Amani M. Heywood
Helena Minginowicz
"I think of it not as a mirror, but as a semi-transparent membrane stretched between us."
Interview conducted by Amani Heywood
"I’m not interested in reality as it is—only in how it feels when no one’s watching. Especially then. - Helena
All photos are provided by artist
In this revealing interview, artist Helena Minginowicz explores the emotional and philosophical foundations of her work, touching on themes of shared human experience, the fragility of reality, and the poetry of imperfection. Her reflections offer a window into an artistic practice that thrives on tension—between beauty and discomfort, the ephemeral and the enduring, high art and kitsch.
Minginowicz observes that strangers often describe her work in eerily similar terms, revealing a collective emotional vocabulary. Despite individual differences, people connect through shared feelings of **longing, shame, and absence.
"I think of it not as a mirror, but as a semi-transparent membrane stretched between us."
Her creative process involves rupturing coherence—deliberately destabilizing images that feel too safe or seductive. She’s less interested in reality than in the raw, unfiltered emotions beneath its surface.
"I’m not interested in reality as it is—only in how it feels when no one’s watching. Especially then."
You explore how we each perceive reality through our own emotional and experiential lenses. Have you encountered moments in your work where viewers’ interpretations of your art revealed surprising commonalities in how we "filter" the world?
It happens more often than one might expect. Strangers use almost identical words to describe how my work makes them feel. It’s beautiful—and a little unsettling. It reminds me that even though our filters are deeply personal, we move through the same emotional landscape—built from longing, shame, and lack. After all, we belong to the same species, shaped by similar traits despite our differences.
I think of it not as a mirror, but as a semi-transparent membrane stretched between us.
Your work plays with visual mirages and the boundaries between what’s seen and what’s felt. How do you decide when an image should feel "real" versus when it should deliberately disrupt perception?
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I decide based on tension. When an image starts seducing me—then comforts me with its coherence—I cut it open. This happens early on, while I’m still projecting the situation in my head. Some forms need to “lie” just enough to provide a sense of safety. Others must violate that safety, to make you ask: why do I need it in the first place? I’m not interested in reality as it is—only in how it feels when no one’s watching. Especially then.
You describe vulnerability as a "carefully concealed, often shameful, yet integral part of existence." How does your artistic process help you confront or embrace your own vulnerabilities?
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Painting allows me to sit face-to-face with the most painful parts of myself—without rationalizing them. I don’t treat sensitivity as a flaw to fix, or a crack in the armor, but as something worth exposing. Quietly, with respect. Then I wait to see how the world treats it—which can be dangerous and risky. But in those moments, the only thing that makes sense is the risk of being direct. It’s a bit like peeling open a wound so it can finally breathe.
Yes—it hurts. But that’s where the painting begins to pulse.
The way you use airbrush—both for soft transitions and sharp, "surgical" edges—creates a tension between depth and flatness. How does this technique mirror the themes of illusion and reality in your work?
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The airbrush lets me dance between illusion and exposure. The soft fades remind me of skin, memory—things barely holding together. And the sharp cuts remind me that this is no dream. It’s a construction. That ambiguity—between smoothness and the seam—is, for me, the essence of what feels real. It fuses different worlds and gives them added depth.
You incorporate disposable objects like paper towels and plastic bags into your art. What was the first everyday object that made you think, “This deserves to be preserved”?
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I’ve always collected things—tiny sketches on scraps of paper given to me by friends, or pieces of secret correspondence. But I think the first object I consciously preserved was a piece of a paper towel. It had a kitschy fruit print—cheerful and absurd—with little eyes and a lipstick stain from wiping someone’s mouth.
It wasn’t just the object itself (though honestly—who designs these prints, and what are they thinking? Fascinating—it was the residue. A presence that had outlived its function. That’s when I realized disposable things can carry intimacy. And that moved me.
You challenge viewers to see beauty in mundane, mass-produced items. Have you ever had an experience where someone’s reaction to one of these "insignificant" objects in your work profoundly shifted their perspective?
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I haven’t had the chance to witness such a moment live, in real time. But I’ve been surprised by how personally and tenderly people respond to disposable items. When I first posted early works on paper towels on Instagram, I was shocked by the emotional response they triggered—and how many people wrote to me about it.
Since then, I’ve approached “low” materials with even more care.
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Your work questions modern compromises to freedom and individuality. Do you see your art as a form of resistance against societal numbness, or more of an observation?
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More as observations. I’m not interested in judgment—I prefer asking questions. But maybe presence and attentiveness are already a form of resistance today. We live in a world saturated with stimuli that numb us. My paintings are an invitation to return to our own perception. To look again—but differently.
You blend classical influences with memes, street art, and disposable graphics. Is there a particularly unexpected pairing (like Old Masters and fruit stickers) that felt especially meaningful to you?
I’ve always loved museum gift shops and those bizarre souvenir items that reproduce Old Master paintings. The more absurd and knockoff they are—the better. There’s something magical about cheap mass-produced objects that unwittingly reference art history. This collision of “high” and “low,” of ancient and ultra-new, reflects how I think about images. I try to fuse narratives that are close to me, to shape a language I can speak fluently. A language that is mine.
You’re drawn to flawed, mass-produced objects. Is there a specific "imperfect" item you’ve encountered that felt strangely poetic to you?
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A ceramic figurine with misprinted eyes, and My Little Pony knockoff with ugly face. The both faces was crooked, and on this figurine the eyes were placed a few centimeters too low. It looked lost, embarrassed—almost heartbreakingly so. I couldn’t stop looking at it. It seemed desperate to be perfect—and failed so spectacularly that it became touching. That kind of rupture—that’s poetry to me.
From vintage commercials to over-the-top packaging, you find inspiration in the absurd. Do you have a favorite kitschy or nostalgic aesthetic that always finds its way into your work?
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Polish food packaging from the 1990s—chaotic fonts, playful inscriptions, wildly overripe fruits in simplified cartoon shapes, and yogurts in impossible shades of pink. And of course, the animated characters—eyes, faces, emotions—hidden in everything. They’re so naïve, they’re honest. That aesthetic excess keeps coming back in my work—like the ghost of childhood, wearing makeup from a corner kiosk.
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