Memory as Material:
In Reflection with Lucia Tallová

Interview: Trudy Darmanin
Images: Adam Šakový

In a world obsessed with personal branding and the ceaseless curation of identity, my art has always been my way of stepping into the quiet void of anonymity. It’s an intimate yet universal commentary where names, faces, and voices are stripped away, leaving only the absence of self, the fleeting memories, and the stories we’ve forgotten—or chosen to forget. For me, this space is where everything begins.

A Journey from the Traditional to the Transient

I have always needed my own space to create. For years, I rented studios that didn’t quite feel like home, until I found my sanctuary two years ago: a small house just outside Bratislava, with a studio nestled at the end of the garden. It’s a magical space – a place that’s mine in every sense.

I started out as a painter; traditional, in many ways, focusing on large canvases, developing my technique. But alongside that, I always had this obsession: old photographs, postcards, antique books. I collected them for years without realising how deeply they would influence my art.

The turning point came when I started collecting old wedding photographs – beautiful cabinet cards from the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They fascinated me: the dresses, the expressions, the untold stories behind each one. I brought them to my studio, tentatively adding small ink interventions to the images. Slowly, this side project grew into something much larger. The collages became assemblages, the assemblages became installations.

Now, I weave together painting, photography, and objects into layered installations that play with memory, identity, and imperfection. It wasn’t a planned journey; it was instinctive, organic. I didn’t wake up one day and say, “I want to be an interdisciplinary artist.” The work led me here.

Memory as a Material

Memory is central to everything I create, not as a fixed record, but as something transient and ever-changing. I use old photographs, some from my own family archive, but also ones I find in flea markets and antique shops, or am gifted through friends that surrender complete trust in my process. These images, of people who lived, loved, and were loved, carry with them the weight of the past. By working with them, layering, obscuring, or combining them with other elements, I explore the tension between permanence and fragility.

There’s a kind of narrative in these pieces. The imperfections, the patina of worn wood, the texture of aged paper, the deliberate flaws I introduce, are as much a part of the story as the photographs themselves. They remind me that memory, like these materials, is never perfect. It fades, distorts, and evolves.

I often obscure faces in my work, not to erase individuality but to create space for universality. When you can’t recognise a person, you start to see yourself in them. Anonymity invites viewers to connect with the piece in a deeply personal way, projecting their own stories and emotions onto it.

A Dialogue with Space

My installations are like conversations with the spaces they inhabit. I have exhibited in spaces that hold their own sacred stories; a synagogue, an abandoned factory. The architecture and unspoken presence of these locations shape the work. I often incorporate found objects that blend with the space itself. These pieces become part of the story, layered with my own interventions and the history of the site itself.

With exhibitions outside of my own culture, I pay a quiet devotion to the stories and local foundations of that culture. My visual diary takes on the soul of that place – in Japan, I scoured flea markets for photographs that connected me to the space I was about to inhabit. In Brazil, I unknowingly, but perhaps intuitively, invited critical parts of local history into my visual narrative.

I love creating contrasts in scale: a massive three-meter painting paired with a tiny nine-centimeter collage. It forces viewers to shift their perspective, to move through the space in a way that feels almost like a journey. For me, it’s about guiding them, not just through the work but through their own reflections.

The Silenced Feminine

Over time, I’ve found my voice by embracing the stories of women—particularly those from the past, whose contributions were dismissed or forgotten. History has left so many women nameless and invisible. In my work, I try to give them new life, new stories. Covering or altering their faces is not about hiding them; it’s about protecting them, giving them space to exist without being consumed by the gaze of others.

My work tries to address this imbalance between their resilience and their silence, to make the invisible visible. It’s a quiet rebellion, but a rebellion nonetheless.

I believe that no work could be really apolitical. I don’t believe it because you are not an island. You are ceaselessly surrounded by your social context and it will have an impact and be present in your work, even if subconsciously.

Ultimately, I hope my art offers something universal. I want viewers to feel something—whether it’s a sense of calm, a memory stirred, or even a question they can’t quite answer. For me, art has always been a form of therapy, a way to navigate the complexities of identity, history, and loss. If it can do the same for someone else, even in a small way, then I’ve done my job.

Art connects us, not through words or answers but through shared emotions and experiences. It reminds us that even in anonymity, even in the void, we are never truly alone.

@lucia_tallova