Make Work

1. Reflection on Making, Resolving, and Adapting New Work 

First of all, I’ve realised how crucial reflecting is for my practice, it’s what allows me to develop and move forward. As I come to the end of my course, I feel a strong need to create some kind of structure or logic for how I will continue working once the external pressure of deadlines and university guidance is no longer there.

I think I will need to build a personal rhythm. For example, I imagine that once a month, maybe at the end of each month, I could sit down, look back at all the works and processes I’ve been through, and collect everything into one place. Just to pause, observe, and take note of what has changed, what felt meaningful, and where I want to go next.

But this brings up a new question: should I continue to post these reflections publicly, like on my blog? What would be the purpose? Or maybe I should create a more personal system, just for myself. Perhaps I’ll start with simple Word documents where I can write freely and save everything. Later, if a clearer idea comes, I can decide whether I want to share those thoughts publicly or use them for something else.

What I’ve noticed especially during Part 5 of the course is how much I’ve grown. I made a big leap in developing the new vessels using recycled newspapers, and I also reconnected these with the idea of colour fields.

Failed Vessel, 2025, recycled newspapers from colour fields, acrylic, metal mesh, screws, cardboard, сhipboard, wood, 65 x 55 x 50 cm.

This opened a whole new direction for me. But even more than that, I’ve seen a real shift in how I work.

Before, I used to work very intuitively, without too much thinking in advance. I would make first, and only afterwards, reflect on what happened. Now, especially through my exploration of painting, I’ve realised that I need to approach things differently. I tried painting without much preparation, and it didn’t work. That failure taught me that for painting, I need to study theory first, look at other artists, and plan carefully before I begin. This was a major turning point. It’s not just about changing my technique, it’s a complete shift in how I approach my work.

I see this as a big step forward for myself. I feel that something inside me is changing, maturing. And I want to keep building on that.

2. Reflection on Research During Part 5

One of the most unexpected and valuable research discoveries during Part 5 emerged directly from my making process.

I noticed that the newspapers I was using felt thinner than before. This observation initially came through my body, through touch and the process of working, rather than through conscious thought or research. In order to achieve the same surface quality in my newspaper-based paintings, I suddenly needed five layers of paper instead of the usual three.

Curious about this change, I began to investigate and found that it wasn't just my perception; the paper had indeed changed. Since the beginning of the war in Ukraine, the paper industry has faced major disruptions. The supply of wood was interrupted, energy costs increased, and as a result, the price of paper rose.

To reduce production costs, newspaper manufacturers began using thinner paper. So, quite literally, the media became physically lighter.

What fascinated me most was that I felt this shift in my hands before I understood it in my mind. My body registered the change before my logic caught up. This strongly connects to one of the core ideas in my practice: that the body often notices and responds to the world in ways that precede conscious understanding.

There is also a powerful symbolic layer to this change. The newspaper, this vessel of information, of headlines, of news, is losing weight. Its physical form is diminishing. This raises a rhetorical question about the value and weight of information itself: What does it mean when the news becomes literally lighter?

This insight not only deepened my understanding of my material but also expanded the conceptual space around my work. It is a moment where practice, body, and global politics intersected seamlessly and unexpectedly.

Post on social media: Price of paper and embodied ideas in art 💶💡🖼️I’ve been working with newspapers for years, and over time, I’ve noticed the paper becoming thinner 😳. Basically I noticed that now I need more sheets of newspapers for the quality I want 📰🗞️ for my art.After a research I figure out that the war in Ukraine disrupted major supply chains, especially in wood and energy which are crucial for paper production. This led to a increase in newsprint prices and publishers changed for thinner, lower-quality paper to cut costs.This is exactly what I mean by the idea💡being embedded in the medium. The material reflects the time we live in. It becomes a witness to geopolitical fragility. The medium is literally losing weight, presence, strength. And I’m (unknowingly at first) documenting that quiet collapse of material, of public trust, of media reliability.What’s most exciting for me: I noticed it before I knew the facts. The artworks recorded it before I had the words.

3. Reflection on the Evolution of My Practice through Large-Scale Work and Vessels

Another important moment in the development of my practice came in response to the successful presentation of my work at Art Karlsruhe. One company expressed serious interest in acquiring my 7-meter-long piece, and once the decision was confirmed, I had to begin the process of restoring and refining the work.

This involved cleaning it, securing loose pigment, and retouching areas where vandalism had left marks, preparing it for its new context, where it would be presented in a single continuous row, as one immersive colour field.

This restoration process sparked two major reflections.

