At around 17, when I realized that I couldn’t put my thoughts and feelings into words, but could express them better in images and forms. It was a wonderful feeling to realize this, and also that it’s one of the first things I do when I make them, where I forget space and time and manage to be completely myself.

Unfortunately, this sounds a bit cliché, but the first thing I always do is make myself a coffee and smoke a cigarette. Then I usually tidy up my space a bit and listen to some music, and then I’m ready to go :)

I dream and fantasize a lot, sometimes so much that it’s exhausting. I think I needed this outlet to deal with all these unspoken issues. At the same time, I find it very exciting to see what’s going on in this second world. Every person processes a lot at night, acting out their desires and fears. I love to pursue this and extract more from this world—perhaps in the hope of better understanding myself and my world, but also to get to know this world better. I have the feeling that when I share this world with other people, visitors also share their subconscious world with me. Their reactions alone create another level of deeper understanding. I find that the world of dreams is a very honest and accessible one—unvarnished and clearer than it seems at first glance.

I believe my sculptures combine human and animal forms of expression because these hybrid beings allow feelings and emotions to be conveyed in a particularly direct way. They enable me to visualize inner states, themes, and tensions that are difficult to capture in purely human forms. These figures thus become a kind of translator of my thoughts; they embody both the instinctive and the vulnerable and, for me, are the best mediators between the inner and the outer.

My intention is for viewers to approach these beings with openness and recognize in them both something familiar and something foreign. It should remain unclear which aspect predominates—the human or the animal—and whether they are in a process of transformation or have always existed in this intermediate state. It is precisely this ambiguity that interests me: a moment in between, in which perception is shaken and new interpretations become possible.

I am most interested in feelings such as insecurity, disgust, shame, and fear. I find them difficult to bear but at the same time fascinating. Perhaps this is because they fit well into our capitalist society and are often suppressed. At the same time, I find it enriching to explore these feelings artistically.

For me, emotion itself is an intellectual concept. I am concerned that in our society, sharing feelings and inner thoughts is often perceived differently, frequently as a weakness or as something very “feminine.” I am also interested in how working methods traditionally considered feminine are evaluated by society. They are often devalued, dismissed as “crafting” or simple manual labor. These issues drive me, and I try to draw attention to them, reflect on them, and pursue them in my work and in life in general. For me, this creates a connection between intellectual concept and intuitive-emotional creation that takes both sides equally seriously.

I find it exciting to learn from different disciplines. My background in performance and costume design influences my sculpture work, particularly in that I develop a keen awareness of movement, posture, and form. This helps me to create sculptures that convey a certain presence or attitude. At the same time, the different working methods inspire me to experiment with materials and forms of expression and to discover new possibilities.

For me, it’s more contemporary artists who spark my imagination or inspire me greatly. There’s Gregor Schneider, who manages to transport me to places that trigger so many feelings and emotions. Or Jon Rafman or Ed Atkins, but also Misaki Kawai. I love it when other art manages to convey so many different thoughts and feelings to me at once and captivates me so much that it’s somewhere between nice and painful.

Sometimes it’s the little things in everyday life that spark my curiosity—for example, faces or figures that I discover in objects, a phenomenon known as pareidolia. Last week, for example, I saw a trash can that seemed to be making a rather funny “face” at me. But it’s not just curious phenomena like this. Even small details such as hair sticking out in unusual places or a friend’s distinctive blink can inspire me. Such seemingly insignificant moments often open up new perspectives and generate ideas that I might never have had otherwise.

There are many different sources of inspiration in my work. I think what some people find strange is my fascination with pimples, hair, and old toys, but sometimes it’s also funny sports equipment from teleshopping channels that inspires me, or even just the way someone chews.

Perhaps the strangest one was a smell I remembered from my childhood, from a neighbor’s toy, and the thought of that smell haunted me for so long that I tried to recreate it, which resulted in a work about longing.

Since I usually work on a sculpture for a long time and spend a lot of time with it, I initially come up with so-called working titles. These provisional names give the work an initial identity while I get to know it and “live” with it. Often this working title then remains the final name because any other titles given later would usually feel foreign or artificial.

A work feels finished to me when I feel that I have nothing more to say about it or the subject matter for the time being.

That is also the moment when I comb through my work again, tidy it up or clean it—a kind of ritual and farewell.

New challenges arise with almost every sculpture, partly because I sometimes repeat certain mistakes, often out of impatience. Nevertheless, these “mistakes” have helped me a lot. They were important learning moments that gave me a better understanding of techniques and processes. Some challenges even led me to break new ground and completely rethink my approach, which often enriched the work in the end.

As these blocks quickly turn into self-doubt, I usually find that I am initially reluctant to go into the studio, or sometimes even afraid that I will never be able to produce another piece of work. I can only overcome this by forcing myself to go to the studio and just start with something. The bizarre thing for me is that this self-doubt is often part of my work, and the fear of failure almost acts as a kind of motor for me, which I try to face quite often, and which is therefore not only bad for me but can also be motivating.

I really like the Vienna art scene. Every time I’m in Vienna, I’m both thrilled and irritated. At first, I found it difficult not to feel a little offended all the time until I understood the Viennese sense of humor. I had to get used to it at first, but now I find it quite bizarre and also very funny. That’s exactly how I feel about the art scene there: idiosyncratic, humorous, and pretty wild.

My most important advice to young artists is to stay true to themselves. Don’t bend over backwards or try to fit in. Authenticity is the most valuable thing you can have in art.

I think exchange is just as important: networking, working together, supporting each other, and learning from each other. Whether in collectives, small groups, or open discussions, art never arises in a vacuum but through dialogue and the sharing of experiences.