Isabella Schubert-Jones

I create sculptures, installations, and immersive worlds from recycled and discarded materials. I’m drawn to the absurdity of waste and the possibilities that emerge when trash becomes the foundation for a new reality. I see waste not as an endpoint, but as a creative beginning.

My work explores consumption, sustainability, and transformation, reimagining what has been cast aside into something meaningful, humorous, and sometimes magical. I scavenge from recycling bins, sidewalks, thrift stores, and dumpsters, collecting toilet paper rolls, cans, tangled wires, rusty bolts, and fragments of daily life. These materials carry histories. By chaotically hot- gluing, taping, and assembling them into rough but intentional forms, I exaggerate the menial and highlight the absurd. The surfaces remain raw and immediate, while details—especially the eyes and mouth—allow something unmistakably human to emerge.

My process is fast, physical, and instinctual, reflecting my shifting relationship with myself. Mask-making and anthropomorphic figures recur as both play and protection. Humor acts as a shield, allowing vulnerability to exist beneath it.

Animals are central to my world-building, bringing empathy and instinct while bridging imagination and nature. Although deeply personal, my work is meant to be accessible and immersive—inviting viewers to find their own meanings and reconsider what we throw away, and what it might still become.

Interview with Isabella Schubert-Jones

Questions by Sidney Mullis

July 20, 2026

You grew up in Pittsburgh with parents who are both artists and musicians, in a household where creativity was encouraged from an early age. How did that environment influence you as a young person, and how does it continue to shape the way you make work today?
I think I was encouraged to express myself and had a lot of freedom with my personal style as a kid. I remember thinking I was Pippi Longstocking for almost all of second grade. I'd dress like her every day, and my mom would even put wire in my braids so they stuck straight out. I was completely convinced I was her—to the point where I'd tell stories at school that I didn't have parents and that I lived in a mansion with a horse and a monkey, just like Pippi. My teachers told my mom, but I never got in trouble. I think having the freedom to imagine, explore, and be whoever I wanted to be shaped the way I function as an adult, and it's still how I approach making work today. I think that sense of curiosity, play, and believing anything is possible has stayed with me throughout my practice.

You've said that, as an adult, you're trying to hold onto the same freedom and imaginative spirit you had as a child. Why has preserving that become an important part of your practice?
I feel really lucky to have grown up with that kind of support because I know not everyone does. My mom didn't have that growing up, and I think she wanted to give me the opposite experience. Now, I try to hold onto that childlike essence as much as I can. I think it's a really important part of the way I make work. I want to keep that sense of play and imagination alive, not just for myself but also through my art, and hopefully create space for other people who maybe didn't have the freedom to explore those parts of themselves growing up.

Near the end of your undergraduate education at Tyler School of Art Temple University, you realized that working with trash and other discarded materials meant you would never truly run out of resources. How did that realization impact the way you think about making, experimentation, and failure?
I think I felt really limited during my time in school. I'd spend hundreds of dollars on materials for assignments, and it always felt like that was my one chance to get it right. There wasn't much room to experiment because every mistake felt expensive. Then, at the end of the semester, so much of that work would end up in the dumpster anyway. Working with discarded materials completely shifted that mindset. In a world where resources feel increasingly scarce and the future feels more uncertain, I feel certain there will always be heaps of trash and free material everywhere. That realization gave me a sense of freedom. I stopped feeling like I could make mistakes because, with this medium, everything has the potential to become something else. If an idea doesn't work, I can take it apart, add to it, or transform it into something completely different. Nothing feels precious, so there's room for endless experimentation without the fear of wasting anything. Knowing that I can find materials almost anywhere gives me a sense of comfort. No matter where I am, I know I can make work. In an uncertain world, that's one of the few things I feel certain about.

Your sculptures rarely exist as isolated objects. They move between installation, photography, video, and performance, with each context becoming part of the work itself. What draws you toward having your sculptures shift between these different contexts?
I don’t think of my sculptures as fixed objects; I see them as things that can continue to evolve. Working across installation, photography, video, and performance gives me the opportunity to experiment, play, and discover new possibilities within the work. The sculpture becomes less of a finished object and more of an ongoing experience that changes depending on where and how it exists.

