The Art of Inner Necessity: An Interview with Joanna Mazuś

22_-_chapel_of_peace_in_the_salesian_sisters_convent_in_jerusalem_-_2017.jpg, full-width, Joanna Mazuś, 'The Chapel of Peace in the Salesian Sisters Convent in Jerusalem' (collaboration with Krzysztof Sokolovski), 2017. The project consists

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In an era of noise and spectacle, Polish artist Joanna Mazuś returns to stillness, abstraction and spiritual inquiry. Through gilded forms and sensuous materiality, her work becomes a meditation on the unseen and the universal.

Joanna Mazuś is not interested in art as self-expression or spectacle. Instead, her contemplative abstractions, often rendered in gold and ultramarine, seek to touch something that lies beyond language – a shared metaphysical space that transcends culture and time. Rooted in spiritual inquiry and a disciplined inner life, her practice moves away from narrative and ego toward a quiet, rigorous pursuit of the essential.

In this wide-ranging conversation with Culture.pl’s Agnes Dudek, Mazuś reflects on beauty as a means of awakening, the ethical responsibility of the artist, and the interplay between corporeality and the sacred. Speaking from her studio and her inner world alike, she reveals a vision of art as offering – a patient, disciplined attempt to render the invisible visible.

Agnes Dudek: Your paintings radiate a quiet intensity – immaculate forms, often golden, evoking something divine yet abstract. How would you describe the essence of your work?

Joanna Mazuś: At its core, my work’s an attempt to touch what is ineffable, incomprehensible, mysterious – what lies beyond rational understanding. It’s defined by a movement inward. I ask myself ultimate and fundamental questions that concern all of us. My practice is both deeply personal and simultaneously transcends me as an individual – its intercultural and timeless dimension is crucial. I seek those planes of existence that connect people, rather than divide them.

AD: Is there a reason for all the gold?

JM: Gold, in Byzantine art – which is an important source of inspiration for me – has for centuries symbolised the reality beyond the senses, the sacred, the transcendent. I was drawn to gold primarily because of its glow – because in a way, it’s light captured in material form. Light itself carries deep symbolic meaning and we instinctively associate it with something good and beautiful. I first began using gold in my creative explorations while living for a period in Jerusalem. I believe it was the incredibly light-saturated air there, and the way it reflected off the stones, that drew me to gold. Intuitively, I matched it with deep, luminous blue – and I couldn’t take my eyes off the result. The shimmer of gold is hypnotic to me, especially when juxtaposed with rich colours like ultramarine. It enhances them and allows them to resonate in a unique and powerful way.

AD: When someone stands before your work and feels this ineffable presence, what would you most like them to carry away from that encounter?

JM: I would like the encounter with my work to enrich their inner life – to nourish their sensibility, open something within them, stir them spiritually or intellectually, help them look inward – or, on the contrary, look beyond themselves and transcend the boundaries of everyday experience.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Temple Impression IX / The Temple in Jerusalem', egg tempera on fibreboard, in a wooden frame, 29 x 21 cm (framed 36 x 27,5 cm), 2025, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: You describe your art as a visual language for exploring universal human spirituality. How did this vision of metaphysical abstraction begin to take form in your life and work?

JM: I believe it originated, above all, from an innate openness and a respectful curiosity – toward other people and, more broadly, toward what is different. It feels natural to me to seek out what unites us as human beings, despite all the differences. From early childhood, I was aware that there are many paths to spirituality and many ways of expressing it. I grew up in a family that included both Catholics and Protestants. Some held steadfast faith their whole lives, others were full of doubt, some went through periods of atheism, and others experienced conversion. I understood that no path is inherently better than another – that different ways of expressing metaphysical longing co-exist equally, and that spiritual life can undergo intensive transformations. Around that time, I also began asking myself ultimate questions that I’ve continued to reflect on throughout my life. I’ve always felt a deep spiritual yearning and constantly searched for something that could truly satisfy it. This is how a need for form gradually crystallised in my life – a form I eventually found in art.

