Tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do.

I am an artist from Vienna, Austria working predominantly in sculpture and installation. My work blends hand-crafted sculptures with found materials such as scrap metal, and I frequently use water as a dynamic sculptural element. This integration allows me to create pieces that challenge perceptions of fluidity and transformation in the world around us. I am drawn to themes of the uncanny and eerie, embedding numerous art historical references into my pieces. Storytelling is central to my practice; I often reinterpret classic myths and legends, weaving them together with pop culture snippets and contemporary cultural phenomena. The fusion of these elements invites viewers to reconsider familiar narratives through an altered, sometimes unsettling lens. Recently, my work was described as “a mix of dystopian residues of past cultures, combining historical pre-images fused in personal mythologies and captivating fictions” by Slovakian curator Michal Stolárik in his text BABEL (2024).

What are some recent, upcoming or current projects you are working on?

I recently held a solo exhibition at studio PRÁM in Prague, showcasing a large body of work I created over the past few months. This project pushed me to explore metal casting more deeply, leading to the development of a new technique that allows me to manipulate the surface’s color and shimmer. A particularly exciting aspect of my recent research involved collaborating with Professor Rita Lucarelli, an Egyptologist from Berkeley, who translated a 1980s American poem into Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. This unique intersection of contemporary and ancient languages is something I’m keen to explore further in the coming months.This intersection brought a unique temporal dialogue into my work, juxtaposing modern poetic language with ancient script. Currently, I am working on a new piece in collaboration with Francisco Valençia Vaz, a Brazilian artist based in Vienna. This project is both challenging and inspiring, as while we share thematic interests such as totems and fetishes, our aesthetic approaches differ significantly in color palettes and materials. Despite these differences, we maintain a shared decision-making process to ensure that neither of our artistic voices is lost. Within this framework, we explore the boundaries of artistic compromise and fusion. We are excited to present this collaborative work at the newly opened Barvinskyi Gallery in Vienna, as part of a group show curated by the artist collective QMA (Question Me and Answer).

What is one of the bigger challenges you and/or other artists are struggling with these days and how do you see it developing?

One of the biggest challenges I face as an artist and as a person is the struggle to not get lost online. I often find myself juggling multiple tasks at once, constantly checking social media, and getting distracted by algorithms that mess with my attention span. It’s not just affecting my social life, but also my creative output and sense of artistic autonomy. This persistent digital noise makes maintaining focus an uphill battle. That’s why I sometimes push myself to create something like a hand-modeled head from scratch. For me, modeling a human face from a photo is the ultimate test of skill. Since I’m not formally trained in this, it’s the hardest task I can take on when I really commit to it. The thing is, once you start a piece like that, you need to work on it every day for at least a week. That kind of focus doesn’t leave much room for other tasks. It’s a bit of a self-imposed boot camp, but it always teaches me something new. Even though I’m someone who tends to work more “analog” compared to many of my peers, I still find myself caught up in AI, especially when it comes to generating ideas or drafting concepts. I use AI for writing, photos, and videos— but even though this might sound a little apocalyptic, I believe that as artists, we should still retain certain technical skills. It’s important to preserve these abilities for future generations, especially as technology continues to evolve.

How do you see your work evolving in parallel to things that are going on around you right now?

Several pieces I recently exhibited in Prague and Bratislava were inspired by AI- generated images of so-called “biblically accurate angels”” from the Christian internet. Over the past year, these images have made their way from the Evangelical fringes in the US to the mainstream, mostly through TikTok. As someone who often watches content about religion for research, the algorithm decided that I, an artist from Europe, should see these too. So, I hand-copied one of them into physical form, using a traditional bronze glaze and historical metal- casting techniques. This melding of ancient craft and digital novelty has been an exciting thematic layer in my recent work. The result looks like something from pre-Christian mythology around 4000 BCE, but it’s actually a precise reproduction of AI animations from 2023 and 2024. Now, with radical Christians having re-elected their candidate, those biblically accurate angels—staring back at me with their multitude of eyes—creep me out more than ever. This societal shift has heightened the unsettling presence of these works in my portfolio.

How has living in Austria affected your practice?

