A stage in the layers of time

Lucia Tallová presents an intellectual journey on time, memory, and fragility in her first solo exhibition in Istanbul, Unstable Monuments, continuing at Zilberman until November 19. Through layered constructions using found objects, collages, paintings, and site-specific installations, she creates transitional zones that oscillate between the personal and the collective. Treating memory as a material that can be reimagined and transformed, Tallová turns aged furniture, antique books, photographs, and objects carried into the present with their imperfections into monuments that are at once fragile and resilient, temporary and enduring. We spoke with Tallová about the sources that nourish her artistic practice, her approach to space and the body, her reflections on female representation, and her first connections with Istanbul

Interview: Yekhan Pınarlıgil

Lucia Tallová. Photo: Berk Kır

Dear Lucia, your exhibition Unstable Monuments opened at Zilberman, your first solo exhibition in Istanbul. It is an immersive installation composed of meticulously constructed images that are at once intoxicating and surprising, playful yet dramatic. I would like to return to that shortly, but I would also like to ask you a few questions about your journey, aspects of your practice that might still be unfamiliar to us here. Could we begin with a brief portrait of yourself and your trajectory? In a very subjective way… through a manifesto, an image, a thought, or a set of convictions?

In my art practice, I am inspired by the environment, relationships, and their interconnection with the past. I have been using archives and collections as motifs for many years. The central theme is our memory, how we preserve our memories, how they fade away and disappear, and how they can be changed or manipulated in the course of time. 

I combine the medium of painting with spatial installations, objects and photography. I focus on the nature of the very exhibition space and the use of architecture. I transform the gallery space - I make use of found worn furniture and structures into which I embed individual art works or painting interventions. The boundaries between the artefacts do not matter, because one artwork finishes the other and together, they create a poetically congenial statement. On the exhibitions variations of wooden shelves and racks recur; over time transformed into more complicated forms, podiums and site specific installations.

Are there thinkers, artists, or other figures who have particularly inspired your artistic practice?

Many current influences shape my practice. These include the exhibitions I visit, the books I am reading at the moment, and even the music playing in my studio. I draw inspiration from my surroundings; it is a continuous exchange with the world around me.

In terms of visual art, my work refers to and builds upon the legacy of Slovak art from the 1960s and 1970s, particularly the Bratislava neo-avantgarde. I feel a strong connection to this era, and I often return to the works of Slovak artists such as Jana Želibská and Július Koller, both of whom have had a profound impact on me.

One of my lasting sources of inspiration is the Czech surrealist Toyen, who emigrated to Paris during a turbulent time. Her influence comes not only through her artistic work but also through the story of her life. I am also deeply drawn to the photographic practices of Dora Maar and Diane Arbus, whose works convey an intimate strangeness that resonates with me.

Among the artists I admire most are Agnes Martin, whose minimalism carries an emotional depth that I find deeply moving, and Phyllida Barlow, whose monumental sculptures possess a raw, poetic presence.

Left: Unstable Monuments, Installation view. Photo: Kayhan Kaygusuz Right: Lucia Tallová, Fragility of Caryatid, Installation, Mixed media, 2025

Let us now turn to Unstable Monuments. At the heart of the exhibition, a monumental installation welcomes visitors. We find ourselves in a kind of unusual archaeological site: there are columns whose forms evoke a distant yet recognizable epoch, but they appear in curious states. Twisted, fractured, divided, they support or merge with photographic prints that are themselves folded or distorted. Through this work, could you introduce us to the exhibition — its generative idea and the process of its preparation?

The sculptural installation at the center of the exhibition is titled Fragility of Caryatid. It evokes imagined ruins or remnants of decayed monuments from long-lost worlds. These forms do not represent specific historical references, but rather suggest the collapse of idealized systems, bodies, or beliefs. The caryatid, traditionally a symbol of strength and support in classical architecture, is here rendered vulnerable, fragmented, and open to reinterpretation. Through this work, I reflect on the instability of cultural memory and the shifting meanings we assign to objects over time.

In my current series I transform female figures into structural supports for decaying architecture. These women, balancing in complex poses, represent anonymous figures upholding the system – much like caryatids once held up ancient temples. The figures strive to maintain balance, resisting the crushing weight of responsibilities and expectations imposed on them by society.

My work often touches on themes of female physicality and the tradition of representing the female body – exposed, subjected to the gaze, defenseless, beautiful, with porcelain skin. Historically, the female figure in art has been viewed more as an object than as a subject of its own story. Physicality, intimacy, and vulnerability in my work raise questions of identity. A dogmatic approach to the body – particularly the female body – reduces it to an object of judgment and control. It bears the marks of pressure, distortion, and the constant effort to conform to a prescribed norm. I distort and challenge the beauty ideal by layering it with personal commentary. Through this, I aim to draw attention to stereotypes that have long shaped the social status of women.