My path toward abstraction was intuitive: the figuration in my work gradually became more and more distilled, moving toward essence, until it was finally almost abstract. Once I became aware of this, I decided to go further – to clear the form as much as possible of any trace of representation or narrative – and I’ve stayed on that path ever since. Some of my first intentionally universal abstractions were created during my time at the Bezalel Academy of Arts and Design in Jerusalem, where I was immersed in an extraordinary richness of cultural diversity. I experimented a lot and allowed a visual form that was new to me to mature. Equally important was an intense exchange of ideas with my now-husband, Krzysztof Sokolovski, who’s also an artist and with whom I reflected deeply on the spiritual potential of abstract art.

Abstraction allows me to translate the way I think and feel the world into a visual language. I’m not a typical visual type – my perception is rooted more in feeling than in seeing. I experience the world with my entire body – especially through touch, smell and a sense of being situated in a particular space. Sight plays a role as well, but to a lesser extent. I often refer to my thoughts as ‘felt-impressions’ that exist outside the realm of words and logic. Colour, for example – especially ultramarine – has a profound impact on me. When I look at it in its pure pigment form, I feel something happening within me that is both physical and beyond the reach of the senses. There’s an indescribable sensation of being immersed and suspended in this colour, of being enveloped by it from both within and without – and this feeling is extraordinary, beautiful. That particular felt-impression became the initial inspiration for my recurring use of ultramarine over the years, especially in the reliefs I sculpt by hand in linden wood (which is itself a highly sensual and special process). Surrounded by golden planes, the velvet-like folds of ultramarine – affecting the sense of touch through the sense of sight – are an attempt to translate my felt-impressions into a visual form. Their nature is so abstract that only the language of abstract art can begin to meet this challenge.

AD: You speak of spiritual sensibility as distinct from religion. How do you define spirituality in the context of your work, and how can abstract visual language evoke it?

JM: Spirituality, for me, is our shared inner sensibility – not bound by religion but present in all of us. Even Jerzy Nowosielski described his period of atheism as deeply spiritual. Abstract visual language makes it possible to touch mystery directly. It enables an exploration of what cannot be named, visualised nor understood. Because it doesn’t narrate but is rather something akin to a visual melody, it can be perceived purely intuitively – resonating with our sensibility in an immediate and visceral way.

AD: In your artistic statement, you mention a deep care for the viewer – not as an object, but as a sentient being. How does this ethical stance influence your decisions in the studio?

JM: While working, I try – at least for a moment – to forget myself and open up to the external world. Of course, that world passes through the filter of my own sensibility, which inevitably leaves a mark on my work, but I try not to think too much about it.

What’s crucial is not to focus on the self, because I create with the awareness that my works will go out into the world, and that they will affect people in a real way. I reflect on what the piece I’m working on might bring into someone else’s life – whether it has the potential to nourish another person’s sensibility, not only my own. I also ask myself whether the themes that feel personally interesting or important to me are genuinely meaningful beyond myself – or whether they risk becoming mere fixations, or worse, harmful to someone else.

Painting as a spiritual act

AD: Your materials – linden wood, linen, egg tempera, gold leaf – seem chosen with ritualistic care. Could you speak to the relationship between natural materiality and the spiritual dimension in your practice?

JM: Traditional techniques and materials retain a living trace of nature, from which their raw components originate. This natural imprint yields a unique visual quality – the subtle beauty inherent in the material itself. Artificial materials, by contrast, often feel dull and lifeless. Because I’m drawn to spirituality, I seek what resonates most deeply with it – what is connected to life and therefore to nature. The techniques I use also offer me considerable freedom to adapt them to the needs of my creative vision and provide unique possibilities that other methods may not.

AD: When you paint, do you feel like you’re in dialogue with something beyond yourself? Is there a moment when the painting ‘speaks back’?