First, I became deeply aware of how powerful it is to create an artwork at such a scale. Standing in front of a 7-meter-long, 2.5-meter-high colour field is overwhelming in the best sense. You don't just see it, you’re physically surrounded by it. The colour absorbs sound, shifts your perception, and creates a bodily experience that goes beyond the visual. This experience reaffirmed to me how strongly I’m drawn to large-scale works. This kind of immersive presence is what I want to pursue even more in my future projects. It’s not only about creating art, it’s about shaping environments, emotional spaces, and atmospheres.

Second, as I worked on restoring the piece, I collected all the newspaper fragments that couldn’t stay attached to the surface. I didn’t discard them.

Instead, I began reusing them to build new sculptural vessels. In doing this, I returned to a line of research and making that has been part of my practice for years. But this time, something felt different.

These new vessels, formed from the remains of my large-scale painting, seemed like a natural evolution, not a side project. They are a continuation of the same thinking, just in a new form.

From the very first vessel I created out of these materials, I had the sense that something had shifted. The textures, the internal structures, the depth of the material, all of it felt like an exact mirror of myself and my artistic language. It’s rich and complex, but in a way that feels right, balanced, and mature. With each new vessel, this direction feels more and more full of potential, something I’m only beginning to tap into.

Now I’ve started working on even larger vessels, up to 1.2 meters tall. One is already drying in my studio. I still don’t fully know how it will look when finished, but the reactions of visitors have been remarkable.

Every person who sees the pieces responds strongly, emotionally, and physically. There’s no neutral reaction. That tells me I’m on the right path.

I’m now preparing a full collection of these sculptural vessels to be exhibited in November at my gallery in Stuttgart. This body of work will show not only the objects themselves but the full cycle of my practice, from painting and installation to transformation and reuse, to sculpture. This loop, where the colour field becomes a sculptural object, is no longer just a method. It has become the complete framework of my artistic vision.

4. Reflections on Painting: Returning to Flatness as a New Challenge

A new direction in my practice is painting, specifically, oil on canvas. This might sound traditional, but for me it feels like a real challenge. I’ve always been deeply driven by material and colour. My whole practice until now has been about tactility, substance, and physicality. It has taken all of me, years of focused energy, to develop a language rooted in material presence. So now, bringing this essence into a flat surface feels like testing the limits of my own voice.

Since the very beginning, I never liked flatness. It felt too limited, too distant from what I was trying to express. But after six years of working with materials and finding my personal themes, I now feel ready to return to painting, to explore what happens when I try to compress all this complexity and depth into two dimensions.

I’ve already started experimenting.

At first, I approached painting intuitively, but it didn’t fully work. A few pieces felt promising, but overall, they didn’t feel resolved. They lacked a clear internal structure. What I do find compelling, though, is when I integrate plywood and fragments of broken wood into the painting surface, either on canvas or paper, and then scratch words into them, especially in Russian.

These gestures feel very authentic to me. They create a direct bridge between my past works and this new medium.

As I kept reflecting, I asked myself: what is my real focus here? What exactly do I want to bring into painting? I came to the conclusion that what interests me most is tension, especially the contrast between the dualities in our world.

On one side: logic, structure, propaganda, ideology, coldness, systems, thinness, exactness, mechanisms, dryness, and the artificial clarity of what we are told is “truth.”

On the other side: the body, heat, weight, wetness, chaos, sickness, instinct, emotional intensity, intuition, and the irrational messiness of lived experience.

These are not just abstract oppositions to me, they are deeply felt, and I see them everywhere. I even realised something important: in the logic of propaganda, flesh is the enemy. Propaganda doesn’t want the body; it wants the mind. It tells you to reject your own sensations and follow “the right idea.” That’s why I find this idea of “propaganda versus the body” so powerful, it’s about two kinds of truth that exist simultaneously, but often in conflict. One might say “it’s red,” another says “it’s blue” and I’m trying to explore what exists in between. Or how our bodies react to being caught between those competing truths.

This inner tension is what I now want to bring into painting. And I believe there are visual patterns, gestures, and approaches I can develop to do so. I’ve started to look closely at artists like Francis Bacon and Jenny Saville, and to read theorists like Julia Kristeva and Slavoj Žižek, who deal with the body, trauma, and ideology in complex ways.

I also realised something else: in many religious and philosophical systems, especially in Christianity, flesh is treated as sinful, and spirit as pure. But maybe that’s part of the problem. What if the “spirit” is actually closer to propaganda? What if the body - heavy, wounded, irrational - is the more truthful one?

This question excites me. It feels like a deeply personal and artistic path to follow. So I now see painting as a medium where I can continue developing these ideas, where I can explore the violence between flesh and logic, the mess of feeling, and the systems that try to erase it.

5. Reflections on Recent Events During Part Five

During this last phase of my work, I experienced several significant events that shaped my perspective both artistically and personally. One of the main highlights was a major group exhibition in Berlin, which opened during Berlin Gallery Weekend.