Unstable Monuments, Installation view. Photo: Kayhan Kaygusuz

I know you place great importance on spatial composition. How do you conceive of the spectator’s experience in general — their gaze, their circulation, their distance or proximity, their attention to detail? And more specifically, how is this reflected in Unstable Monuments?

The viewer’s entry into my installations is absolutely essential to me. I aim to create environments where individual works are not isolated, but instead respond to one another—where one piece completes or extends the narrative of another, and together they form a cohesive whole. This is made possible through spatial thinking and site-specific installation.

I construct spaces that invite the viewer to gradually uncover layers of meaning and the subtle connections between works. I enjoy working with visual axes, shifts in perspective, and the viewer’s physical movement through space. Since my practice combines various media and materials, it is crucial to compose exhibitions in a way that allows all these elements—ranging from small, intimate collages to large-scale paintings or sculptures—to resonate with equal intensity.

The generous exhibition space of Zilberman Gallery, spread across two floors, allows me to create distinct atmospheres that resonate with the sensitivity of the works.

According to Aloïs Riegl, the theorist of memory politics, the modern cult of monuments rests not only on their beauty or their historical relevance, but above all on their aging, the trace of time, and the emotions it provokes. I believe this remains true today, as their conservation is both a cultural and philosophical question. The title of your exhibition suggests a new approach to this vision. Could you expand on your reflections about monuments and their place within social and cultural structures? What defines an “unstable” monument?

And of course, to speak of monuments is also to speak of memory. Could you describe your own relationship with memory?

In a certain sense, no monument is ever truly permanent. All monuments are temporary. They are subject to decay - whether physical deterioration, shifts in interpretation, or the changing tides of history. My works from the Unstable Monuments series speak directly to this fragility and impermanence. They also point to the often naïve urge to celebrate or construct fictional heroes and idols, and to the way societies have historically elevated questionable figures (usually male) onto pedestals of glory.

I grew up in a post-communist country during the 1990s. At that time, housing estates were still filled with monuments celebrating the communist regime. Over the years, these monuments began to disappear from public space, what often remained were only their monumental pedestals, now stripped of meaning. These empty bases slowly became part of the urban visual landscape: monuments without purpose, without context, without narrative.

Through my work, I try to reflect on these tensions - the instability of collective memory, the fluidity of historical narratives, and the poetic potential hidden within these absences.

Your work often takes the form of invented or reinterpreted archives. What is your process in selecting objects, photographs, materials? Are there affective, aesthetic, or symbolic criteria that guide you?

Before I began working with the technique of objet trouvé and incorporating found photographs into my practice, I was already collecting materials from antiquarian sources, like books, photo albums, postcards. The selection process is often guided by a very personal and almost instinctive desire to possess these objects. Many of my purchases are spontaneous, and I often have no idea whether I will ever use the items I find.

Some pieces sit on a shelf for years before I discover how to work with them. Others reveal themselves as hidden treasures, sparking immediate ideas and finding their place in a composition almost effortlessly. For me, the act of collecting is not only practical but also emotional. Each object holds a certain character or presence that resonates with me, and sometimes I simply need to spend time with it before its potential becomes clear.

The objects I choose must possess not only visual quality, but above all, conceptual depth.

Lucia Tallová, From the series Unstable Monuments , 2023 - 2025

I would also like to discuss collage, a technique that offers infinite possibilities: it revisits the past while simultaneously anchoring content in the future. I would even say that forgetting is one of your materials — something you shape and give form to. And yet, at the same time, you rescue certain images or objects from anonymity, granting them another status, the very opposite of oblivion. How do you navigate this tension between history, memory, and forgetting?

Memory and forgetting are equally powerful forces. In fact, I often feel that the act of forgetting has a deeper impact on our perception of history than the events themselves. In my collages, I layer materials drawn from various periods and with diverse meanings—without imposing a fixed chronology or structure.

History cannot be read in a linear way. The past is not dead, and it is not unchangeable. The layers of our personal and collective histories are constantly shifting, because we always interpret them through the lens of our present experience. That is why the final image in a collage feels alive - always open, always different, depending on the moment in which it is viewed.

For me, collage is not only a technique of construction, but also a method of re-reading and re-imagining. Some images or objects are indeed forgotten, while others are rescued, given a new status, and pulled back from the edge of anonymity. This tension between memory and erasure, betweeb seen and unseen, between what remains and what disappears, is at the core of my work.

The materials you use are always marked by time. Imperfections, patina, the traces of lived experience — all of these play a crucial role. Could you elaborate on the place of time in your work?

The patina of the material and the deliberate flaws create a visual quality that I work with. It is another layer, or another tool. 