JM: Absolutely. I relate closely to the idea of art as something that comes into being independently of the artist’s intention – a being that materialises with the help of the artist, but not solely through their will. In the studio, something is born – I assist attentively and with care in its emergence from non-being. I listen to it intently and respond with focus. I try not to impose my will. Instead, I strive to hold myself back. Sometimes I feel more like a midwife than a creator. Or like a tool guided by something else – and like any tool, I leave my own distinctive imprint on the material.

The creative process is extraordinary. Even though it’s been part of my daily life for years, I still can’t fully comprehend it – and it never stops surprising me. It’s undoubtedly a spiritual act, one that opens me to what cannot be named, while remaining deeply rooted in the material I work with.

AD: Your works evoke a sense of openings into another reality – almost like portals into the immaterial or metaphysical. Do you think of them that way?

JM: I hadn’t thought of them exactly in those terms, but I resonate with the concept – drawn from Byzantine art – of the painting as a window into the immaterial, metaphysical world. Now that you mention it, I can see how similar those ideas are. The starting points may be different, but both express a universal, intercultural dimension of human spirituality.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Metaphysical Corporeality IV', egg tempera, vinyl resin, relief on panel, 80 x 37 cm, 2020, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: You’ve painted on ceilings too – entering into sacred architectural space. What’s different, or sacred, about creating work meant to dwell above the viewer, as opposed to before them?

JM: I sometimes work on ceilings, vaults or entire interior spaces (in collaboration with Krzysztof Sokolovski – for example, the Chapel of Peace in the Salesian Sisters’ Convent in Jerusalem, or in private settings). This kind of work requires a completely different approach from easel painting. Of course, the scale and spatial imagination matter – but above all, it’s about creating an all-encompassing experience, one in which the viewer physically enters, becomes immersed in, and is transported into another world. Those who step into a space like that become part of the work itself. Unlike a painting, which acts as a window into spiritual reality, this kind of work carries us entirely into it. It functions like a capsule carrying us into a different, enveloping, otherworldly space.

Inner life

AD: You’ve written that art should be an offering – one that grows out of a mature and responsible inner life. What does spiritual or intellectual discipline look like for you, day to day?

JM: We become what we interact with, so everything we engage with – culture, science, nature, our surroundings, the people we encounter – should be regarded as spiritual nourishment. Just as food builds our bodies and affects our physical well-being, spiritual nourishment shapes who we are as people, and therefore as artists – and ultimately, it shapes the kind of art we offer to the world. That’s why discipline is essential. It should be reasonably flexible, but consistent.

I choose carefully what I consume: books, podcasts, music... I nurture curiosity – but importantly, a curiosity that is well-directed. I try to stay with a subject or field for an extended period, rather than jump too quickly between topics (though I do have many varied interests), in order to avoid skimming only the surface. I think, observe, analyse, ask questions and seek the company of people with whom I can engage in conversation and from whom I can learn. I create time and space for focus and reflection. I consciously try to filter the outside world and not let it overwhelm me with an excess of stimuli – allowing in only as much as is necessary, and only what feels meaningful.

I love ritualising life – it helps me cultivate creative potential and maintain intellectual-spiritual discipline. However, I don’t follow rituals rigidly – they change with time and the circumstances I find myself in – but I always create some. For instance, ever since I stopped painting at home, I’ve been reading and listening to music on my way to the studio. This not only nourishes my mind, but also helps me transition mentally from the mundanity of daily life into the sanctified space of creative work. Recently, I’ve begun each studio day by reading a single poem. That’s my ritual for opening the creative process.

I seek beauty, depth and fullness. I try to live each moment of life consciously. I believe one of the most important spiritual exercises is to search for beauty and meaning even in what is mundane or difficult. Part of my discipline also involves an awareness of how harmful widespread forms of ugliness can be – not only in our physical surroundings or the objects we use, but of course in the immaterial sense as well.

A core element of my spiritual discipline is love – consciously experienced, cultivated and cherished. Jolanta Brach-Czaina wrote in Szczeliny Istnienia (Cracks in Existence) that ‘ultimately, we are as the love we experience. And so too is the world we uncover and create.’ I would add: such is the art we create as well.

