SuboArt Magazine
A couple of months ago I had a lovely opportunity to speak about my practice with Nina and Carolina from SuboArt magazine for their 24th issue. I'd like to share our conversation here.
Hello Maryia, thanks for doing this interview with us! To start with, do you remember any early memories of being in touch with art? Did you grow up with that interest or was it something that appeared later on?
As a toddler I’d spent my days completely immersed in building castles in a sandpit. Later on I started drawing and painting all the time. And for as long as I remember, I wanted to be an artist. I have a clear memory that at the age of 7 or 8 being an artist felt like such an obvious path, that I was convinced that everybody wanted to be one. Like that was the only option. When in second grade we were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up, I was stunned to hear I was the only one with artistic aspirations. My classmates chose veterinarians, teachers, astronauts… It was a genuine shock for me :)
Another vivid memory is coming to my grandparents’ house on weekends. They had these colourful art books: on Modigliani, Dali, and historical painting, I think. And I’d take them out and browse for hours on end.
But, when the time came to actually decide what to do with my life, the fears and stereotypes kicked in. I was convinced art was unrealistic, unpractical, and too other-worldly. First, I went into architecture. Then a few years later - product design. I was making one-off and limited edition pieces of furniture and lighting. That was one step closer to what I am doing now.
I wanted to ask you about that! How has studying Architecture and Design impact your work and how is it present in your pieces?
I am certain that all my experiences somehow show up in my work. Looking back, I see how these two disciplines taught me the approaches I now rely on. Architecture is innately site-specific. The particular location and a deep understanding of it are crucial for the project to succeed. I carry this interest in places into my ceramic process. As well as a habit to look at things at a scale, from a bird-eye perspective. This can be clearly traced in my series Terra Cognita, which is inspired by aerial photography of the Earth.
In my design practice I picked up a different set of skills. I was involved in very hands-on projects, where prototyping and experimenting played the most important role. If you had an idea, you went to the workshop and tried building it - this is the quickest way to test your hypothesis. To do that I had to get very familiar with tools and materials, and how they interact. Now, when I work primarily with clay, I still use the knowledge I gained. I am constantly trying unconventional techniques, as well as borrowing from other disciplines.
You describe your pieces as landscape sculptures. For people who are not familiar with your work, how would you introduce it?
It’s usually quite hard for me to describe my work in a way that would help people imagine it. I work with clay, but I don’t make three dimensional objects. I frame my pieces and hang them on the wall, but I also want people to touch them.
For now, I settled on “low-relief wall sculptures”. My main themes are landscapes, but they are usually rather abstract and often seen from above. Ceramics allows me to create very rich earthy textures, and this can be more important to me than other means of expression, such as composition or perspective. I use different kinds of stoneware, porcelain, underglazes, glazes and engobes, as well as glass, to achieve a combination of colours and surfaces as diverse as the lands I’m inspired by.
In this series, “Terra Cognita '' you take inspiration from actual land sites but transform it into something else, more abstract. What inspired you to make this series?
I always felt particularly connected to places. Maybe even more so than people or ideas. For every memory or longing I have, there’s usually a specific location attached to it. Likewise, whenever I engage with fiction - a movie or a book, I have this urge to know where exactly the action is taking place.
This series grows in part out of this obsession. I was randomly browsing Google Earth and I found myself very drawn to these vast isolated terrains.
I have spent my entire life in cities. So wilderness is both appealing and very scary. And with these strange lands, I couldn’t tell if they were natural or man-made. Partly because satellite footage makes everything look a bit unreal, and partly because I lacked the practical knowledge one gains from living in nature. I found it telling that a lithium mine can look indistinguishable from a canyon from above. And I deliberately avoid making this distinction; all the sites I reference are “natural” to me.
You turn the images into tangible pieces by adding volume and materials like stoneware, porcelain, glazes and glass. About their materiality, you write that it adds «a sense of closeness to the terrains that are out of our reach, allowing a viewer to interact with the unknowable». Could you talk a bit more about this? What would you like viewers to take from your work?
