From a young age, Kasia Wozniak carried her trusty camera in her pocket, not to take photos but to be closer to the craft and understand the world through a layer of observation. After purchasing her own wet plate collodion equipment at a flea market in Vienna, she dove into the old-fashioned field and never looked back.
Most recently, Wozniak was featured at the Incubator in London, where her works aim to celebrate the flaws and imperfections that exist in life as well as photographs. As Wozniak captures the mysterious and spiritual in her art, her photographs serve as unique objects with their own history and story.
Hi Kasia, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. I would like to start by understanding how you got to where you are today and what first inspired you to pursue photography?
I’m not sure whether it was photography itself or simply the act of seeing through the lens that I found so inspiring. When I was little, I used to carry a camera without film in my pocket. Even then, there was something about that simple object that created a sense of separation between me and the world I was observing. It gave me permission to slow down and somehow truly look.
Photography has always been my way of pausing time, of becoming more present. I began by experimenting with film and spending long hours in the darkroom. Over time, my practice naturally evolved toward historical processes like wet plate collodion. I was drawn to the way it demands patience, attention, and presence. In many ways, it feels like a ritual or a form of meditation. It forces me to be intentional, which I find deeply grounding in contrast to the constant speed and noise of the world around us.
Photography has always been my way of pausing time, of becoming more present. I began by experimenting with film and spending long hours in the darkroom. Over time, my practice naturally evolved toward historical processes like wet plate collodion. I was drawn to the way it demands patience, attention, and presence. In many ways, it feels like a ritual or a form of meditation. It forces me to be intentional, which I find deeply grounding in contrast to the constant speed and noise of the world around us.
When you think about your life and education in London, how do you think this background influences your work today?
London has shaped me immensely, both as an artist and a person. The city is layered with history, textures, stories, characters and a sort of quiet tension between tradition and modernity. I came here over twenty years ago, studied here, and being surrounded by such a dynamic and diverse creative community pushed me to experiment and take risks. At the same time, the pace of the city made me crave slowness in my own process, which is partly why I was drawn to analogue methods in the first place.
The majority of your work has been done using older photography techniques, like wet plate collodion. How did you enter this field, and what attracted you from it?
I discovered a wet plate collodion photograph while rummaging through a flea market in Vienna, and it completely captivated me. It felt like both a time machine and a trickster of the mind. Intrigued, I began researching old manuals and teaching myself the process. Even the failures were thrilling. There’s a certain magic in watching an image slowly emerge on a glass or aluminum plate in the darkroom. What drew me in most was the imperfection, the unpredictability, the fact that no two plates are ever exactly alike. It’s a method rooted in time, chemistry, and patience. There’s no post-production; what you see is exactly what was captured, flaws and all.
“There’s a certain magic in watching an image slowly emerge on a glass or aluminum plate in the darkroom.”
Your work is quite experimental and physical: long exposures, physical manipulation of the images, darkroom experimentation. Could you guide us through your creative process?
It often starts with instinct rather than a rigid concept. Ideas surface from things I’ve read, dreamt, found, seen, or experienced — sometimes unexpectedly. I work with one large-format camera and lens, using natural light and long exposures, which bring a sense of slowness and vulnerability to each shoot. In the darkroom, I welcome imperfection, allowing the process itself to leave a visible imprint on the final image. I don’t see the photograph as a perfect record, but as a physical object with its own history.
What is it about analogue photography that allows you to explore the idea of ‘truth’ and ‘perfection’ as you mention?
We’re so used to seeing polished, hyper-edited images, often assembled from multiple photographs and meticulously refined by retouchers over hours or days, that they can feel completely detached from reality. With the rise of AI, the photograph becomes even further removed, another tool to construct images that mimic reality while subtly rewriting it. The aim shifts toward developing a visual language meant to deceive — to create another version of truth.
In contrast, analogue photography, especially wet plate, embraces imperfection: chemical streaks, over/ under exposure, light leaks. To me, those marks are where something real begins to surface. They reveal the hand of the artist, the moment of creation, the flaws that make an image feel human. It’s a rejection of perfection as the standard, and instead, an invitation to sit with what’s raw, ambiguous, and tactile.
But it’s not truth or perfection that I’m really after. What draws me in is the liminal space: the uncertainty between what’s real and what’s constructed. None of my photographs claim to document truth per se. From preparing the chemistry, to exposing the plate, and through development, everything happens within a controlled environment. I’m interested in questioning the very idea of truth itself. Can a single image –flawed, fleeting, handmade– contain something more honest than a polished one ever could?