To be honest, and perhaps paradoxically, thinking about death helps me too – every single day. It brings clarity, reminds me how limited my time is, and motivates me to treat life with the seriousness it deserves.

Joanna Mazuś - Paintings [Image Gallery]

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AD: You’ve written about art’s potential to be either enriching or poisonous. Could you share what you see as the main dangers of contemporary artistic practice – and how you consciously work to avoid them in your own process?

JM: I think the main dangers are: detachment from the richness of the world and real life; retreating into a self-contained bubble; excessive focus on the artist’s ego; artistic overproduction; and calculated intent. I would also add a kind of indulgence in suffering for its own sake – one that leads nowhere. The world and life are already full of suffering – so much so that I believe we need to consciously seek a counterbalance for our mental health. Touching darkness can indeed be necessary and important – I don’t deny that – but one cannot allow oneself to be entirely consumed by it. We must search for a path toward the light. In my view, art can lead us into that darkness – but it must do so responsibly. It should not leave the viewer at the bottom of despair, abandoned and hopeless.

To avoid these pitfalls, I ask myself each time: What might this bring into someone’s life? Do I want it to affect the viewer in this particular way? Is my work clear enough? Is its quality high enough? And does it arise from inner necessity?

AD: Kandinsky wrote that true form must arise from ‘inner necessity’. How do you know, personally, when a form or composition has emerged from that place of necessity?

JM: I understand ‘inner necessity’ in a broader sense – on two levels. First, there’s the spiritual necessity of engaging with a particular theme or question – so I paint what truly matters to me, what comes straight from the heart. I work only with what feels deeply significant. Second, there’s formal necessity – which, in my view, is inseparable from the spiritual. Form is a language, and it must serve the message.

For me, a form that arises from ‘inner necessity’ is one stripped of decorative excess. It’s a composition distilled of anything superfluous, where every element is indispensable – both formally and conceptually. Form is a vessel for meaning – it must not be empty. If something can be removed without damaging the whole, it isn’t necessary.

Personally, I sense very quickly – on an intuitive level – whether a form meets the criterion of ‘inner necessity’. It’s those moments when painters often say that ‘the painting works’.

On Beauty, abstraction & silence

AD: You defend what you call ‘profound beauty’ – a sensuous experience that awakens our inner depth. How do you distinguish between superficial aesthetic pleasure and this deeper beauty in both creating and experiencing art?

JM: Superficial aesthetic pleasure is simply enjoyable yet trivially easy and literal, devoid of depth. I look at it without engagement and forget it quickly. The experience of ‘profound beauty’, by contrast, can be completely all-absorbing – even mystical. It occurs beyond words, beyond rational comprehension. It awakens something within, reaches beyond purely sensory perception, resonates deeply, evokes emotions, stirs memories or sparks the imagination. I have to admit that I rarely experience ‘profound beauty’ when encountering art – few works move me in that way. More often, I find it in nature. Perhaps that’s why, when I do come across a work of art in which I find this element, the experience is so powerful that it stays with me for years. When I strive to evoke an experience of this kind of beauty through my own work, the key is not to treat beauty as the ultimate goal, but rather as a means of reaching a reality that transcends both the senses and understanding.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Temple Impression XI / Nowosielski in Orzeszkowo', egg tempera on fibreboard, in a wooden frame, 29 x 21 cm (framed 36 x 27,5 cm), 2025, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: Today, beauty is often rejected or mocked in contemporary art circles. Why do you think the spiritual dimension of beauty has become so overlooked – and how might it be recovered?

JM: I believe this reflects contemporary times more broadly. We live in an era dominated by messages that are chaotic, loud and excessively literal. There is little space left for imagination, depth or reflection. As a result, both our inner life and our understanding of beauty have been flattened to the surface level, into empty aestheticism. There’s a confusion of terms: the idea of beauty as a means to stimulate and nourish spiritual life has been almost entirely forgotten. Outside religious contexts, spirituality is rarely discussed – people tend to associate the word either strictly with religion, or with relatively superficial matters, or even with a kind of suspicious irrationality. And yet spirituality is a sphere that exists in all of us, including atheists – though it takes different forms depending on cultural and individual background.