The sites I use for inspiration are usually very remote and inaccessible. Some are extremely isolated, others guarded by barbed wire. The magnificence of most can only be appreciated from above.
When I find an image with potential, I try to roughly reproduce it in ceramics. I test many different surfaces and combinations of clays to achieve the effect I’m looking for. I want to create a sort of souvenir one can bring home from forbidden travels. Small scale and tactility make them much more approachable than their namesakes.
In general, I feel like we as a culture prioritise visual information. Audio comes in second, but all other senses are virtually neglected, especially in digital format. There’s also this longtime divide where fine art claims authority over the optical leaving the sensual to the crafts, which are placed lower on this quite arbitrary hierarchy. I like dwelling in this ambiguous space. For me personally touch is a very rich and immediate sensory modality. I perceive tactile information acutely and it helps to ground me in the present moment. That’s why I pay such thorough attention to surface finishes.
When people see my work in real life for the first time, most have questions about the material and technique. It can look like an abstract painting from afar, but then as something clearly volumetric and tangible from up close. So it invites further exploration, which is intentional. I want the viewer to feel slightly puzzled, to wonder, and then, hopefully, to create their own interpretation.
A question we always ask is about the creative process. Would you mind sharing yours with us? How do you get from an idea to a finished piece?
Not to sound esoteric, but ideas usually come to me as a sort of vision - a blurry image or a feeling. I write them down in the notes app on my phone. Most will never transition to a physical object, but some feel so pressing that I skip other projects to work on them.
Ceramics is a slow time-consuming process, which means that I simultaneously work on several projects at different stages of completion. New ideas stay as notes for some time; meanwhile, I constantly turn them around in my head. I think through all the practical details and how I would go about it.
Sometimes I draw a rough sketch. But most often, by the time I start making, I see the process so clearly in my head that a drawing might limit me.
I choose the clays I want to use and start playing around. Often I use liquid clay, almost a slip, and plaster moulds. Other times I build with flat slabs. The material has its own ideas, so I have to take those into account. There is a lot of experimentation involved, and I try not to be precious about the results at that stage. My goal is to test all possible combinations and techniques to make sure it corresponds to my vision. A lot is discarded at this point, but there’s also room for pleasant surprises.
When satisfied, I leave the work to dry for a couple of weeks. If I was too ambitious or careless, it might break during the drying process. Then I have to recycle the material and start again. When the piece is dry (what we call bone dry), I put it into the kiln for the first firing at 950 degrees Celsius. It might also break or explode in the kiln - at that point it’s unrecyclable. After the bisque firing clay is solid, but still porous. I decide whether I want to glaze it or not. Sometimes I use commercial glazes, and sometimes I formulate the glazes myself. In the latter scenario I need to make multiple samples, tweaking the proportions of each raw component before I apply it to the final work. After glazing, the piece goes into the kiln again for a second firing, this time at 1250 degrees Celsius. After a couple of days I take it out transformed- the colours are more saturated and the glazes give various textural effects.
Are you usually trying to get a message across with your pieces or do you prefer to leave room for the viewer’s interpretation?
I’m not entirely sure to be honest. I have thoughts and ideas I put into my work. But I also understand that each person creates their own interpretation of everything they engage with. And I like this openness about art, it resonates differently with everyone depending on our sensibilities and past experiences. I don’t think my type of work necessarily needs a robust context or explanation to be enjoyed. Though it has intellectual layers for me, the work itself can be perceived directly through your senses; it’s fairly straightforward. I value each interpretation. What is important for me is that the viewer takes the time to create their meaning - it’s already quite a big task in our rapid world. If it moves you somehow, if it piques your curiosity, even if it’s just a technical question, - I am happy.
And when you’re the viewer of an artwork, what do you look for? What works usually inspire you the most?
For me there can be two different ways to enjoy art. One happens on an intellectual level, when you engage with an idea or technique the artist explores. It’s more consistent and reliable. And another happens on a gut level. It can sweep you off your feet, unexpectedly take your breath away. These experiences are few and far between.