It attracted a large audience, press coverage, and many art-related events. Being part of such an active and visible moment in the Berlin art scene was exciting and offered me the chance to connect with other artists and professionals.

What struck me during these encounters was the realisation that even artists with a large number of followers on Instagram often struggle with the same doubts and limitations. Many of them do not have gallery representation, and despite their strong online presence, they feel stuck or unfulfilled in their careers. This reinforced something I already knew: social media can amplify visibility, but it doesn’t replace the deeper support structures needed to grow as an artist. Likes and followers do not guarantee artistic freedom or long-term recognition.

During this time, I also visited König Galerie in Berlin. The space left a deep impression on me. The towering concrete walls, maybe 30 meters high, create a breathtaking atmosphere.

I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to exhibit there one day. My mind immediately visualised how my works could interact with the scale, the raw materiality, the echo of the space. For now, it remains a dream, but it’s a motivating one.

Parallel to these events, I was also working intensely on commissioned works. I created several pieces for clients, which meant travelling to different cities with a rental car, handling transport, logistics, communication, and delivery.

These practical aspects are rarely discussed when speaking about artistic practice, but they take a lot of time and energy. It's not always about developing new concepts or researching materials. A large part of being an artist also involves physical work, project management, and continuous dialogue with clients, galleries, and collaborators. It’s a complex balance of creation, communication, and coordination.

Another meaningful moment during this time was an interview published in a local newspaper.

It focused on my practice in relation to the war in Ukraine, offering a broader audience insight into the emotional and political layers of my work.

Additionally, one of the major galleries I collaborate with selected my work for a feature in their magazine. This recognition felt rewarding, as it showed that the themes I explore are resonating beyond just exhibitions; they are entering conversations within the gallery and media world too.

Overall, this period was intense and multifaceted, full of public exposure, personal insights, and physical effort. It reminded me again that being an artist today is not only about what you make in the studio. It’s also about how you navigate the world around your work, and how you stay true to your vision while responding to external demands and opportunities.

6. Reflection on Critical Feedback

One of the most difficult yet important moments in this recent phase of my practice was receiving a hard critique from a professional art critic.

It came through an online gallery I collaborate with, which offered the opportunity to apply for a critical review. I submitted my portfolio, ten works from my colour field series, including pieces that incorporated found wood and paper, exploring material contrasts.

The feedback I received was harsh. The critic claimed my works "sit on the edge of the decorative world" and would eventually be perceived as such by "educated, biased collectors."

“The main issue regarding Marina Wittemann artworks: they sit on the edge of the "decorative world". And they eventually are perceived as that by educated buyers/collectors. Even if they currently could have some commercial success.

Visually and conceptually these artworks are not innovative and with their characteristics they "compete" in a larger market with many similar artworks in a saturated market from the offer side. Only artists with a strong body of work and a documented career could emerge from this sea of similarities.

There is a strong sensation of pastiche, that certainly repeals the same target that Marina Wittemann wants to attract.”

“Colour is a powerful tool to convey messages. Did Marina Wittemann had ever tried to work with materials as they were found (without colour intervention)? Or other minimal colour palette? Or neutral colours?

All these artworks portray a similar formal intervention and scale of the treated materials. There is no soul, no pain, no truth on that. It is pure visual decoration. Maybe the stop mentioned Marina Wittemann resides on all this.”

According to him, even if my works sell successfully now, they are kitsch and visual decoration, not art. He further stated that my work lacks innovation, soul, pain, or truth, and that it competes merely on visual appeal within a saturated market.

At first, this critique hit me deeply. I fell into a heavy state of frustration and even depression. What helped me process it was the support of my husband, my close friends, and colleagues in the gallery world who know my work intimately. They reminded me of the depth of my process, the commitment I have to material research, and the emotional and intellectual complexity embedded in each piece.

With time and distance, I’ve come to a more grounded reflection. On one hand, I know I should not let a single opinion destroy my confidence. I understand the depth behind my works, the material history, the conceptual layering, the physicality, the connection to my synaesthesia. These pieces are born from my body and lived experience. But on the other hand, I also see the value in listening. Not to take everything literally, but to learn from the way my work might be perceived, especially at first glance.

The critic’s response made me realise something I had already been sensing: my works are attractive, even seductive. Some people call them beautiful. And perhaps that is exactly the point and the challenge. I intentionally play with beauty, with surface appeal, because that’s how propaganda works: it draws you in, pleases you, then betrays you. This duality between attraction and disruption is part of my language.

So maybe this strong reaction means I’ve actually touched something vital. We live in a time of endless scrolling, short attention spans, rapid judgments. When someone flips through a portfolio in seconds, do they really see what’s inside? Isn’t this superficial consumption of images a reflection of our wider cultural condition? What is so wrong with being beautiful and meaningful at the same time? Why is beauty, in the contemporary art context, so often distrusted?

