Stories Flowing: A Conversation with Klara Kristalova

Klara Kristalova’s work draws us into a richly imaginative realm populated by a host of colorful, glazed ceramic beings, a world that encompasses all manner of hybrids, unexpected allegiances, and bizarre events. In Soft Bluish and Green (2009), for instance, the eyes of a crying woman shed thorny branches rather than tears. While Kristalova’s figures come across as playful or naïve at first glance, look again and they become richer and more nuanced: you may detect obstinacy, a lingering fiendishness, or an expression that defies comprehension. By distributing her figures across expansive installations as she does in the Nordic pavilion at the Venice Biennale—which features her largest “log lady” to date—she forges communities that tantalize us with ever more complex stories.

John Gayer: What can you tell me about the large-scale Lust for Life (2026), which takes the form of a downed tree? How does it work within the Nordic pavilion?
Klara Kristalova: Though I have made some large-scale public works, this is my biggest work so far. I normally make smaller sculptures. Actually, I don’t see my works as sculpture. For me, they’re three-dimensional drawings. I usually start with a plan of what I want to express and then, when I move into building them, they kind of build themselves.

When I started to make art, my father, the sculptor Eugen Krajcik, said that I should be the painter in the family, since that space was vacant. My mother was a painter and she had died. So, I studied painting, but I thought it was too fast, it didn’t offer any resistance. You just paint and then you repaint. You do a lot of things and then you regret them. I wanted a process that was slower. As soon as I started to work with clay, it felt very natural, intuitive, and easy.

For this space, I wanted to do something that would speak to the works of Benjamin Orlow and Tori Wrånes in terms of scale. The space is very powerful as well; it captures your attention. Smaller works would likely vanish.

JG: Did the three of you talk about the space?
KK: We visited several times to see how the light changes according to the seasons, at different times of day, and with the weather. Those changes can make it feel like another space. The trees are another aspect. They add to the feeling that you’re outdoors and indoors at the same time.

When we had the first meeting with the curator, Benjamin and Tori already knew what they wanted to do. Over several months, I thought about the directions their work would take and the impact they would make. So, my work is related to their work. If this had been a solo show, I don’t think I would have produced something at this scale. My first idea was to have the work come out of the door and block it, so people would have to go around. But then we had discussions about how the works would relate so everyone would benefit. For me, it was an important thing to be able to do something in Venice because I’ve been coming here since I was a child.

JG: The situation here is very interesting. The contrasting materials, textures, and colors create a strong energy.
KK: I didn’t expect that. When I arrived and unwrapped my tree, it was like, “Wow, it really works.” It was great because I don’t normally use textiles in the way that I have here. I had people weaving things for me. This tree/woman refers to a tree that used to be here but is gone now. It is close to being dead; that’s the reason for the title. Though it sounds banal, the idea of saving the environment is part of the work. Since I was making this massive tree, I wanted its surface to resemble bark—not just as an illustration, it also feels like bark.

When you look closely, you find many imperfections and shifts in color. It’s not only brown, as it appears from a distance. To show its colors and structure, I bought a lot of preowned handwoven carpets and dyed them in my washing machine. There were many trials before I got the right colors, and many couldn’t be dyed, since they were synthetic fabrics. But I really liked the way the bark—this collage of carpets—turned out.

JG: The orientation of its textures makes it more convincing.
KK: The tree is based on a 2.5-meter-long section of wood that was found in the forest and then rebuilt. My assistant—my husband—helped me do this. The branches and roots took a lot of work, since they weren’t part of that piece of wood. What we created was then scanned and 3D-printed in Polystyrene to form the core, which we reinforced with wood and Jesmonite, a synthetic plaster.

I have made several ceramic sculptures of this woman/tree figure—each one about 1.5 meters long. I made them by myself, but that was impossible in this case. This one had to be built in parts for transport.

JG: How many sections are there?
KK: Five or six. In terms of volume and being figurative, it relates to Wrånes and Orlow’s works, but it also relates to the history of the building’s trees. It’s not meant to be a bridge between their works, but to express movements that go in different directions.

