Marzena Kawalerowicz on More Than Sex, before Her Exhibition at Atlas Sztuki

Marzena Kawalerowicz: I should say straight away that as a practitioner I am only so-so. I am more concerned with art.

Krzysztof Cichoń: No time for sex?

M.K.: No time; one has to work. A coffee, then get on with it.

Tomasz Załuski: That often happens when someone writes or draws about sex — there is no time left for sex itself, so they do those things instead.

M.K.: Yes, precisely — instead.

K.C.: Have you ever made any uninhabited works, without figures?

M.K.: No.

Andrzej Walczak: Nothing like that in more than twenty years?

M.K.: Nothing. I did draw my dog once. Although I can draw anything, the human being is so interesting in every configuration that there is no point making work without one.

K.C.: But you do not paint people playing chess. You could show an elbow there too, even a knee. In your case, to what is the representation of the human being narrowed?

M.K.: It is always a portrait of a person’s interior, and that is very difficult to see and reveal in static situations. That is why I like disaster films: they show how people behave in situations that are unusual for them, which interests me greatly. My work is a psychological portrait made with the means at my disposal. If I could write, I would write. At the same time, I feel that I am continually speaking about myself. I know what I am like, what faults I have and how I work on myself.

T.Z.: Is a person’s interior best observed in sexual situations?

M.K.: Why do we sometimes strip a person naked in order to show them? The simplest kind of exposure is physical exposure — then everything comes out. People reveal more of their qualities through sexuality. What other situations expose a person so completely? Fear? Exploring the subject of sex was a challenge for me from the beginning. I knew what I was capable of and what I represented, and thought it would challenge my artistic and mental capacities. Very few people portray sex seriously; they often turn it into satire, which I strongly dislike. To me, sex is a struggle…

T.Z.: …hard work.

M.K.: Yes.

T.Z.: You can see that in the paintings.

M.K.: Sex is struggle, excitement, the whole world. It is not always simply physical contact; it is also something a person thinks. My subject is really sensuality in the broad sense, and it does not always have to be sex. One addresses such a subject when one feels free from consequences and has complete liberty, when there is no pressure that something should not be done or that someone might look, criticise. I have always felt that I possess complete freedom of action, which is very important. I had no fears, prohibitions or moral problems, and this was reflected in my work. In fact the whole world revolves around sex; “getting a blowjob” is the leading slogan of every society.

T.Z.: Yet no one admits it.

M.K.: You can agree or pretend that you do not.

A.W.: It seems to me that in the late 1970s, after the decline of Conceptualism, you were among the first people here to shift the boundaries of perception by redrawing the world. I remember your early drawings, such as a hand rendered hyperrealistically yet simultaneously multiplied, with multiplied skin. Drawings of a hand grown dozenfold…

M.K.: At the time I drew everything from myself, hence the hand…

K.C.: Can an average pace of your work be established?

M.K.: I have no pace…

K.C.: But the number of works you have produced is impressive, so…

M.K.: I have worked for more than twenty years. It is difficult to say — two paintings a month, five, one; it varies greatly. I do not record them, sign them or put dates on them. Later, if necessary, I add dates by feel. I do not return to finished works. Once one is complete, I put it aside and that is the end. I probably ought to keep records.

T.Z.: Who poses?

M.K.: Sometimes I pose myself. I make everything from myself.

T.Z.: An interesting contribution to a particular understanding of self-portraiture.

K.C.: Is a model still necessary after twenty years? Could you not work from your head, without looking?

M.K.: I could, but I still like to see it. Sometimes I directly quote a fragment of the body — an elbow, a knee. I like this kind of quotation from nature to appear in a work. At times I draw from photographs or take something from the Internet. I often look through pornography. There used to be Polish magazines with amateur photographs of Poles having sex. Very good: ladies not quite shaved, with moustaches; gentlemen from the army…

T.Z.: Homespun.

M.K.: Yes, homespun. It was very good. Sometimes there would be an excellent arrangement of a back, for example… Polish productions of this kind carried the sensation of peeping. Looking at a particular photograph, you spied on that couple or person. The situation was not always photographed well; sometimes it was just snapped by a friend…

K.C.: Not for display. Perhaps it was the impression of privacy?

M.K.: The interiors matter: a little lamp, a wall unit, the carpet curling up, a collection of cassette tapes. Unlike photographs made in the West, where everything is properly proportioned, you often see feet that are too large, hands too small, thin necks — and that already begins to work. I never transfer these things exactly into my work, but the elements give me something. I also use photographs of rappers, sumo wrestlers and ballet. I draw on pictures and look at a great many. When I graduated, there were no materials in Poland; returning from abroad, I carried stacks of magazines under my arm. I also had a critic friend, Szymon Bojko, who travelled the world and brought back many interesting things: books and albums. That is when I learned to look at secondary images, at reproductions. In fact, I always draw on an image of an image. I dislike originals and feel uncomfortable in museums where they are displayed, unless it is contemporary art. I sometimes visit galleries. I have a photographic memory: I enter and quickly grasp what is going on. Visiting exhibitions is too slow for me, which is why I prefer magazines — it is much faster.

K.C.: So you practise visual collecting. You go out into the city and soak things up like a sponge…

M.K.: Yes. When I travel abroad, I sit in the busiest place and simply stare. At the Louvre I look at the people — the whole world passes through there.