Hence I also resist superficiality – because it affects us in harmful ways, it flattens us all. I see the antidote in seeking beauty that reaches into the depths of existence – beauty that encourages contemplation, reflection, stillness and the experience of silence. A beauty that reminds us we don’t need to have literal answers for everything – that sometimes we can simply be, observe, feel and allow ourselves to enter the unknown.

This way of seeing the issue feels most natural to me. At the same time, I want to emphasise that the concept of ‘profound beauty’ can be understood very broadly. For instance, a work that depicts something conventionally considered ugly, provocative or in some way difficult may also contain an element of this kind of beauty.

AD: You’ve written that many artists conflate beauty with superficiality and thus reject it. How do you respond to critics who view beauty as obsolete or politically irrelevant in art today?

JM: To me, the need to encounter beauty seems deeply rooted in human nature. Setting aside the realm of art for a moment, we seek what’s beautiful in life itself. We are moved and soothed by the beauty of nature. We yearn for the beauty of love. We wish to surround ourselves with beauty in all areas of life, and we long to be in the presence of beautiful people. But once again, by ‘beautiful’ I don’t mean only surface-level attractiveness, but a deeper, multi-dimensional kind of beauty. It brings us many meaningful and enriching experiences – experiences that we need, both for our psychological balance and for our inner growth. So if the pursuit of beauty is so fundamental, why should art – created by people, for people – reject it? ‘Profound beauty’ is precisely that what can sensitise us, disrupt habitual patterns of thought and behaviour, prompt us to ask ultimate questions, and guide us toward an active search for meaning. It can bring light and hope into our lives. And we all need that.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Unknown Spaces IV', egg tempera, vinyl resin, tinted shellac, relief on panel, 40 x 36 cm, 2023, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: Your works often feature geometrical precision. Do you see geometry as a kind of sacred order – an abstract language that reveals hidden truths?

JM: I’m fascinated by how sciences like mathematics, physics and astronomy reveal the invisible structure of the world – its cosmic order. Some mathematicians say they don’t create mathematics but rather discover it as something already present in the world – and that idea profoundly stimulates my imagination. In school, I was genuinely passionate about mathematics and even considered studying it. It was only later, between junior high and high school, that I changed my mind and decided to devote myself to art. Still, mathematical thinking seems to have planted itself somewhere in my subconscious, instinctively guiding me toward geometry in my painting.

Beyond that, geometry has for centuries served as a foundational compositional principle in sacred art, which is a significant source of inspiration for me. The abstract-geometric underpinnings of this kind of art foster the creation of a harmony that leads toward spirituality. Geometric forms are also saturated with centuries-old symbolism. The circle, which recurs in many of my works, traditionally symbolises infinity, divine perfection and transcendence, while the square represents matter. The interplay or interpenetration of these shapes symbolises, for me, the inseparable union of body and spirit, of physical matter and metaphysics.

Individuality, ego & innovation

AD: You write passionately against the ‘cult of individuality’ and the ‘designing’ of uniqueness for visibility. How do you remain grounded in a sincere self rather than a stylised persona?

JM: I believe my character helps with that. My core values in life are freedom and authenticity – both of which I need in order to live and to create. I’m a bit like a cat that walks its own path. Pretending exhausts and irritates me so deeply that I simply don’t do it. For me, deliberately crafting an eccentric persona would feel unbearably artificial. Instead, I prefer to simply be myself – and people really seem to appreciate that kind of authenticity.

What’s crucial is that I don’t prioritise success, fame or money. I place spiritual, intellectual and artistic values first, along with genuine human relationships. That being said, I’m not disconnected from reality – of course, I think that artists need financial resources, and that success can be extremely helpful. But these things should never be the foundation or main purpose of an artist’s existence. They are merely tools meant to serve something higher.

AD: You strongly reject art driven by self-expression or ego. Yet many emerging artists are told to ‘find their voice’. What alternative path would you suggest to those starting out? What should it be driven by?

