Hi Karolina, could you please introduce yourself?
My name is Karolina. I’m a visual artist from Poland, and I’ve been exploring different art topics recently here in Portugal.
How and when did you start creating art?
I started when I was very young—around five years old. Drawing and painting were always tools for me to express myself.
Did you always know that you wanted to go to art school, or was it more of a hobby at first?
It came to me later, during my teenage years. I was actually planning to study something else, something more traditional. But eventually, art won. It was difficult to find that initial spark, but it was always there inside me.
Was there a specific medium that first drew you in?
I started with drawing and painting, but I was always drawn to imagery. When I was around six years old, I got my first camera and began recording daily life. That visual storytelling always fascinated me.
How did you find Prisma, and how has your experience been so far?
I was specifically looking for a residency in Lisbon and came across Prisma. I liked that it offered a community of artists, and it seemed like a good fit for the project I was already working on—exploring Portuguese folklore and nature. It felt like the right match. And then when I started it was wonderful, I immediately felt like I was entering an existing community—so friendly, open, and supportive. I felt at home, like I was in the right place.
You’re working with both Polish and Portuguese myths—can you tell us more about your themes?
I’ve always loved legends and myths. I grew up in a small Polish village where traditions like Kupala Night on June 24 were part of life. It was something that had always been inside me—it was sleeping. But it started to wake up when I began thinking about my next project. I was already in Portugal, and I came across a myth about the mouras encantadas. I immediately connected it to the rusalkas, which are my favorite legendary figures from Poland. And I thought, wow, they’re so similar.
That’s when I had the idea to explore the mouras further—to see how they differ from the rusalkas, but also to dive into shared themes like femininity and this mysterious, intuitive energy that is often connected to women. There’s a strong link to water in both myths, and for me, water was a symbol of transformation at that time in my life. I felt like I was going through changes myself—growing, getting older—and everything seemed to come together around that. So I imagined the mouras and rusalkas as two sisters. I created this kind of symbolic theater for them, a space where they could meet and understand each other. They share this deep sense of longing, of searching for belonging and personal power. In some way, they recognize each other. That connection really resonated with me.
Now, I’m also starting to look for other legends—approaching things in a more universal way. And somehow, that’s led me to plants in mythology. That’s the direction I feel pulled toward next.
And who are the mouras and rusalkas?
These are feminine spirits—enchanted beings that appear across different myths and legends in various parts of Portugal. There are many variations, but the basic story is often the same: they’re trapped, enchanted in a specific place, usually near water. And their appearance can change—they’re not always women. Sometimes they appear as snakes, or even as rocks or trees. They’re shape-shifters.
They tend to lure certain people—usually men. And if the man knows the right spell, or the correct way to break the enchantment, then he can set her free. It’s as if she’s imprisoned in this place, and he has the chance to release her. But there’s always a challenge involved.
For example, in one story, a man sees a beautiful woman by a fountain. He approaches her and says, “You’re so beautiful. Can I help you?” And she tells him, “Yes, you can break my spell. But now I will become a snake, and I will kiss you as a snake. In that moment, you must not feel fear in your body. If you can do that, I’ll be free—and you will also receive a treasure.”
So, she transforms into a snake, and he promises he’s not afraid. But when the moment comes—when she slithers up to kiss him—he panics. He’s afraid. And she says, “Now I must remain enchanted for a thousand more years.”
So it’s often like a quest. A test of bravery, or love, or trust—something that could free her. But most of the time, the person fails, and the spirit remains trapped.
In Poland, rusalkas are a bit more tragic figures—spirits of women who drowned, often due to lost love. They wander forests and try to enchant men, sometimes helping them, sometimes seeking revenge. But if you trace the legends back before Christianity, rusalkas were also seen as joyful forest spirits who helped people. Both myths share symbols like brushing long blonde hair with golden combs and a connection to storytelling, nature, and transformation.
How did you first encounter mouras?
I think they first appeared during a conversation—someone told me about them while I was visiting Portugal. It was this unexpected encounter, and I thought, “Oh, wow.” After that, it felt like I was walking with the story for a while. It stayed with me, followed me in a quiet way. And then, little by little, it started to grow inside me. You know?
How do you see these mythologies shaping contemporary conversations about femininity and transformation?
I think it’s a tool—something that helps me understand both my own traditions and myself. It’s also a way to play, to explore. These old stories hold the knowledge of the ancients, people who viewed life differently—maybe more simply—and who had a deep respect for nature. For them, nature was powerful and symbolic, and I find that in mythology too. It offers a way to explore your position in the world and to better understand other people—how we connect.