A surface never bears a simple recording of the past; it is not a read-only memory. The weathered wood, the pages covered with ink, and the photosensitive film of photographic paper do not express a finite end but, on the contrary, serve as the starting point for the blossoming of a magical renewal, whether real or invented. I give these surfaces volume, texture, and new plasticity, causing them to overflow into the present. By layering images from past eras, I construct strange, melancholic scenes that suggest both personal histories and collective memory. I try to establish a certain sensitivity that may resonate with the viewer, precisely through its imperfection.

Your expression also embraces opposites. How do you establish a balance between permanence and fragility, the sublime and the futile, eroticism and philosophy?

I often work with materials and meanings that stand in direct contrast to one another. There is an intentional tension in my choice of substances, replacing the solidity of stone with delicate, translucent paper or substituting heavy rocks with charcoal, a material so fragile it can be crushed in one’s hand. These oppositions are not incidental; they are integral to how I think about form, structure, and narrative.

I am drawn to the poetic potential of contradiction, exploring how fragility can contain strength and how impermanence can hold traces of permanence. My installations often evoke a quiet instability, a space where conflicting elements coexist in a state of uncertain balance. Through this, I try to reflect the layered and paradoxical nature of human experience. Our inner worlds are rarely logical; they shift, overlap, and resist fixed meanings.

Eroticism enters my work not as provocation but as a form of sensitivity. It is tied to the body, to intuition, and to vulnerability.

Lucia Tallová, From the series Unstable Monuments , 2023 - 2025

Let us speak now of the women who appear in your work — I would not call them anonymous, but rather forgotten women, lost in the meanders of time. Your collages give them a new life, another history. Could you share your approach to reimagining these images? Do you consider yourself a feminist artist? Or how would you describe your relationship to feminism?

The feminine aspect plays a central role in my work. I engage with themes that deeply influence me and hold great significance - whether it’s female identity, personal and collective history, or the landscape from which I come. The reality in my pieces is filtered through my own experience, so naturally they express my perspectives and views on contemporary issues through a female lens.

My collages and assemblages often depict the female figure or portrait, making the woman the central character of the story with whom I closely identify. I draw from historical materials and visual references spanning different eras connected to the female world. By intervening in these images, I insert a contemporary commentary, comparing the position of women in the past with their situation in the 21st century.

For example, I sometimes combine depictions of women with fragments of wooden furniture- using gentle irony to highlight how women have often been perceived merely as decorative elements of the interior or as permanent parts of the household who lack agency over themselves and their time. They are harnessed to the workings of domestic life and an endless routine of caring for others.

I often cover women's faces or erase identifying parts of the photograph. The absence of identifiable elements represents not only an attempt at concealment and anonymity but also a certain universality. It encourages viewers to engage with my art on a more personal and intuitive level. Without clear references or recognizable figures, the focus shifts to emotions, textures, and the overall atmosphere of the piece. In this context, women and their work were often regarded as pejorative and insignificant. History left them nameless and anonymous. Women were (and still are) invisible in many ways. For this reason, the covering of the female face holds meaningful symbolism in my work.

You grew up and still live in Slovakia. In what way do your own past and personal history — geographical, cultural — shape your relationship to creation and to the objects you collect?

To a certain extent, yes. There are many moments when I discover something at a flea market or in an antiquarian bookshop and feel a wave of nostalgia. It might remind me of my childhood, or of objects that once stood in my grandparents’ home. In that sense, my cultural and personal background inevitably shapes my sensitivity to certain materials.

At the same time, I also collect many things during my travels. Especially when I am on an artist residency abroad, the first days of my stay are often dedicated to exploring local contexts and gathering found materials. It’s a kind of intuitive mapping of a new place - through its textures, fragments, and forgotten objects.

I’m sure I will bring some new "finds" from Istanbul back to my studio as well.

Lucia Tallová, From the series Mountain Between Us, Old drawer shelf, old photograph and coal, 56x50x10 cm, 2023

Could you also tell us about the recurring motif of the mountain in your installations? It appears immutable, and yet there is an almost imperceptible, slow movement within it. Up close, it is invisible, but from afar, one perceives a whole history…

The mountain in my work carries multiple layers of meaning. I often use old natural science books about the High Tatras, which are the highest mountain range in Slovakia, and this serves as a reference to my home and to the place I come from. 

It also represents memory. In the series Building a Mountain, I reflected on memory as something that accumulates over time, much like sediment builds up in geological formations. The mountain becomes a metaphor for layered histories, dense and compressed, and difficult to fully grasp when viewed up close.

At the same time, the mountain can signify something insurmountable. It can stand as a barrier or a boundary, whether between people and cultures, or, in a more symbolic sense, between the inner and outer world - for example in my series Mountain Between Us.