JG: Why do the extended arms/branches reach up?
KK: The gesture conveys despair. It’s a little childish, ridiculous, too, but for me it’s a very strong gesture. Sometimes when I think about how I work, I wonder if I’m a real sculptor or a real artist. I always hesitate about titles. It’s something that I also put into the work.

JG: I like the gnarled and twisted roots and the lumps and bumps on the arms.
KK: They’re intuitive choices. I wanted the roots to be smaller than they are in real life, because they’re wounded. At the same time, they suggest legs.

JG: Could she be mother earth?
KK: It’s more like she’s a vessel or a home. The carpets contribute to this homey character. I used traditional Swedish rag carpets that people would make themselves. The small figures could be dreams or spirits that may have come out of her. They could live on her. One is a little family, and there is a very heavy character that weighs her down. You could say they have different roles in this play.

JG: I would like to ask about your background. You were very young when your family moved to Sweden from Prague. I’m curious if the environment of Prague, with its many sculpted figures adorning buildings and bridges—has had an influence on you, perhaps via your parents.
KK: I think so. When I visit Charles Bridge, with all its old, black, weathered figures, I find it very powerful. My family moved to Sweden when I was one year old. Since both of my parents were artists, and we owned many art books, we spent a lot of time looking at art. I was drenched in art—figurative art. It inspired me a lot, but unconsciously. When I visited the Czech Republic decades ago, it seemed everyone was working figuratively. I think that I also took a lot from Czech animated children’s programs, which were funny, had great depth, and were made in beautiful, poetic, and somewhat ironic ways. I believe they’re part of my inner spirit. It’s definitely not Swedish.

JG: I recall passing through mountainous and forested areas to and from Prague when I visited—places where mystical things could exist, a land of fairy tales.
KK: My mother read old Central European children’s stories to me when I was small. They were very dramatic and violent—someone’s head would be chopped off if they were bad. She also recorded these stories on cassettes, but I never listened to them and then they were lost in a fire. Though I can’t remember them exactly, they seem to live on in my memory. I seem to be continuing them in some way.

I really enjoy when I’m making my works, because it’s like the storytelling is flowing through me. Of course, they’re also influenced by current news stories and other things, which affects the content. What I don’t want is for people to read this work as a story that has a definite beginning and end. The substance of the characters can be explored by looking at them. I want viewers to identify with them directly. I know that each character has good and bad sides, though many people will say no, they look kind.

JG: They definitely prompt questions in my view. The bird perched on the sleeping child makes me feel uncomfortable.
KK: That’s good, although it’s not certain.

JG: Of course, because you can’t tell how the claws grip the body. The child may be used to the bird doing this. The figure with the large pansy as a head, on the other hand, seems happy, but something else, too.
KK: Happy and a bit classical. I often think about Max Ernst’s Surrealist sculptures—like his somewhat abstract depiction of a king and queen—and perhaps my work will move in that direction. Right now, I feel that I want to explore, focus more on the sculpture than the content. I’m not sure if that would be successful, especially because the storytelling that influences my work has kept me going for a long time.

JG: What about Bird Disguise (2026), which is outside?
KK: It’s not directly linked to Lust for Life, though its scale would have enabled them to be side by side. But we put it outside on top of a staircase-like structure, in part because the Czech pavilion is beside the Nordic pavilion. It’s also clearly visible from Lust for Life.

JG: There is an art to placing works, isn’t there?
KK: It’s something that requires a lot of thought. The Nordic pavilion is such a delicate structure, and I am very happy that the sculptures work together. It’s hard to produce a three-person show. In my mind, it would have been much easier for each of us to have a solo presentation. Having access to the whole space would change your thinking. The fact that things had to work together caused stress, but in the end it went very well.

Klara Kristalova’s work, together with that of Tori Wrånes and Benjamin Orlow, is on view in “How Many Angels Can Dance on the Head of a Pin” at the Nordic pavilion of the Venice Biennale through November 22, 2026. Her Biennale works will also be exhibited at Galerie Rudolfinum in Prague, February 10–July 4, 2027.