This critique made me think more seriously about how I present and communicate my work. Perhaps I need to shift the language around my colour fields to better articulate their conceptual weight, how they are tied to synesthetic experience, to the body, to memory, and to the aesthetics of persuasion. These works are not decorative by accident. They are built to seduce and then provoke. There is a strategy behind the visual appeal.

I also began to question whether I should reduce my colour palette in order to be taken more seriously. But then I asked myself: would that be a betrayal of my own truth? These colours come from my body. They are not chosen to please; they are experienced. They are not arbitrary. They are felt.

So instead of changing the essence of my work, I’m now focusing on how to reframe and reposition it. I want to continue developing this series, but with greater clarity in how I speak about it. I believe in these works. I believe they hold potential for transformation, both for me and for the viewer. I want to find ways to bring that depth forward, so the work is not dismissed as decoration but understood for what it truly is: a study of perception, propaganda, beauty, and bodily truth.

I've been criticised for my work being too beautiful or decorative, as if beauty automatically makes a work shallow or commercial. This is a very modernist bias that persists in some art criticism, where “ugly,” “difficult,” or “cold” is equated with seriousness.

But isn’t this exactly the narrow mindset I am questioning?

Why should beauty mean lack of depth? Why should prettiness be a weakness?

I am not arguing that all art must be accessible. I am revealing a problem in the system itself, how some critics operate with fixed, unexamined standards. That’s very different from defending “popular” art.

Even if people see only the surface, is it not their responsibility to look deeper? This is not just about my work, this is about how people look at and judge in general. Whether it’s a critic or a casual viewer, I am pointing out a habit in society - we label things too quickly, and move on.

Why is my art called "decorative" by others?

In the art world, “decorative” often has a negative undertone. It suggests that a work is too concerned with surface, beauty, or visual pleasure and not with concept, risk, or political weight. My work uses strong colour, texture, harmony, and material sensitivity things that are often visually pleasing. These qualities can be misread as “just pretty,” especially if the viewer doesn’t take time to feel the tension underneath.

Why doesn’t it feel “decorative” to me?

Because I know the pain, the process, the meaning. I see the scratches, the violence in the material, the fragility, the background in war, propaganda, intuition. My sensibility is already deeply informed I am not choosing colour for cuteness. I am choosing it because it feels urgent. For me, the softness is not aesthetic sugar it’s seduction, camouflage, contradiction.

I also have synaesthesia, which makes my aesthetic responses emotional, physical, and intuitive. This is not decoration—this is embodied.

Where is the disconnect?

It may be that:

• The audience is not given enough context or invitation to go deeper.

• My visual language is seductive, but the violence or danger is not immediately readable, it's too subtle.

• I might be suppressing or smoothing the discomfort in order to keep things “beautiful,” even unconsciously.

Sometimes I wonder: if my work is too beautiful, too subtle, too emotional does that mean it’s not “serious” art?

It often feels like the art world already knows what it wants. Curators look for work that fits a clear idea, that looks critical, political, raw, often conceptual in a very visible way. But if the critique is soft, or the pain is quiet, or the message comes through colour instead of text then it’s called decorative, or too feminine, or not deep enough.

But I think that is exactly the problem I’m pointing to.

My work doesn’t fit the current trend. And maybe it’s not supposed to. It doesn’t explain everything at once. It doesn’t scream. It invites. It creates a space to feel something before you even understand what it is. In that sense, it asks the viewer to slow down—something that’s hard to ask in a system that rewards quick takes and clear categories.

The philosopher Jacques Rancière wrote about the “distribution of the sensible” the idea that art decides who gets to feel what, and who is allowed to speak. In today’s art world, I think this is still true. There’s a strong system of taste, and if you don’t match it, if your work doesn’t look like the right kind of critical, you’re left out. Even if your message is urgent, even if your method is honest.

For me, art is a kind of discovery. Through working with newspaper, I started noticing things I hadn’t seen before: how materials change over time, how war affects even the paper we touch, how colour can carry emotion without words. I didn’t plan this. I found it by doing. And I think that’s just as valid as writing a perfect concept before starting.

But when people see colour and softness, they often miss the thinking behind it. There’s a hidden rule in the art world: if something is beautiful, it’s suspicious. Beauty becomes a problem. As if feeling is less important than theory.

But why? Why do we separate intellect from emotion? Why do we expect art to speak in the language of institutions, and not in the language of the body, of care, of presence?

I believe that when an artwork is rejected just because it’s visually attractive, or not ironic enough, or too handmade, then we need to ask bigger questions. What kind of art are we promoting? Who are we excluding? And who gets to decide what counts as “critical” or “important”?

Maybe the rejection itself reveals the limits of the system. And maybe that’s the most political part of this work.