The more I learn about (art-) history, the more I realize how much my work is shaped by my cultural background. My Catholic upbringing, for example, has influenced how I view space, time, substance, and even pathos. One of my earliest memories is entering a church, where the shift in atmosphere—from the temperature and sound to the magical light through stained glass—felt like a glimpse into something secret, something that I am not yet able to understand. Living in Austria, I’m also influenced by the region’s deep ties to European Catholicism and its focus on the material. In the Middle Ages, European cities often justified their political power by keeping relics—supposedly bodily remains of saints, splinters of the holy cross, or objects that might have been touched by someone holy—preserving them as talismans of authority. This understanding of materiality shapes my understanding of art, and it fuels my interest in mythology and the occult. Another very Austrian topic is psychoanalysis, especially in Vienna, where Sigmund Freud’s work has permeated the arts, literature, and everyday life. His ideas on repressed sexuality and the human psyche feel connected to the cycle of sin, confession, and absolution that Christianity introduced—something that also informs my art. This duality of spirituality and psychology often finds expression in my practice.

How does site specificity affect your work and what is your process like in these terms?

I approach site-specific work both in terms of content and methodology. To create an artwork, I often seek out ancient stories, urban legends, and lesser-known mythologies, using them to charge the site with new meaning. This research- driven process allows me to deepen my connection to the space and its hidden stories. I get deeply immersed, becoming hypersensitive and observant for what might feel like miracles—just as I did as a child when visiting a chapel, a dark forest, or an amusement park. For example, when I visited a housing project in Paris, I felt that sentiment and discovered echoes of a Greek temple and a Mayan sacrificial site within the architecture. It’s this process—getting drawn into a place and uncovering its dreamlike “doppelgänger”—that allows me to access its underlying qualities. The site’s specificity also guides me when selecting found objects, like trash, that I later transform. I collected discarded items from the Parisian projects, brought them back to Austria, and treated them like talismans—copying them and incorporating them into stucco and plaster collages.

What materials do you use in your work?

Recently I did a lot of tin or pewter casting and I succeeded in producing big and heavy casts in a DYI studio setting. And I use all kinds of plaster and stone cast masses, clay and stoneware, sand, epoxy resin, steel for structures, tile glue, sometimes styrofoam to shape bigger units, found objects and scrap metal, also recently analogue photography for site-specific observations in architecture and first and foremost water.

How does water play a part?

I created my first water and rust sculpture in 2012, during my first year of art school. I wanted to turn a sketch of a cast shadow into a three-dimensional piece. Using untreated steel profiles, I welded them into long channels and filled them with water. The idea was to mimic the graphite lines of a pencil sketch in 3D, with reflections changing as I moved around it. The next morning, when I saw the piece again, I gasped: – orange rust had formed, and my anthracite pencil strokes had turned into red chalk lines. That moment changed everything for me, and I knew I’d work with water from then on. Water is the perfect sculptural medium: it is all volume, but no form, It has no form without it’s display, it’s vessel and it is always seeking balance. It’s transparent, translucent, reflective, and can exist in all states of matter. Though ephemeral, it binds oxygen from the air, and I love its antagonistic qualities, like the oxidation and corrosion it causes. It also dilutes pigments, inks, and colors. In 2018, while living and working in Korea, I began incorporating colored drawing touches into my water sculptures. The results were stunning, and since then, I’ve been experimenting with water as a carrier medium for oils and silicone.

What artists do you think are making important work?

In general, I admire artists who push the discourse toward improving everyone’s lives, as corny as that may sound. Political work that verges on activism and speaks out against the exploitation of people and natural resources is especially important. I also value artists who fight for the inclusion of non-white, non-upper- class voices, and those who tackle the taboo of class privilege head-on. Artists collaborating with philosophers, sociologists, and anthropologists to propose new ethical frameworks that could guide humanity beyond capitalist structures hold my utmost respect. The Object-Oriented Ontology (OOO) movement, including figures such as Timothy Morton, has made strides in redefining human relationships with non-human animals and challenging deep- seated concepts like ownership—whether of land, property, or even the anthropocentric notion of humanity’s primacy. The late anthropologist David Graeber’s work is also noteworthy for questioning conventional power structures and ownership paradigms. In this context, I like the work of Pierre Huyghe and Danh Vo, as they are both rewriting the history of mankind in their work. They deconstruct and reimagine the historical narratives of human existence, blur lines between human and non-human agency and explore themes of historical memory, challenging mainstream narratives and inviting viewers to consider complex legacies of power and belonging.