JM: Yes, I believe that individual expression should not be a goal in itself, but rather a tool – a language for speaking about what is truly meaningful to the artist. The essential question is: ‘What matters to me at the deepest level? Why this, in particular? What might it offer to others?’ I would suggest exploring that space patiently, attentively and persistently – doing it for oneself, not for applause. Resist the pressure to show everything immediately on social media – give yourself time. Honest endeavours will eventually allow a visual language to crystallise – one that’s appropriate to the specific subject, as seen through the eyes of a particular person.

That language will mature naturally, and it’ll also be authentic. It becomes visible when one looks at someone’s work. And one should not be afraid of getting lost, nor give in to discouragement. In my experience, it’s good to let the unconscious lead – it often surpasses the conscious thoughts of a young artist. Only with time may one come to fully understand what’s emerged from one’s own hands. Or simply understand it in part. Often, a painting is wiser than its creator. This requires humility – to let one’s art lead, rather than trying to force it into one’s preconceptions or external expectations.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Unknown Spaces III', egg tempera, vinyl resin, gold leaf, relief on panel, 38 x 34 cm, 2023, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: Similarly, you critique the art world’s obsession with innovation for its own sake. What does true innovation look like to you – and how can it arise organically?

JM: I think that true innovation is never something superficial or created for its own sake. It arises organically and somewhat involuntarily, as a byproduct of sincere and mature artistic effort – much like genuine individuality. It emerges from authentic attempts to grasp the essence of things in a way that resonates with the present times. True innovation in art transforms the way we think, introduces new intellectual and aesthetic dimensions, influences our sensibility, and provokes us to ask new questions. By contrast, innovation pursued for its own sake isn’t innovative at all. It becomes an empty shell – offering no significant value, and carrying no real potential to influence the evolution of art. It’s merely a play at being slightly different than others, and it results in nothing more than fleeting attention.

AD: You emphasise that art should be intuitively understandable across cultures. Is this part of why you work in abstraction? What do you think makes abstract art uniquely capable of crossing boundaries?

JM: Yes – that is one of the reasons why I consistently work in abstraction. It allows for an attempt to touch essence in a non-literal way, and influences emotions directly – much like music. Just as we don’t need to question or decode music in order to experience it deeply, we can similarly immerse ourselves in abstract art through intuition. Abstraction frees itself from the constraints of narrative and refers to what is ineffable, shared, universally human and fundamental. For example, due to our biological predispositions, we instinctively seek light, which we associate with safety – so we tend to perceive it as something good. Of course, every viewer brings personal associations shaped by individual experiences and cultural background. Personal sensibility also plays a major role – two people can experience the same work very differently. Yet the crucial point, for me, is that both can truly experience it. And then, perhaps, share insights with one other.

Current work & future vision

AD: Your upcoming exhibition in Tyniec – called Dom dla Imienia – brings your work into conversation with a Christian spiritual context. How did you respond to this setting, and how do you hope it’ll affect the way viewers encounter your art?

JM: In my opinion, the Abbey in Tyniec is a very special place – one of the oldest sites of spiritual reflection in Poland. I believe it creates an atmosphere perfectly conducive to stillness, contemplation and encountering art devoted to metaphysics. In our part of Europe, culture has for centuries largely been shaped by Christianity, and I myself draw great inspiration from sacred art of the various branches of this tradition. For years, I’ve been inspired, on the one hand, by Byzantine painting, by icons, and on the other, by Protestant asceticism, as well as, more broadly, by monumental art and temple architecture from different eras and denominations.

This last area became the point of departure for a new series I created especially for the exhibition at the Museum of the Abbey in Tyniec. Titled Temple Impressions, they’re an intuitive record of experiencing sacred art and architecture. While working on these pieces, I referred both to existing places and to those known to me only through description (such as the Temple in Jerusalem), as well as to entirely imagined spaces. My work on this series absorbed me so deeply that I don’t see it as complete – only as a beginning. Ideas for continuing it keep multiplying in my mind, and I’ll undoubtedly return to them in the near future. The next chapter of this exploration will likely be presented at my solo exhibition in Warsaw, planned for February 2026.

