Interview with Matylda Tracewska

Photo: Konrad Ciszkowski

Why did you become an artist? 

I have been involved in art for so long that I barely remember how it all began. As a child, I was always drawing, sculpting, or later writing — it was my favorite way to spend time. Together with my sister and a group of children, we even had something like a theater group and staged performances together.

My mother was a cinematographer and documentary filmmaker, so both art and books were always present in our home. My grandmother, in turn, infected me with her love of antiquity — she taught me Latin sayings and read Parandowski’s mythology to me. There was a moment when that world completely absorbed me, and after primary school I entered a classical class with Latin and Greek. It was a demanding school, and during that time I almost completely abandoned creating — apart from drawings made in the back pages of notebooks during lessons.

After graduation, I began studying Polish philology at the University of Warsaw, but I felt completely out of place there. At the time, I was dating a boy who dreamed of becoming a filmmaker, so he had many friends from artistic circles. One day I thought: after all, I used to paint and create too. I enrolled in art classes — and there was no turning back after that. That single decision suddenly put everything on the right track, and from then on things unfolded naturally.

Works by artist Matylda Tracewska

Whenever I hear this question, I think of Agnieszka Holland’s film Total Eclipse, whose protagonists are the poets Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine. There is a scene in which Rimbaud, while staying at his family home, gives his mother his poems to read. After finishing, confused, she asks him: “What does all this mean?” Rimbaud replies: “It means exactly what is written there, word for word. No more and no less.”

Every time someone asks me what my art is about — and unfortunately it happens from time to time — I feel a strong urge to answer in a similar way. I have a great aversion to verbalism. Not because I do not know what I am doing, or because I lack discursive competence, but because every spoken word seems wrong to me. And unnecessary. I leave interpretation to viewers and curators.

The works that matter most to me are those that represented some kind of breakthrough. Recently, at friends’ house, I saw a mosaic hanging on the wall that I had given them as a wedding gift twenty years ago… It was my first work in this technique, a 50 × 50 cm square depicting a decorative weave. It was precisely because of this work that I decided to devote myself to mosaics, which led me to study in Ravenna and began an adventure that continues to this day.

Another important work currently hangs in the studio of my Italian diploma supervisor, Luciana Notturni. Luciana is an institution in Ravenna, a grand lady of mosaics, to whom I owe a great deal. When I graduated, she bought a small work from me — I do not know whether more because she liked it or because she wanted to help me, since at that time I was completely broke. It was my first attempt to combine painting with mosaics: an interior scene created in buon fresco technique, with the light in the windows rendered using golden mosaic tesserae. An experiment. Luciana’s approval gave me the courage to continue in that direction. Every time I visit her in Ravenna, I look at that work with nostalgia.

It is easy to notice that I am inspired primarily by old art. I like concentrated, quiet painting. I would very much like to see the paintings of Andrew Wyeth in person one day — the painter of silence and dogs. It probably also comes as no surprise that I admire contemporary figurative painters such as Michael Borremans, Luc Tuymans, Marlene Dumas, and Adrian Ghenie.

I also think of the Czech artist Jaromír Novotný, who creates minimalist abstract paintings using synthetic organza. There was a period when I myself experimented with organza and accidentally came across his works. I was fascinated by how he combines severity and rigor with delicacy.

Because of my interests, I also follow painters who work with stone surfaces, such as Nicola Samorì and Pieter Vermeersch. I enjoy the marble-vein-inspired, esoteric paintings of Kerstin Brätsch. I am also deeply moved by the watercolors of Urszula Broll. In my opinion, she is a very underrated Polish artist.

The essential element of my visual language is a dialogue with the surface. A white, silent plane intimidates me; I try to create a situation in which, at the moment I begin working, the surface already contains some kind of content that I must respond to. That content may be a mosaic, with which I usually begin a painting, the structure of plaster, or finally the drawing in stone, to which I must later “tune” and integrate the remaining elements.

In the case of mosaics, the situation is the most complicated because I start “from scratch.” The mosaic must first be designed, and the material properly cut, so this is the least spontaneous stage of work and also the least open to modification. A mosaic can of course be grouted, smoothed, aged, or covered with paint, but the arrangement of tesserae and the rhythm associated with them remain unchanged. Because of its relief qualities, the mosaic also dominates the remaining elements, functioning much like painterly impasto — it always comes to the foreground.

Once completed, the mosaic becomes a surface just like a stone slab or plaster. Consequently, every time it is the surface that dictates the next steps. There were situations in which I designed a mosaic with a particular painting in mind, only to discover later that the finished painting did not fit and felt alien. I then had to remove it and wait until the mosaic itself suggested another solution.

Alan Watts, when describing Far Eastern artistic processes, introduced the concepts of the “uncarved block” and “undyed silk.” According to the Taoist principle of wu wei, these terms meant that an artist working with matter does not try to dominate nature; they modify it, but in the direction it is already moving on its own. The creator asks the raw stone block: “What do you want to become? And I will cooperate with you to bring you to fulfillment.” This approach resonates deeply with the way I experience my own work. And if there is any ritual or constant element in my practice, it is precisely this question. In fact, in my case it is not even so much “What do you want to become?” but rather “What are you already?” And the answer comes.

Artist Matylda Tracewska at work

What are you jealous of in other artists? 

I envy artists for whom creating comes easily and who derive joy from the creative process. Sometimes I also envy those who work quickly. My creative process is slow and almost always difficult. I am rarely satisfied with what I make. Critical thinking is necessary — even indispensable — in order to do one’s work properly. Still, I envy carefree artists who are not burdened by perfectionism.

Although I work at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw, I do not consider myself an expert on Polish art. My career has developed mainly abroad. Undoubtedly, the Polish art scene is very dynamic, with many highly talented creators. This also applies to students, with whom it is a pleasure to work because they possess a strong awareness of form.

Do they stand out in any particular way? With some hesitation, I would say through their knowledge of traditional craftsmanship, which is hardly taught anymore at Western academies. With hesitation, because even here this skill is becoming less and less in demand.

Works by artist Matylda Tracewska

What would you do if you were not an artist? 

It is hard for me to imagine. Creating largely defines my being in the world. I do not know whether I could live without it. I think that if I were capable of doing so, I would have changed professions long ago.

Of course, I divide my time between art and teaching. I am an assistant in a drawing studio at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw, and I also lead private workshops in which I teach my creative method.

I enjoy physical work, taking care of the house and garden, animals, and cooking. As a child, I dreamed of becoming a musician; apparently I had perfect pitch. I convinced my parents to let me take piano lessons, but nothing came of it. I was expelled from the choir for singing out of tune.

What I mean is that despite my introverted nature, I am curious about the world. I also speak several languages, so if I were forced to look for another job today, I would probably find something. But whether I could function without art in the long run — that I do not know.