Working with this process also means accepting its limitations. You don’t take hundreds of shots to sift through later. And that raises the question: Can one take be enough? Fewer choices force clarity. That one exposure becomes a distillation of intention, presence, and risk. When it works, it’s not just good enough — it becomes a moment suspended in its own fragile truth.
In contrast, analogue photography, especially wet plate, embraces imperfection: chemical streaks, over/ under exposure, light leaks. To me, those marks are where something real begins to surface. They reveal the hand of the artist, the moment of creation, the flaws that make an image feel human. It’s a rejection of perfection as the standard, and instead, an invitation to sit with what’s raw, ambiguous, and tactile.
But it’s not truth or perfection that I’m really after. What draws me in is the liminal space: the uncertainty between what’s real and what’s constructed. None of my photographs claim to document truth per se. From preparing the chemistry, to exposing the plate, and through development, everything happens within a controlled environment. I’m interested in questioning the very idea of truth itself. Can a single image –flawed, fleeting, handmade– contain something more honest than a polished one ever could?
Working with this process also means accepting its limitations. You don’t take hundreds of shots to sift through later. And that raises the question: Can one take be enough? Fewer choices force clarity. That one exposure becomes a distillation of intention, presence, and risk. When it works, it’s not just good enough — it becomes a moment suspended in its own fragile truth.
Approaching photography this way, you investigate “the tactile, temporal qualities of the medium,” as the press release explains. At a time where digital is king, and photos are stored in an invisible cloud, why do you think it’s important to subvert these notions and give photography a physical, tactile quality again?
Photography today has become incredibly fast and disembodied; we scroll through thousands of images without really seeing them. Working with tangible materials like glass, aluminium, and chemicals brings the image back into the physical world. It reminds us that photography is matter, not just information. And yet, it also remains a tool for transmitting information — a duality I find fascinating.
There’s something deeply human in being able to touch a photograph, to hold the time it contains. It reestablishes a relationship between the viewer and the image. Recently, I’ve been exploring that physicality more directly — the relationship between photography and sculpture, and what it means for an image to occupy space.
There’s something deeply human in being able to touch a photograph, to hold the time it contains. It reestablishes a relationship between the viewer and the image. Recently, I’ve been exploring that physicality more directly — the relationship between photography and sculpture, and what it means for an image to occupy space.
“There’s something deeply human in being able to touch a photograph, to hold the time it contains. It reestablishes a relationship between the viewer and the image.”
You exhibited at London’s Incubator gallery during the month of June. How did that project come to be?
Stillpoint, which was the title of the exhibition, grew out of an ongoing exploration of the experience of memory and time. Angelica Jopling, the Founding Director of Incubator, visited my studio at the end of last year. We had a beautiful conversation — one of those rare moments where words resonate and you feel truly seen. As an artist, it’s often hard to know when something is finished or ready to be shared, and her encouragement gave me the confidence to move forward.
Having the opportunity to present the work at Incubator is something I’ll always value. The exhibition brought together projects I’ve been developing over the past few years — the result of a quiet, patient process of experimentation and reflection.
Having the opportunity to present the work at Incubator is something I’ll always value. The exhibition brought together projects I’ve been developing over the past few years — the result of a quiet, patient process of experimentation and reflection.
There is an eerie quality to your work. Are you inspired by horror, mystery or even spirituality in any way?
I think I’m drawn to the unseen, to the spaces that exist between memory and presence, life and loss. Wet plate images often feel like they belong to another time; their timelessness can evoke something uncanny, even ghostly. I wouldn’t say I’m directly inspired by horror –I’ve never really thought about it that way– but I do find myself exploring the mysterious, the spiritual, the liminal. There’s something almost sacred about capturing time on a fragile glass plate — a kind of ritual, alchemical in its making.
Looking into the future, what are your plans going ahead?
I work across both fashion and art, so there are always a lot of ideas taking shape. While preparing for the exhibition, a new project started to emerge, something I’d really like to explore further. I’m hoping to look into residencies that would give me the space and time to develop it more deeply.
I’m also interested in building more international collaborations, particularly with artists, writers, and curators working around themes of memory, materiality, and image-making. I’d love to exhibit more widely, ideally in spaces that welcome experimental or process-based practices. And I’m hoping to spend more time in Paris, a city I find endlessly inspiring. It feels like the right place to expand my thinking and deepen my practice.
I’m also interested in building more international collaborations, particularly with artists, writers, and curators working around themes of memory, materiality, and image-making. I’d love to exhibit more widely, ideally in spaces that welcome experimental or process-based practices. And I’m hoping to spend more time in Paris, a city I find endlessly inspiring. It feels like the right place to expand my thinking and deepen my practice.
