I was immediately drawn to Anastasia’s exploration of self-sabotage, mainly because she approaches it from an angle we don’t usually consider when talking about creatureness. Her creatures aren’t brave, curious, or resilient. They hesitate, push people away, make the wrong move at the wrong moment. In other words, they behave in ways we often try to hide in ourselves.
I found particularly compelling how she links self-sabotage to a sense of helplessness. Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet, everyday one: the feeling of being stuck in a loop you know too well but can’t seem to break. Her analysis shows this through two very different works: one stuck in a mechanical trap, the other pushing away the help it claims to need.
The part that stayed with me is the distinction she makes between occasional bad decisions and a full pattern of self-defeating behaviour. In her reading, self-sabotage isn’t simply “messing up”; it becomes an entire operating system. Her description of Round Table and The Helpless Robot powerfully reframes these artworks as portraits of beings trapped in their own internal contradictions. I found this particularly compelling because it shifts focus from “creatures behaving like humans” to “creatures illuminating the things humans rarely admit about themselves.” The result is deeply human, even though her creatures are not.
Together, these examples suggest that self-sabotage has many origins such as fear, pride, confusion, or simply an old habit that has tightened into a cage.
Reading her post also made me think about another layer: What happens when failure becomes comfortable?
Some people keep repeating the same mistake because it’s familiar territory. Humans sometimes cling to familiar failure because the alternative is scarier than the disappointment we already know. It becomes a refuge, a recognizable rhythm. Success, however abstract, threatens to change things. And change comes with responsibility, new expectations, and the possibility of becoming someone we don’t fully recognize yet.
For this reason, I imagine a creature that does not merely fear succeeding… but one that has built its identity around the certainty that it will not.
immersive installation, semi-autonomous creature, sound & motion
The Safe Path takes place in a long corridor, dimly lit, where a small illuminated creature slowly tries to travel from one end to the other. The route is direct and obstacle-free.
The creature’s light grows stronger as it approaches the end of the corridor. But the brighter it gets, the more uneasy it becomes. First it slows, then it pivots on itself as if double-checking an invisible map, and finally it retreats to an earlier point on the path where its glow softens again. Visitors can walk beside it. If they try to “help” by a hand gesture or a few encouraging words, the creature reads this as a warning and immediately dims to almost nothing, freezing until the visitor steps back.
Every now and then, the creature builds up courage and moves further than before. But just before reaching the end, the sharp flare of its own light overwhelms it. It flees to the darker section, where everything feels more manageable.
The installation loops endlessly. The creature never arrives.
The Safe Path isn’t about fear of failure, it’s about the comfort of predictability. The creature retreats not because it cannot succeed, but because success would force it into unfamiliar territory.
It shows us a version of self-sabotage grounded not in panic but in habit, in the quiet relief of staying where nothing is at stake.