This interview was conducted by Livia Klein.
Capsule of Anna Bochkova
This year, you’re presenting your work as part of Capsules at Luxembourg Art Week. Could you tell me what you’re showing there and how it connects to your broader practice?
I’m showing a group of works from two recent series. The first series continues my research on feminist theory and the figure of the witch, and how this image shaped the history of clothing and objects. In many Eastern European languages, the word for “witch” translates to “one who knows,” carrying a meaning different from the Western tradition. I came across a story online about women being accused of witchcraft for having pockets. Though not historically proven, it resonated with me: the pocket as a symbol of independence, privacy, and resistance. This idea materialized in my steel sculptures resembling jackets with multiple pockets, marking missing points in women’s history. Even today, women’s clothing still tends to have fewer or smaller pockets than men’s. This is not about witchcraft but about power and access, reflecting a long history of gendered social norms around independence and property.
And the second series?
The second, Gestures of Tenderness, explores speculative futures and togetherness through drawings set in papier-mâché frames. The pulp comes from bureaucratic documents as a part of alienated life. Mixing it with pigments creates different colors, while fragments of words remain visible in the texture. Thinking about the future always leads me to reflect on the past and present. My concepts often build themselves out of lived experience, both metaphorically and materially.
Do you think this kind of setting shifts the way your work is perceived, outside the traditional white cube?
Yes, and this is something I deeply value. I see installation as a dialogue with architecture and space. Each site offers new perspectives, so the same work can transform completely. I often let the environment guide me, and I believe art belongs in public spaces, where people can encounter it unexpectedly and outside institutional borders.
Many of your works move between utopia, dystopia, and reality. What kind of world are you inviting us into with this new installation?
I’m asking how tenderness can survive as an act of resilience within brutal environments. Whether it’s a concrete housing block from my childhood or a speculative vision of the future, my work functions as a language beyond words. When viewers find something that resonates, dialogue can begin. My thinking is often informed by Eastern European philosophers who imagined gravity-free existence and alternative ways of being together. Revisiting their ideas allows me to reflect on what these visions might offer our society today.
What fascinates you about the cosmic perspective regarding thinking beyond the human?
The cosmic perspective reminds us of our smallness in time and scale. I often ask what within us is worth carrying into space, beyond colonial fantasies and rivalry in the space race. In Vladimir Vernadsky’s concept of the Noosphere, which widely resonates with Bruno Latour’s ideas about the Anthropocene, he suggests that as long as humans fail to take responsibility for their impact and to see themselves as one interconnected body, every technical discovery will inevitably lead to destruction. I grew up reading and watching science fiction from the former socialist bloc, which often contained subtle institutional and political critiques. Many of these films and books still feel strikingly contemporary. In the housing district where I grew up, every street was named after a cosmonaut, creating an unexpected speculative archive of the Soviet space program. So, the cosmic imagination was always close, though the real houses there were quite worn out. It still inspires how I think about connection, ecology, and care.
The sense of unhomeliness or displacement recurs in several works. Do you see your practice as a way of constructing new forms of belonging?
Yes. This theme is rooted in my personal experience of migration and has become a central part of my artistic language. I often reflect on the concept of the “alien” from both science fiction and migration theory. Unhomeliness can be personal, political, or ecological, yet it always points to a longing for connection. Through my work, I try to create spaces where belonging can be reimagined.
Much of your work deals with care—not only between humans but also between human and non-human entities. What does care mean for you as an artistic and ethical concept?
Care begins with listening and presence. It’s about being attentive, knowing that empathy sometimes means accepting that we cannot fully understand another, but can still respond with awareness. In a world shaped by conflict and exhaustion, I aim to create temporary spaces of tenderness and reflection: moments where different forms of coexistence can be imagined.
Do you see your practice as a form of healing?
I would say yes. It allows me to process personal and collective experiences, and to offer space for others to do the same. Healing doesn’t always mean repair; sometimes it’s about acknowledging what is broken and still choosing to create from it.
When you think of the future, is it something hopeful, speculative, or mournful?
For me, the future is speculative but also quietly hopeful. Hope gives energy to imagine alternatives, and imagination itself can be seen as a form of care.
What draws you to materials such as ceramics, papier-mâché, and aluminum?
I work very physically, so I’m drawn to tactile materials. On the one side, clay helps me slow down and reflect, and often I have a feeling this material leads my hand while I am forming something; on the other side, it’s fragile and unpredictable, so it is a good practice to develop some endurance. Papier-mâché is the opposite; it has a speculative and transformative nature. My background in stage design taught me how to shape it into almost anything. Metal, by contrast, demands analytical precision. For Capsules, I worked with steel, a material that feels simultaneously protective and exposed.
There’s a strong connection between sculpture and drawing in your work. How do these two media speak to each other?
Sculpture has long been at the core of my practice, while drawing accompanies it as a parallel form of thinking. My drawings are figurative and often depict the creatures that inhabit these speculative worlds of the future. They extend the narrative of my installations, bringing a sense of presence and intimacy that turns them into inhabited spaces rather than abstract structures. Sculpture builds the world, and drawing populates it—together they form a language between material and imagination, opening new possibilities for dialogue.
What kind of encounter do you hope passersby will have with your work in Luxembourg?
I hope they pause, even briefly, to experience something unexpected yet accessible. I appreciate curatorial approaches that dissolve the “fourth wall,” as in early experimental theatre. Art should be an open invitation: it belongs to everyone.
Finally, how do you see your participation in Capsules within your broader practice?
I’m already grateful for the inspiring collaboration with the team of Luxembourg Art Week and their wonderful support. It is my first time presenting a project in Luxembourg, and I am genuinely excited to be part of Capsules. When I first read the open call, it resonated deeply with me—both conceptually and from a curatorial point of view. I was drawn to the idea of transforming spaces within the city and activating them through artistic interventions. This approach strongly aligns with my own interest in dialogue between art and its environment, and I believe it will continue to influence my practice.