Myth is a starting point. But when you dig deeper, you find reflections—mirrors, really—that still resonate today. It draws me in, maybe because it’s also connected to my childhood. I grew up in a small village, surrounded by all kinds of traditions. Back then, I didn’t fully understand them, I didn’t question them. But now I see how important they were—for bringing people together, for storytelling. It created connection. And I think that’s something we’re missing more and more.
And through this process, what would you say has been the most important reflection for you—on femininity, transformation, or the image of women in these myths?
It’s deeply personal. I’m in my thirties, I’m a woman, I’m an artist—and it just naturally flows from that. I speak about it because it’s my experience—my everyday life. And especially now, with everything happening in the world, I think we all start searching for tools that help us understand ourselves and the world.
Art becomes that tool. A way to process, to reflect, maybe even to escape, just a little, from the overwhelming problems—climate change, war, all of it. Myth and legend help me turn inward, to focus on the small things, the everyday, the women around me. And through that, we can have meaningful conversations. Myths and symbols give us the language to do that.
Your work blends painting, video, textiles—how do these different mediums help you express the complexity of these female archetypes?
I like experimenting and not putting myself in just one box. But if I had to name my main foundation, it’s painting. I’ve come to realize that painting is always where I begin. It helps me organize my ideas—it’s like a grounding tool for me.
From there, it depends on what I want to express. Video, for example, adds a different dimension. It can open up another room in your soul—it’s more immersive, more atmospheric. For me, video is often a better way to communicate the overall ambiance or feeling of a piece. Painting, on the other hand, is more about texture and imagination. It leaves more space for interpretation—it’s not so literal.
Then there’s textile. That’s something I use to support or expand on the work. Recently, I’ve been exploring the connection between plants and legends, and it’s leading me toward more interactive forms. I started thinking about working with seeds, maybe doing something that involves real plants. I already have many plants, but now I’m curious about how I could actually collaborate with them. What kind of potential is there? How can I bring them into the work in a meaningful way? So, it’s always like that—I stay open. Open to experimentation, open to what life brings.
You also referenced the book The Feminine in Fairy Tales by Marie-Louise von Franz. What insights from that book influenced your work?
The book explores the concept of archetypes, and I realized that many of them have been shaped through a lens that often comes from men. That frustrates me at times.
But then I also discovered the power of community—the kind of beauty and strength that comes from people coming together. That was transformative for me.
Now, I’m really immersed in plants, and I see them as powerful symbols too. You could call it the “Mother Earth” energy—there’s so much hope, healing, and protection in that idea. These archetypes help me make sense of my emotions, because I work a lot with intuition. And sometimes, after feeling something intuitively, I’ll find that it actually connects with something real, something symbolic or rooted in history. That confirmation is meaningful—it’s like, okay, my intuition was right.
So this book has really helped me with that. I’d definitely recommend it.
In your past work, you’ve explored themes of personal and collective fears. How do those intersect with your current work?
This is really important to me, because I believe art isn’t only for the artist—it’s for society too. When we’re stuck in our fears, I think art can offer a glimpse beyond that. It can hint at what exists after fear—what’s possible if we open ourselves to the world.
There was a moment when I imagined fear as something mythic or creature-like, almost mystical. And then I started to visualize it from a distance—from the perspective of the crossroads, or the far away—and somehow that helped me. Not to overcome fear completely, because it’s something we face again and again, but to accept it. To believe that, with the help of art, with connection to others, and through doing what you love, it’s possible to move through it.
And it’s also connected to the idea of personal power. When you focus on the strength within, it gives you something to stand on—it gives you power to face fear. That’s how I see it.
As for working with the myth of the mouras, yes—I did face some fears. I realized I had a certain fear around being a woman. I can be a shy person, and in my community, it wasn’t something I always felt proud of. Being a woman often felt like something I had to hide, especially when traveling. There was always a concern about danger, about being more vulnerable in some situations.
But now, I feel like—it’s good to be a woman. There is strength in it. There’s a special energy that connects us with other women, with our sisters—not only in the literal sense but in the wider world. And we really need that energy. When I was working with the idea of these two sister-like legends, I felt like, yes—I also need the support of my friends, my women friends, who are going through their own struggles in everyday life. And when you have that connection, that sisterhood, it helps you share the burden, to overcome it together. You can empower each other, and there’s real power in that.
Besides the mouras, are there other symbols from Portuguese culture that you’re incorporating?
I’ve found myself drawn to plants, especially those tied to folklore. These symbols connect back to my own Slavic roots, and I want to learn more about how certain plants were used in both cultures.
