When you see the young emerging artist Rosa Kirsch, you don’t actually see her. No, you see a big mask with rosy cheeks, small lips shaped like a red heart, long lashes, and butter-yellow locks. The skin is bright, the eyes icy blue. It’s the face of a doll. Of a child? Of a beauty norm that we just don’t seem to get rid of. We won’t tell you what she really looks like. Because it doesn’t matter. The mask is a part of Rosa Kirsch — of her work, and of her view on the world.
When we meet her (on a video call), she is somewhere near Berlin, at an art residency. Together with twenty other artists. She sits inside an empty room — just some old, powder-coloured wallpaper and a pair of underpants in the background. The underwear is part of a piece she is currently working on. It’s not finished yet, but if you look closely, you can see some blood stains on the purple flower print. The interdisciplinary artist often works with materials like this. Materials that are soft, fuzzy, shiny. With lace she finds on the street or in second-hand markets. Building a contrast to hard, rough surfaces. They are everyday objects: ceramics, pillows, dollhouses. Embroidered blankets or tablecloths.
Her inspiration: nature, psychology, fairy tales, the domestic sphere, kitsch, and symbolism. She explores contrasts like illusion and reality, good and evil, control and chaos, examining how we construct our realities around uncomfortable emotions such as fear, grief, instability, and discomfort, as well as around concepts like gender, tradition, and morality.
Just a few months ago, Kirsch started gaining more and more popularity on social media, presenting herself and her work with the visually striking mask she always wears in front of the camera. But when she arrived at the residency nine weeks ago, she decided to take a break from the digital world. So, after we talked about Kirsch’s two cats (Lumin and Carlo, who are waiting for her at home in Leipzig), we had the chance to chat about how social media builds pressure on young artists, about gingerbread houses, being a shy networker, attics, memories, a perfect little world, and of course, the blood-stained underwear.
Hi Rosa, what’s the last dream you can remember vividly?
I dream a lot, but I rarely remember them clearly. At the start of my residency, I had intense dreams about the people I live with. My dreams often feel real, but everything blurs — somewhere between reality and illusion.
One inspiration for your work are fairy tales. Do you have a favourite one?
I really love Hansel and Gretel. I think the tale reflects our society in an eerie way. It shows how casually we pass down stories without thinking about how brutal they actually are, especially for children. Hansel and Gretel is incredibly violent. But as a kid, I didn’t notice that, I was just fascinated by the gingerbread house. That fascination completely overshadowed the fear of the kids being captured and almost eaten.
You took a social media break this summer during your residency, what prompted you to step away?
It wasn’t really intentional. For me, social media is just a tool. What matters most is making art, that’s what brings me the most joy. When I started the residency, I didn’t have much finished work to show here. And in order to create content, I first needed something worth sharing. So, instead of stressing myself about creating something new asap, I’ve decided to shift my focus back to creating at my own pace, and to being inspired.
So, you did feel pressure to create for social media?
Somehow, yes. I didn’t feel the need to make things Instagram-worthy, but there was definitely pressure. When I first started posting, my work gained attention quickly, people liked it, and I got more followers. Suddenly I felt I had to live up to that. Especially early on, I felt like I had to finish a piece every week just to post something new. That kind of stress — I didn’t want to let it grow. I want to take breaks whenever I need them. My focus should always be on the art. If it’s not, the work just isn’t as good, it wouldn’t come from a real place anymore.
“I want to take breaks whenever I need them. My focus should always be on the art. If it’s not, the work just isn’t as good.”
What problems or opportunities does the work with social media create for young emerging artists like you?
The biggest opportunity is visibility. Art is about expressing your perspective and sharing that with others. But for me, real-life networking can be difficult; I get nervous in those situations. So social media offers a way to communicate what I care about without getting anxious. The challenge at the same time is the commercialisation, the fast pace. I do believe there’s enough room for everyone though; we shouldn’t focus on this competitive mindset.
What did you learn about your own work by stepping back from social media?