A.W.: Have you ever lived outside a city?

M.K.: No, I am an urban person.

T.Z.: Toys, “little playthings”, often appear beside the figures in your works. Are they accessories representing the subject’s favourite things?

M.K.: No, it is about form.

T.Z.: So are they a kind of ornament?

M.K.: They are about contrasts. The human being in my work is raw, yet simultaneously contains kitsch, toy-like elements. I search for contrasts. The “little playthings” are meant to introduce dissonance.

T.Z.: Your faces are often constructed from collage-like elements, unlike the rest of the figure, which is treated fairly uniformly in planes. What is the significance of this accumulation of small elements within human faces?

M.K.: Sometimes I stand in front of a shop window. I am reflected in the glass and simultaneously see what is inside the shop; often an advertisement playing on a television is superimposed on both. Yet a person generally looks at their own face, at what is closest. This amuses me, and I often stand like that. […] I think it is still self-worship, narcissism. The face is multiplied and overlaid upon itself. What occurs only once is not enough for me; it is too little. A person possesses such magnitude for themselves…

T.Z.: Is it always a man and a woman?

M.K.: No, God forbid. I would also see it as monosex, because everyone knows best what they need.

T.Z.: Where did the motif of broad-necked figures come from? The drawings and paintings are full of them.

M.K.: That is what I look like. I am big-boned; I practised bodybuilding for a while, danced ballet and have broad shoulders.

T.Z.: So it is a self-portrait motif?

M.K.: Yes, definitely.

K.C.: A technique such as screen printing might seem ideal for works with numerous overlays and flat surfaces.

M.K.: I made lithographs at school, but repetition did not excite me. I developed my own creative technique, which I continue to expand. These are unrepeated things: individual and unique.

K.C.: In the 1980s, everyone suddenly began painting colourfully and on a large scale.

M.K.: Yes, the Neue Wilde appeared. I also began to paint like that. I made about three such pictures and gave it up. I disliked it because it was too homogeneous. I like works that take a long time to read; I like them to have many layers. The Neue Wilde, like the Banalists, can be read and seen too quickly.

A.W.: What inspires you?

M.K.: People’s behaviour in clubs, Butoh theatre, niche magazines, contemporary poetry, bicycle couriers’ clothing, contemporary ballet programmes, sign language, the behaviour of crunk musicians in concert, crowds on the beach, strange objects at flea markets, medical encyclopaedias, sumo, free-for-all wrestling, graffiti and the shapes of electric drills in catalogues. Also Adidas’s latest advertising campaign and objects from Alaska’s Indigenous cultures.

K.C.: Why did you begin making three-dimensional works?

M.K.: Flat ones stopped being enough. The exhibition will also include Torsos and Backsides — four backsides, perhaps five. There will be spatial forms, paintings and sketches. It will simply be a total exhibition, showing my highly consistent creative path. In older paintings from five or seven years ago I was already gluing in pieces of paper and making assemblages, so this is not a sudden change in what I do. I wanted my pictures to be projected onto a large torso — still but flickering images, some sketches, the things I draw upon, fragments of photographs I use, even some brief moving sequences. It should be my entire world, in which everything inspires me. It ought to loop, perhaps ten minutes of material. It does not have to be completely legible, like in a screening room. I dislike that. When I walk around the Venice Biennale and enter a room where I am expected to concentrate on nothing else, I do not enjoy it. I like chaos. If there is only a projection and some “social film” is playing, I leave without waiting. Unfortunately, I am not very engaged. I tried realist motifs; I once drew watches on wrists like that, quoting them, but it ages terribly. Without intervention it does not stand the test of time. Everything that serves a purpose ages very quickly. That is one reason I am not very engaged and take no interest in politics.

I deeply dislike team sports. For me, the symbol is the four-man bobsleigh: the third person from the front. Or a six-person canoe team: the fifth from the bow. I know that it is an art, but… That is why I have never belonged to an artistic group. It terrified me. Open-air workshops, life in the art milieu — people become excited about such things. I never participated. There is a price for that: one is always alone.

K.C.: Was there never a period when you wanted to change something in your working method?

M.K.: No, never. Yet the development has been enormous; my earliest works differ greatly from the most recent.

T.Z.: The presence of colour is stronger now, appearing as substantial opaque planes. Earlier works were more linear, with colour applied in strokes.

M.K.: Yes. I studied graphic design, specifically poster design, after all. I had no masters at school; it was self-development throughout, continually working on myself, looking and analysing. Returning to the question of whether I wanted to change anything…

K.C.: Fatigue sets in, things go badly, and then one tries something else…

M.K.: I had disasters in my life, but they never affected my work. When things were bad, I banged my head against the table and continued doing the same thing. I am terribly important to myself as a person. I knew that what I represented as a girl and woman would change and one day end, while creative work provides certainty; it is a refuge and something that will remain after me. It represents the greatest value. Unfortunately, the creative process is also quite a pain. I work all the time, whether I am making soup or walking with my child…

A.W.: Does it come easily?

M.K.: It becomes increasingly difficult because there are more building blocks. When I was younger I had ten; now I have 150, and arranging all of them is a monumental task…