For example, I came across a plant—murta in Portuguese, or myrtle in English. I was researching how it’s used in folklore and found that in Portugal, people place it at their doorways for protection. That really touched me. I spoke to my mother and mentioned murta, and she said, “Oh, I had that in my wedding dress!” It was used as a sort of protection and good luck charm. That surprised me—this same plant was part of our traditions too.
I started remembering its scent, how we use it at Easter as decoration. It was such a specific smell, such a vivid memory. I’d forgotten it, and somehow, it came back to me here, in Portugal. It felt significant—like a deep connection between the two cultures, between the past and the present.
How are you conducting your research?
It’s really a mix. I have Portuguese friends who know I’m interested in these stories, and sometimes they’ll send me messages like, “Oh, I saw this in a book at the library,” or they’ll share a story they came across. So, I get some of the material that way—through people.
Other times, it’s more spontaneous—just talking to people, listening when they share something, or even just walking around and noticing things. And of course, I also do my own research, both online and by going to libraries when I can.
I usually try to find sources in English, but most of the material is in Portuguese. So I’ll either ask someone to help me translate or I try to translate it myself.
In your project Legend of Sadness, you used AI. How do you see technology’s role in reinterpreting old myths?
Yeah, this adventure with AI began maybe three years ago. It was something new at the time, and I was curious—curious about how it could connect with my imagination, especially in collaborative projects. I was interested in how it could merge our human sensibility with what AI could offer visually. It felt like a tool—one that could be quite useful because it’s fast and efficient when it comes to generating images. And when you combine that speed with your own ideas, sometimes you find these small connections or sparks that are inspiring.
But now, I realize I prefer working more with mediums that feel human. It’s difficult to explain, but there’s something in working with your hands, with materials, that feels more personal and grounded.
Still, experimenting with AI can be good—it gives you different ideas, a new perspective. But lately, it’s everywhere. It’s growing and changing so fast that it can be overwhelming. And I think we have to be a bit cautious too. There are questions around artist rights—about the way AI uses not only ideas but also actual images, styles, paintings… and sometimes that feels like it’s crossing a line. We, as artists, have our own voices, our own rights, and those need to be respected.
What challenges do you face when translating myths into visual art?
I think one of the main challenges is not to be too illustrative—not just showing the legend literally in an image. I want to go deeper than that. I want to bring more emotion into the work, to filter the story through my own experiences and perspective. That’s the real challenge: to find not just the visual representation, but the essence—the glue, the nectar, something meaningful inside the legend.
Of course, creating illustrations or visualizing a story can be fun and can even be enough in some cases. But for me, that’s not fully satisfying. I want to bring something more abstract to the work—something deeper, something that allows also for people to see themselves in the story, to feel their own emotions and reflections within that space. That’s what I’m searching for.
How has this residency influenced your project?
I really enjoy the exchanges we have here—the talks, the way other artists bring their own perspectives and ideas. That energy of sharing and connecting is incredibly helpful. I love the feeling of being part of a community—feeling supported. It reminds you that you’re not just working alone as an artist. There’s power in being surrounded by other creatives. Prisma, in particular, has this beautiful energy. It feels like a nurturing environment—like fertile soil where things can grow. That’s how I would describe it.
What do you hope viewers take from your work?
I hope they feel invited to pause—to take a moment and perhaps travel into their own vulnerability. Maybe it brings up childhood memories or reminds them of meaningful traditions, good stories, or myths they carry. I’d like them to reflect in their own way. Even quite literally, I want to create little seed packages—made from leaves—that people can take and plant. It’s symbolic but also real: planting something, nurturing it. For me, that’s deeply connected to our attitude toward the world and nature. Respect for nature and for each other is everything. We can learn so much from nature.
Do you see your research continuing after the residency?
Definitely. I think my research into female archetypes can keep growing. I’m interested in how I can work with plants more—not just as symbols or visual motifs, but also as collaborators. How can they become a bridge to connect with other artists, or with communities? I would love to do more community-based work rooted in those themes.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about feminine sculptures—how we tend to see certain images or forms repeated. I want to explore new or different interpretations, maybe look at lesser-known sculptures and discover the stories behind them. I don’t know exactly where it will go, but I’m very open. I want to keep exploring.
And one last question, do you have a favorite myth or legend?
Yes, I’m really drawn to the Greek legend of Demeter and Kora. There’s such a melancholic beauty in it. You find joy within the sadness—this quiet, emotional tension. It’s about waiting, about cycles. There’s something so deeply poetic in that dynamic between mother and daughter, and the feeling of separation and reunion. It holds a softness and depth that really speaks to me.