Solda: Lucia Tallová, From the series Clouds, Ink and acrylic paint on canvas, 250 x 200 cm, 2022 Sağda: Lucia Tallová, From the series Unstable Monuments, Collage, 55 x 40 x 4.5 cm, 2023 - 2025

In Unstable Monuments, as in other works, individual histories and micro-fictions encounter vast images of skies and clouds. The emotions the body experiences before such sublime landscapes seem to inscribe themselves permanently — a kind of “sensual memory,” a memory of the body, of the skin. What sensorial strategies do you employ in your work to evoke this dimension?

I studied painting, and in the early stages of my independent practice, I focused only on painting as a medium. From the very beginning, I was drawn to landscapes - vast, open spaces with expansive skies, stripped of the human figure. Even when people appeared in my paintings, they were present only symbolically, through absence or indirect reference.

My interest in landscape has remained constant throughout my work. It continues today in various forms, whether in the Clouds painting series or in collages and assemblages that incorporate found imagery of natural scenery. These landscapes are not places the viewer can enter; they remain distant, sublime, and untouchable. We can only observe them from afar. They are not depictions of real geography, but rather internal, psychological landscapes, spaces of emotion, memory, and introspection.

In the Clouds series, I work in black-and-white monochrome to depict suspended sequences of dramatic storm skies. These are atmospheric zones, moments where transformation takes place as the elements shift from liquid to vapor. I try to evoke an ambiguous emotional state in the viewer - one where it is unclear whether they are witnessing the calm before the storm or the quiet aftermath of a devastating flood. As in my collages, the central theme in this series is time , the passage of time and its transformation.

Undeniably, there is a poetry in your works — whether visual or material. They are enigmatic and intoxicating, captivating and exalting. I know this is difficult to speak about as an artist, but could you say a word about the construction of this poetry, its mysterious architecture?

It is not something I can easily articulate in words. I work primarily through intuition and emotion. Many pieces come together very quickly, almost spontaneously, and I am often surprised by the result myself. It feels as though my intuition is leading me, guiding my hand before my mind can fully grasp what is taking shape. Perhaps that is where the poetry lies in the space between intention and instinct, between control and surrender.

At the same time, some objects are carefully constructed and take a long time to build. They demand patience and presence, and it is precisely through that duration that I am able to discover meaning and embed deeper layers of content. This slower process becomes a form of contemplation, allowing me to be more deliberate and attentive to detail. In a way, the contrast between these two modes, the spontaneous and the slow, also shapes the rhythm and texture of my work.

I would like to return to Istanbul, and to the socio-political context in which you are exhibiting. Memory is always subject to manipulation, but here in Turkey, our relationship to History is particularly ambiguous. Everything feels volatile. Perhaps geography plays a role — the skies and winds crossing the Bosphorus. How do you establish your connection with this city, whose history has been fractured with an axe, whose memory seems too short?

My relationship with Istanbul is still in the process of unfolding. Each time I return, the city reveals a new layer — something vibrant, something wounded, something forgotten. There is an undeniable sense of volatility in the air, a tension that feels embedded not only in the social and political atmosphere, but also in the geography itself like you mentioned. 

As someone who works with themes of time, forgetting, and remembrance, I am drawn to this instability - the sense that history here is constantly being rewritten, erased, or silenced. At the same time, there is a deep poetic charge in this ambiguity. 

In preparing Unstable Monuments, I thought a lot about how to respond to this tension. Not by confronting it directly, but by offering a parallel space in which fragility, slowness, and contemplation might open up other forms of resistance. Istanbul is not a place that can be easily grasped or explained. It must be felt.

What is your personal relationship with Istanbul, as an artist, as a woman, and as a neighbor?

My relationship with this captivating cosmopolis is still something I am in the process of building. I believe I have discovered only a small part of it so far. But one thing is already clear — it is a city I definitely want to return to.

Finally, could you share with us your upcoming projects? In what direction is your work evolving at the moment? And above all, have you been able to establish ties with the artistic scene here? Might we expect other opportunities to see your work in Istanbul in the near future?

I have just come through a very demanding period during which I prepared two extensive solo projects - the exhibition Unstable Monuments at Zilberman Gallery and another show titled I Wish That I Was Made of Stone, which I opened this summer at the Czech gallery Telegraph; it will run until November 6th. I need a moment to catch my breath and reflect on the outcomes of these recent projects.

As for my work moving forward, I am very eager to further develop the sculptural installation of ruined columns into a larger and more monumental composition. So, in my upcoming projects, I plan to continue working on the Fragility of Caryatid series.

Regarding the current Istanbul exhibition, we are also preparing a catalog, which I am really looking forward to. So my return to the city will be very soon, for the book launch of the catalog.

Unstable Monuments, Installation view. Photo: Kayhan Kaygusuz