Helena Minginowicz

It all started when I was a child. Recently, I even completed my first fully conscious drawing, and I remember how engaged I was in creating it — I was about three or four years old at the time. I have been drawing and then painting practically as long as I can remember, and that was what interested me the most. Given this, it was obvious to me that I would become a painter. I developed a complete plan for what I wanted to do and how I wanted to do it. Right after elementary school, I completed a five-year high school focused on art, and then I pursued a five-year master’s degree at the Academy of Fine Arts in Poznań, Poland.
Somewhere between high school and my studies, I hit a crisis. In high school, I was developing my technical skills, but they seemed to serve no purpose. I felt I didn’t know why I was exerting my efforts and skills — I lacked a reason or a goal that all of this would serve. We refined our techniques but our attitude toward what we were presenting was irrelevant; no one cared. Our work was meant to reference the classics, primarily in formal matters.

This frustrated me. I had no idea where all of this was heading. It wasn’t until my studies that things began to change — I discovered contemporary art. I was fascinated! It was a time when the YBAs (Young British Artists) inspired me the most, especially Tracey Emin, Sarah Lucas, and Rachel Whiteread. Then there were others like Rebecca Horn, Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Matthew Barney, and Patricia Piccinini. Such diverse personalities! In particular, the retrospective exhibition of Felix Gonzalez-Torres (Berlin, Hamburger Bahnhof – Museum für Gegenwart in 2006) was a strong impetus for me. His works moved me deeply with their directness, authenticity and poetry.

I realised that all my experiences (who I am, how I look at and experience reality) are my starting point, my beginning. Something that matters, something real — it is mine. Now it seems obvious to me, but after such a long period of suppressing my individuality in high school, it became a liberating discovery. I suddenly realised that art, and especially painting, was the language I had been missing, that there are so many stories I would like to tell, so many phenomena I want to share. And that I can do it; I can and want to!
It was something incredible, and this awareness changed everything. It was as if I had suddenly regained my voice. At that time, I experimented a lot, especially with sculpture and installation. Then came a long period of pause when artistic activity became an intimate form just for myself, a bit like a diary. This lasted for a while. Unexpectedly, there was a moment in my life when a lot was happening, and I felt voiceless. I needed a language through which I could express things that provoked me, troubled me, things that were important to me.

Painting was the most natural thing; I just started and couldn’t stop. At first, I painted traditionally (using oil paints and brushes), but I had a strong desire to experiment with new techniques. In my search, I found an airbrush and considered it the perfect tool for building a surreal, illusionistic narrative that describes everyday life with all its poetry.
After years of artistic education, I was also excited about eliminating brush strokes, something fundamental for me until then. I was curious whether, without expressive, characteristic brush marks, my works would still be mine. And to what extent? What does ‘mine’ mean?

The works that emerged had a photographic, realistic character, reminiscent of both photographs and advertising banners, yet contained something narratively different in their heart, an element or several that altered the perception of the whole. That was exactly what I was aiming for. I could manipulate the image subtly, sometimes almost imperceptibly (other times a bit more strongly), but all these twists, thanks to visual integration, initially seem perfectly in place; the entire situation feels almost natural.
In the painting, alongside the narrative being told, there are also hidden enigmas, secrets, types of ‘personal notes’ on other artistic frequencies. All of this flows through the dispersed particles of paint and often gives the impression of a private ‘revelation’ that will soon come to an end.

I construct a narrative by adjusting the proximity and distance of plans and objects. I deform and reshape familiar forms, sometimes delicately and at other times radically and decisively. Some elements that are quite obvious become exaggerated, almost grotesquely clear, while others, although crucial, seem nearly invisible and very easy to overlook. This duality reflects the complexity of our own perceptions — how often do we see what we want to see instead of the reality in front of us? Playing with the viewer, hiding content, creates ambiguities.
In this way, I invite the viewer to engage more deeply with the work, encouraging them to find their own meaning and to dedicate time and attention. Sometimes, I parallelly hide an element within the painting that is only for me. It adds to the story visible to the observer in the details, making the original narrative of the work my experience.

I usually start with a concept or an emotion that I want to explore, and this is something outlined in very broad strokes, very clearly. At first, it always seems to me that I have planned everything from start to finish because the image in my head is so concrete. However, as the process continues, it becomes increasingly intuitive.

At the beginning, when I start working, I take meticulous notes — lots of notes. Sometimes they include elements of literature or musical themes that inspire me or complement my concept. Then I make sketches, quick and expressive, just to plan the composition as I save the rest of my enthusiasm and energy for the actual work on the canvas.
During this process, I familiarise myself with the theme and the characters, observing them closely. I discover new things about the relationship that exists between them. This is the most interesting part, as it often happens that the concept recorded and symbolically outlined in the sketch undergoes changes and matures. While painting, I allow various elements to emerge organically, giving them some freedom. This often leads to unexpected combinations that appear collage-like, and these serendipities can create the most fascinating narratives.

The concept and thought behind my work are always the most important to me — every emerging element should serve to extract, enhance, and expand upon it. The natural juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous elements can initially evoke feelings of astonishment or discomfort. This is precisely what happens, for example, with the pair of adorable lambs you mentioned, peacefully lying in a pile of dirty white laundry.
The first unsettling thought arises: how is this possible? After all, their colour and texture are similar to that of the white sheets (which are often featured on laundry detergent labels, too). Is someone going to toss them into the washing machine with the laundry? What will happen to them then? It seems unfair to accidentally eliminate something so beautiful through generalisation and rules — does it really matter that they are dirty? Lambs are associated with innocence and purity, aren’t they? And there are two of them? This additionally introduces a relationship between them that needs to be preserved.
At a certain point, the context begins to make sense, and familiar elements in unusual contexts compel viewers to reconsider their assumptions and confront their thoughts. Such dissonance can be a powerful tool for sparking curiosity and dialogue.