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Joanna Mazuś, 'Contemplation', egg tempera on canvas, 130 x 89 cm, 2021, photo: Courtesy of the artist

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AD: In Tyniec, your abstract contemplative forms share the exhibition space with Dorota Berger’s symbolic paintings. What do you think arises in the tension or harmony between abstraction and figuration in sacred art?

JM: To me, the essence of the tension and harmony between abstraction and figuration can be clearly seen, for instance, in the icon. When one looks closely at an icon, one can detect its abstract foundation – both in its clear geometric forms and colour, and in its evocation of the ineffable, how it opens a window onto spiritual reality.

Both Dorota and I are inspired by the icon in our work, though in different ways. And even though our visual languages are distinct, there’s something internally kindred that connects them.

AD: Looking ahead: what’s a question you’re still holding open in your work – something you’re painting toward, but haven’t yet answered?

JM: One question I’ve circled around since the earliest moments of my creative awareness is the mysterious relationship between corporeality and spirituality. Jolanta Brach-Czaina wrote beautifully about it in her essays. But how does one capture the spiritual dimension of sensuality through visual language? How can one visually convey this unity, the fullness of union between body and spirit? I feel that, at last, I’m slowly beginning to approach that in my work. But I also know there’s still much ahead of me.

AD: How do you personally cultivate the intellectual and spiritual effort you say is essential for artists? Are there practices, readings or disciplines you return to regularly?

JM: Above all, I try to nurture curiosity and openness within myself. I read widely, keep learning, observing, consciously experiencing, listening attentively and reflecting on what I encounter. What matters deeply to me is engaging with the thought of artists important to me – much more than with their art itself, which I may look at relatively rarely. For example, I read the writings of Kandinsky, Klein and Nowosielski… And I often return to the philosophical essays of Jolanta Brach-Czaina, whom I mentioned earlier. They’re closely linked to the question that stays with me – the one I’m ‘painting toward’. Her writing touches the essence, provokes reflection – but above all, invites one to live consciously and fully.

As for reading, I often create thematic blocks that I explore over a period of time. This may take the form of a general field (such as the basics of physics and astronomy), a specific aspect within a field (for example, the relationship between art and perception), a particular issue (like sacred architecture), or the various writings of a single thinker. Sometimes this relates to an area I simply want to understand more deeply. At other times, it directly connects with what I’m working on in the studio. What matters to me is a selective and consistent approach.

In addition, I create various daily rituals that I follow for several weeks at least, often for months – such as listening each day to a different classical composer, or reading one poem a day. A short poem always finds room in the day – and in its condensed form, capturing the ineffable, poetry is remarkably close to abstract art. These sorts of rituals, through their regularity, not only broaden my horizons but also nurture creative potential.

Last but not least – an essential element of my life is contemplation, understood in a broad sense.

AD: You’re calling for a reorientation of art around care, clarity and spiritual depth. Do you see signs of this shift happening among younger artists or movements today?

Joanna Mazuś, 'Velvet Touch of Night I, ink, gold leaf', relief on panel, 28 x 15 cm, 2021, photo: Courtesy of the artist

JM: It’s hard to say – after all, I only see a fragment of reality. I know a younger-generation artist who genuinely strives for spiritual depth in his work and approaches it in a non-literal way: Hubert Dolinkiewicz. But are there many young artists like him? I don’t think so. Will there be more in the future? I hope so.

AD: If you could leave the reader with a single thought – not about your art, but about how to see – what would it be?

JM: This question resonates deeply with me – during my study period in Jerusalem, I took part in a photography workshop led by Yosaif Cohain titled ‘Learning to See’, which turned out to be extremely important to me. He taught me that we should see with attentiveness and without haste, and not be afraid to direct our gaze towards what may seem unexpected or overlooked.

And what I would add, from myself, is this: we should try to see with our entire body-and-spirit.

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