I wouldn’t say I learned something new, but I was able to recharge and refocus. To be completely honest, this year has been really, really tough for me. I experienced a big loss. So that time offline was about processing things. And it’s not over yet. There’s just so much happening outside of art, too.
As an artist who works with themes of illusion vs. reality, how do you view the curated realities we present online?
In the art bubble I’m part of, I don’t feel it’s that extreme. Everyone shares their version of reality in their own way, in their own unique style. But, nevertheless, I think that both online and offline, we constantly present a constructed version of ourselves for self-protection, but also to boost our self-worth. That’s one reason I wear the puppet mask.
Many artists created an identity through masks — HorsegiirL for example, or the German rapper Cro. What identity does your mask represent? Is it a fairy tale character?
No, the mask is not a specific person or version of myself. It’s more of a worldview, something that symbolises the way we all perform roles to cope with life. And it embodies the idea of a “perfect little world”.
A “perfect little world” — what do you mean by that?
A lot of my work deals with gender roles and how, as a society, we tend to fall back on familiar things whenever we’re scared, grieving, or feel like we’ve lost control. We reach for what feels safe. That’s why I like to play with traditional beauty standards and gender norms, like ‘playing house,’ motherly care, and the way femininity is taught to us from such a young age. For me, the puppet stands for that illusion of a ‘perfect world’ we’re brought up with, where little girls are given baby dolls before they even know what that actually means.
You said you can be shy in social situations. So, does the mask also serve as protection?
Absolutely. That was actually my first reason for wearing it. I wanted to show my work, but I knew if I kept seeing myself on camera, I’d get insecure. The mask helps me feel more free and at the same time, it visually expresses the very ideas my art explores. I love the combination.
You recently ended your social media break by sharing your new installation The Very Last Dream. Why did you choose an attic as the setting?
I’ve wanted to explore the attic as a theme for a while now. To me, it's a place where we store everything that doesn’t fit into everyday life but that we’re still connected to. Objects are left there for generations. The attic becomes a symbol for family stories, inherited patterns, traumas. At the same time, the installation deals with death; something deeply human, yet rarely talked about. So, for me, the attic is a space for the unspoken where uncomfortable topics are pushed aside.
You used large fabrics in the installation. Did you find them on the street?
A mix of both. Some were old curtains from the house I’m staying in. I also collect lace — I love lace. Some fabrics I had to buy. Especially the ones with birds, and roses on them. It was important to me that they draped over the bed like those dust covers for furniture.
“The mask is not a specific person or version of myself. It’s more of a worldview, something that symbolises the way we all perform roles to cope with life.”
It feels very wrapped up, like it’s hiding something.
Exactly. It could be a shroud, or cobwebs. That net-like texture, this fragility, but also a certain strength.
Do you think fabrics hold memories?
Definitely. Everything I work with carries memories or stories. I often use everyday objects, and people instantly have associations with them because we all know them. With textiles, that’s especially strong. They remind me of safety, comfort, sleep. We already talked about dreams, but what really interests me is sleeping because it’s when we feel safest, yet we’re incredibly vulnerable. Nightmares, but also physical vulnerability. We just lie there for eight hours, unable to defend ourselves. So yes, fabrics hold memories. Think of bed sheets with stains or clothing we can’t throw away because we wore it during something important.
There’s a pair of bloodstained underwear hanging on the wall behind you, I’ve seen a photo of it on Instagram. What’s the memory behind that piece?
That piece isn’t finished yet, but it’s actually the underwear I wore the last time I got my period. Underwear, and textiles in general, often feel soft, innocent, clean. So, the blood suddenly created this contrast of shame, messiness.
I think many women can relate to that.
Totally! To me, it felt completely normal. But when I hung it up, I definitely got some weird looks. Watching other people’s reactions was really interesting.
If you could collaborate with a fictional character from a book, fairy tale or movie, who would it be?
Good question. Definitely Frau Holle. Even though she’s a bit judgy. I’m not sure what would come of it, but I’d love to see what would fall to earth if she shook out my blankets and pillows. I think that could be a fascinating collab.
What’s something people on social media don’t see?
The time and effort behind it.