I’d like to share a quick story about my most memorable such encounter. I was maybe 18 or 19. I went to an art museum in Minsk, my hometown. It is a very traditional, “National Gallery” kind of institution: pompous architecture, conservative programming, fancy heavily gilded frames. Not the kind of context where you’d expect to be touched by art. And they had this landscape painting somewhere in the corner by a living Belarusian artist - Leonid Shemelev. I remember the painting only vaguely: I remember the snow, some birds and that it was relatively small. I approached it, and something happened. It’s hard to explain - it’s like magic. Even now when I think back to that moment, I tear up a bit. I was completely overwhelmed, brought to uncontrollable tears. Before that I thought these things only happen in movies.
Reflecting on this experience I see how fragile it was. If the weather was sunnier that day, if I wasn’t alone, if I had different music in my earphones - I could have missed it! This is also why I learned not to expect any particular reaction to my own work - there are just too many variables.
I don’t know if it would ever happen on that level again. But on a smaller scale I am still often moved by art. You can’t explain or predict it, but you can create favourable conditions: a calm and open mind, an attentive eye, and a bit of patience. Although I know my visual preferences, I also welcome surprises. I like complex subdued colours, rich materials, and simple compositions. Usually the work that moves me most is in some way referencing nature, even if very abstractly.
You’ve won the Design Award from the Royal Society of Art. What do awards mean for you and do they affect the way that you approach your practice?
I guess in an ideal world I would be expected to say that awards mean nothing. But in truth, especially in such a subjective area, external validation can open certain doors, even if not immediately.
However, I also believe that this transactional thinking gets you nowhere. If that was my entire motivation for entering competitions, I would probably be paralysed creatively. I try to see open calls as an opportunity to gather my thoughts (and my documents), see some structure in my practice. Some of them are also a great way to get feedback and see my work through someone else’s eyes. Others can offer questions that I haven’t asked myself before and expand my own views. So when I don’t get what I apply for - which is most of the time, I still learn a lot.
Any upcoming event or project in the near future that you’d like to share with us and our readers?
In August I am going to show my work in a collective exhibition that I’m very excited about. It’s called Clay/Craft/Concept, on Malta, and it explores some of the themes I touched upon briefly here - historical view of craft and contemporary ceramics that challenges our ideas about the medium. I am very interested to see how this conversation unfolds.
Unrelated to this, I’m planning a show together with a group of artist friends. Nothing is decided yet, but it’s a very interesting experience. As a ceramicist and an introvert, I am used to working alone - sharing your process and collaborating on a common goal in this new way feels refreshing.
As for my projects, I’ve been working on a very intimate one for many months. It’s called Topothesia, and it’s about my complicated feelings about home, exile, and belonging: a bit of nostalgia, a bit of resentment, and lots of ambiguity. All coded in an abstract landscape made in clay. I'm invested in the concept, but the implementation part has been hard. I just couldn’t make the actual pieces correspond with what I see in my head, and it’s been quite taxing. I had to pivot a lot along the way. But! I think it’s finally coming together which is exhilarating. Hopefully, I’ll have something to show for all these months of effort.
And last question, what are your hopes for the future? (can be general or art-related or both).
I’m turning 35 this summer, and, although I know this is just a number, I feel that it has a grounding effect on me somehow. 35 is also the age when, by art world standards still present in some institutions, I stop being a “young” artist. That will inevitably close some opportunities for me. This fact alone caused me to reflect on my work and life so far, and become more deliberate in my decisions. I am coming to terms with what I am and what I want, and it’s been thrilling and liberating. My hope is that I can keep refining my creative vision and gaining clarity in how I want to show up.
I have a lot of ideas and directions I’d like to explore, and each new project brings its own challenges, both technical and conceptual. I hope to be able to resolve them and evolve in a way that aligns with my overall vision. I am still very intrigued by ceramics and what it can do, but I might venture into other mediums in the future. All in all, I’m excited by what’s ahead!