Do you ever look back on your older work in order to inform your future?

Absolutely. I recently re-exhibited one of my first metal sculptures from art school —a magnetic birdhouse connected to a car battery. Revisiting it after several years, I was struck by its clarity compared to my current work, which sometimes leans toward the ornamental. This reflection inspired me to simplify my form language a bit. One of my most meaningful creations is the piece I made for my art university entrance exam in 2011: an embalmed fox, preserved using techniques described by Herodotus, the ancient Greek historian. While I adapted some steps, such as injecting formaldehyde, I adhered closely to historical methods, including soaking canvas in linseed and juniper oil, applying tree resin, and sealing the exterior with bitumen, as done in antiquity. I keep this work stored in a lead-lined box in my basement. It holds deep significance—not just as an artwork, but for what it symbolizes. To me, a munmy, an embalmed body represents a temporary triumph over decay, as this one is slowed down a bit. It has the potential to outlast its creator in both duration and relevance.

What was the last show you saw that stuck out to you?

The last show that blew my mind was In the Darkness of Bones, a duo exhibition by Cristiano Di Martino and Oscar Chan Yik Long, curated by Benjamin Orlow in London. It looked remarkable—wet clay sculptures and on-site murals covered the walls and ceiling of what looked like a run-down storage unit with a dirt floor. You could feel the sheer passion and effort they put into the show. The rawness of the clay, extruded into sausages on-site, gave the space a powerful, unrefined energy that was also deeply poetic. It made me question my own, more methodical and less spontaneous way of working. I felt genuine admiration for their process; the chemistry between the two artists was palpable and seemed to be preserved within the pieces themselves.

What do you think is the most effective thing you’ve done?

The most effective piece I’ve ever created for myself was my art school entrance project—it changed the course of my life. I came to art relatively late, applying to art school at 28 while working an office job. That piece opened the door to a new life for me. For the general public, I would say the artificial pond I built last year for an art festival in Daegu, South Korea. It resonated with the community, drawing in children and elderly visitors alike. It became more than just a temporary installation; it turned into a waterhole for frogs and dragonflies from the nearby riverbanks and a place of rest for people. Witnessing that response was made the work feel impactful beyond its aesthetic value.

What are you really excited about right now?

Next month, I’m part of a duo show at Discotec, an artist-run space in Vienna, with emerging artist Luca Sabot and curated by Peter Varnai. For this exhibition, I’m creating a new piece in direct response to Luca’s work and will be casting silver for the first time. I’m thrilled about this, as collaborating with another artist and a curator in a duo show always feels more like home—it’s a space where I can push boundaries, experiment, and explore new ideas without restraint. It’s like sparring, a game of chess, or even a dance, where the back-and-forth leads to unexpected discoveries and sometimes u-turns in ones approach.

In regards to your making, what is something that you’ve always wanted to do and are working towards achieving it?

I’ve always dreamed of securing a major public commission to create a large, intricate outdoor fountain that combines complex details into a cohesive, simple, and striking form. Additionally, I’m working towards learning bronze and aluminum casting on my own, as I didn’t have the opportunity to explore these techniques during art school.

Can you share one of the best or worst reactions you have gotten as a result of your work?

The best reaction—and perhaps the greatest honor I’ve ever experienced as an artist —was in 2016 when a teenage girl working at a small regional gallery where I exhibited asked her parents to buy one of my artworks as her birthday present. Even now, I still can’t believe that happened and I am still grateful. On the other hand, one of the worst (but actually funny) reactions just occurred recently. Last month, I installed a sculpture in my hometown in the South of Austria.The piece, a large-scale representation of bird bones, was buried in the city’s largest park with only about 40 centimeters of the bird’s “beak” visible above ground as part of the concept. The city hasn’t even put up a plaque yet. Apparently, someone—or likely a group of kids—decided to interact with it in their own way. The sculpture was shot at with pellets or possibly struck repeatedly with the sharp end of a hammer or pick-axe. To top it off, the police reported that someone had poured a “sticky black liquid” over it. My mother even took a picture with her phone, which I’ve attached for you to see.

 

Interview conducted and edited by Liam Owings