have something to look forward to, or a change."
When sourcing machines, Youn seeks out secondhand items that have outlived their original purpose. These devices, sold because they "failed that purpose, which was to comfort the body," highlight consumer culture's emphasis on convenience and planned obsolescence. Rather than repair, owners often discard them for replacements, a cycle Youn disrupts by giving the machines new life. "Because of this convenience culture and planned obsolescence, it’s so much easier to throw it away and buy something similar to replace it, then to figure out how to repair it or have ownership over that process," Youn observed.
The artist's creations also probe contemporary loneliness in a hyper-capitalist, automated world. Massagers and similar gadgets promise solace without human interaction, much like AI chatbots that cater to users' desires. "AI learns to cater to the subject, and I think that’s comforting and also really strange," Youn said, contrasting it with the unpredictability of real relationships. In an era where people can retreat into self-created environments post-work, these sculptures question what intimacy means when mediated by machines. Studies on pattern-seeking brains, often linked to religious tendencies—like seeing divine signs in everyday objects—further inform Youn's exploration of why viewers anthropomorphize the inanimate, projecting emotions onto what cannot reciprocate.
Recent additions to the sculptures include shoes or limbs, enhancing their figurative, character-like quality without specificity. This evolution stems from Youn's desire to push anthropomorphism, turning the pieces into "little miniature characters." The uncanny appeal lies in humanity's innate tendency to identify with the non-human, a trait amplified in today's tech-saturated landscape. As Youn put it, "There’s something so cool and uncanny about the ability to identify with something that’s obviously not a person or even an animal. It says a lot about the people who project onto it that they can have something, a real emotion, directed towards something that can’t receive it."
Looking ahead, Youn aims to reduce reliance on mass-produced components by building custom mechanisms, complete with repair manuals. This shift would ensure longevity while acknowledging that all art degrades—paintings fade, ceramics crack, and kinetics fail. "Anybody else who’s done kinetic work has their own story about something breaking or failing," Youn noted. For collectors, owning a Youn piece means embracing its ephemerality, much like maintaining a car or nurturing a relationship. In museums, broken sculptures could rest as "carcasses," offering a poignant end to their performative lives.
The Cleo the Project Space exhibition marks a significant moment for Youn, whose work continues to resonate amid broader discussions on technology's role in daily life. By repurposing the discarded, the artist not only critiques consumption but also celebrates the emotional bonds we form with our possessions. As society grapples with increasing isolation facilitated by automation, Youn's floral-mechanical hybrids serve as a reminder of the human need for connection, contrast, and care—whether with people, plants, or the whirring devices that fill our homes.
Visitors to Savannah have until April 25, 2026, to witness these evolving narratives in motion. In a statement about the show's future, gallery representatives emphasized the pieces' interactive quality, encouraging prolonged observation to uncover layers of meaning. Youn's hope, echoed in the interview, is for a cultural shift away from dogmatic ideologies toward more fluid spiritualities, a theme subtly woven into the sculptures' gentle, unending dances.