Not all emotions are pleasant or desired, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t necessary. On the contrary, anxiety compels us to ask questions and keeps us awake at night. It pushes us to reflect. I dislike sensationalism and cheap shocks; however, some combinations are stronger than others, and the subject sometimes demands that.
This is the case in the work featuring sheep instead of teeth. In fact, the piece is a visual and literal interpretation of a text (which is also its title) from the Song of Songs: “Your teeth are like a flock of shorn sheep.” When we refer to this title, it becomes clear that everything in the painting is very much in its right place and is not absurd at all.

The protagonists of my work are concrete individuals, usually significant to me and somehow connected to my life — most often, I am the protagonist myself. Their identities matter solely to me; they hold great importance, as I do not tell fictional stories. Fiction is something that does not resonate with me at all. Everything begins with people, situations, relationships, and interactions that exist, are flesh and blood, and hold a significant place in my reality. Even if I cut and frame them, thereby stripping my protagonists of their identities in a way, I know they are there. They are real.

For the audience, this is no longer the most important aspect. It could become an obstacle, a burden. An identity that demands too much attention becomes a problem. For my audience, my protagonists are merely conduits — figures that carry emotions, states, and intentions. In this context, their identities become detached; they are merely figures. Thus, I intentionally focus on truncated features to convey the idea that identity is multifaceted and often fragmented.

Although the subjects exist beyond the images, I prefer to leave their stories open-ended, allowing viewers to project their own narratives onto my work. The sharply cut frames and close-ups also serve to draw attention to details and what is, at first glance or even a second glance, invisible — the elements that are not apparent in the larger picture.
‘The devil is in the details’ is a saying I greatly appreciate as I believe we often overlook or miss the meaning because we do not delve into the details, do not probe, and do not search deeper. The close-ups and what occurs within the tight frame compel us to momentarily change our focus, to make the effort to penetrate the non-obvious, almost imperceptible stories, sharpening our sensitivity and tuning our ears, for only then do we have a chance to hear the whispers.

Animals most often appear in my work as symbols. It is clear that these are not animal portraits. They are typically prints on everyday objects, such as galloping horses on paper towels, or dogs on a blanket, or pins in hair. They reference more or less successful articles, prints, and objects that accompany us in daily life, which are entirely insignificant and overlooked due to their temporary, disposable functions, like hygienic tissues, paper towels, or disposable tableware.
I have always been deeply moved by the fact that despite receiving little attention, these more or less successful prints still exist. They are peculiar, silent messages and images that end up in the trash. It’s a bit like industrial butterflies. They live for a moment. This dimension of transience and inevitable fate touches me. I sometimes wonder if there is anyone who plans the prints on such items, who designs their form, colour, and texture.

Yes, there is a conscious intention behind this choice. Such combinations usually communicate mutual relationships and connections. For instance, when we talk about paired body parts, it is inevitable that they exist in a reciprocal relationship, such as knees or lungs. Consequently, this relationship is already established through their physical proximity; it is a purely physical connection. Everything that happens next is a result, a consequence of that closeness. It is about how these entities relate to one another and influence each other.

This ephemerality deeply resonates with me, and I enjoy exploring this concept in my work. It touches me every time because it illustrates everything around us and ourselves as transient beings, travellers. At the same time, we desperately try to build something lasting; we so much want to be resilient against the effects of time and change. We want to halt, stabilise so many things, keeping them in one position.
The works (objects I created using ephemeral, vulnerable, or even intentionally disposable materials) complement images made in a traditional manner on canvases. Beauty and meaning are conveyed through various media, but this does not diminish their expressiveness; on the contrary, it enhances it.
The question arises: how much beauty surrounding us do we ignore, how much do we lose or overlook every day, and how accustomed are we to consuming according to established norms and routines? Does anyone check what is actually printed or embossed on all these disposable items? What is the quality of these graphics?
Most often, we simply wipe the counter with them, and that’s it; they are destined to be ignored, treated as something insignificant — functioning within such an orientation toward the world has always deeply moved me: being ignored, being susceptible to damage, being constrained by the environment, being silenced.
The works created on paper towels, plastic bags, or disposable face masks also represent values that, in today’s world, are evident yet often unattainable. They contribute to advancements in many areas of life, which ostensibly proclaim these very values. A good example is freedom and the multitude of available communication mediums. What was meant to give us independence so often enslaves us instead. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg; freedom as a concept is vast and encompassing — this raises the question of when we are truly its stakeholders.

What intrigued me about working with sheet masks is their function and ritual. They are connected to the entire process of nourishment, beautification, optimisation, relaxation, and pleasure.The very act of putting on such a mask, especially in today’s reality, often feels more like a compulsive, desperate attempt to be viable in life, to be adapted and appealing — the question is, who do we want to be like this for? Are we fulfilling some social obligations? Someone else’s fantasies? Or are we doing it for ourselves?
The brutal scenes unfolding on the masks suggest a dissonance and untruth in this marketing-driven process of becoming adequate, sufficient, and correct, highlighting how often our external presentation is inauthentic. It becomes a form of escape, sometimes isolation, but the suffering inside cannot be alleviated by such superficial measures. What screams within us requires love; it demands genuine attention.