Your sculptures often become characters with distinct personalities, relationships, and emotional lives. How do these characters begin to emerge, and how do you discover the worlds they belong in?
I think I've always had a cast of characters revolving around in my head. In a way, they were my friends, and I was constantly coming up with new ones. As an only child, I often turned to these characters or imaginary friends, and I even thought of some of them as my siblings. I never really plan them out in depth. The characters seem to emerge on their own, and the worlds they belong in unravel pretty naturally. It's almost like they're the ones making the decisions, and I'm just following along to see where they lead.

Rather than hiding tape, cardboard edges, hot glue, or other traces of construction, you've increasingly allowed them to remain visible. What interests you in this raw and exposed approach?
I used to cover a lot of my materials with a layer of paper mache to create a smoother, more finished surface. That worked well for certain pieces and ideas. At the time, I was mostly working with cardboard and other paper products like toilet paper rolls and newspaper. Since then, my interest in materials has expanded. Now I'm drawn to things like hubcaps, rusty bolts I find on the ground, old wiring from an alarm system panel, or other discarded objects that already carry their own history and identity. Those materials are so exciting to me on their own that I want them to be recognized for what they are, while also being seen in a completely different light. It feels like solving a puzzle. I'm constantly trying to find the balance between what to leave exposed and what to cover or transform. I'm interested in preserving enough of the object's original identity that you can still recognize it, while pushing it just far enough that it becomes something entirely new.

When encountering your work, whether in a gallery, online, or unexpectedly in public, you shared that you want people to immediately feel something. Why is this immediate connection important to you?
Making these creations is my way of connecting with people. I love seeing people's reactions, having conversations, and hearing the memories or experiences the work brings up for them. Often someone will tell me a sculpture reminds them of a TV show they watched growing up or a forgotten childhood memory. I love those moments because everyone brings something different to the work. I also like photographing my sculptures outside, and it’s always interesting when people approach me and we end up having conversations outside of a gallery setting. One of my favorite interactions happened while I was photographing a sculpture in an alley behind my apartment. Some restaurant staff came out to take the trash out and were really intrigued. Even though they barely spoke English, they walked over with huge smiles, gave me two thumbs up, and kept saying, "Scary!" while laughing. That interaction has always stayed with me. They didn't need any context—they just felt something. That's what I hope for whenever someone encounters my work.

Outside the studio, you spend your days caring for hundreds of animals throughout Pittsburgh. How has this role influenced your practice and the creatures you build?
Animals and animal caretaking play a huge role in my art. It's a very solitary job, which gives me a lot of time to be with my thoughts—and to talk to the animals. That's where a lot of my ideas come from. Animals have become my main subject matter, but they almost always have human-like qualities. And when I make more human characters, they usually have something animal about them. I think that's because, at the end of the day, I kind of just feel like one of the dogs.

In addition to caring for animals, your work takes you throughout Pittsburgh each day, giving you the chance to look, scavenge, and collect. How has moving through the city in this way become part of your creative practice?
My job has me traveling all over the city every day, so I see a lot of things most people don't. I'm inside people's homes, I'm always collecting materials while I'm out, and it feels like I'm often the first person to notice something someone has left on the curb for free. I feel like I'm everywhere at once. Moving through the city this way has become a huge part of my practice because I'm constantly discovering new materials and paying attention to things that might otherwise be overlooked.

Pittsburgh has a long history of industrial production, salvage, and creative reuse, from Construction Junction to artist-built environments like Randyland. How has living and making in Pittsburgh shaped your relationship to found materials?
I love Pittsburgh’s raw industrial character. It’s such a beautiful city, but it also carries a sense of roughness, rust, and history that makes it feel unique. Living here has shaped the way I see materials—I’m drawn to objects that show signs of age, wear, and forgotten histories. There’s something beautiful about things that have been overlooked or discarded but still hold character, versatility, and potential.

Across your practice, discarded materials are reused and sculptures reimagined rather than tossed or abandoned. What has working in this way taught you about repair and the ongoing possibility of beginning again?
I think real change and growth often happen when things reach a breaking point or are completely transformed. Working with discarded materials has made me think about objects and life itself in a much bigger-picture way. I like to imagine my sculptures as having multiple lifetimes, moving through different forms while still carrying the same energy. I don’t see my sculptures as objects I create and then leave behind once a project is finished. I live with them, keep them in my studio, and allow myself to spend time with them and get to know them. Over time, they return in new ways and take on different forms. Even when they are altered or transformed, they continue to exist in some way, carrying traces of their previous lives.