Natalia Evelyn Bencicova: It is definitely a combination that intrigues me as a viewer of the work of others. Beauty draws us in, while discomfort keeps us on edge. We naturally react to what soothes or unsettles us, both positively and negatively. I sometimes wonder if this could work in reverse—whether encountering a compelling piece can spark a deeper engagement with its subject matter. In my experience, it does, and that belief is a driving force behind much of my work.

I aim to create a moment of reflection, inviting the viewer to form their own perspective on the theme. If it feels uncomfortable it is always good to ask why. My work is less about offering answers and more about posing questions, using references and representations to depict a mental landscape. This, in turn, mirrors the viewer’s reality. It is aspirational to hope that one’s work can change the world and social landscape, but it has the power to shift one’s perception of the world, or view on certain issues, which is always a big goal.

What is considered beautiful does develop over time. What we find aesthetically pleasing shifts, and so too does what disturbs us, apart from universally immoral acts. The boundaries of what is acceptable to represent and depict have been shaped by forces like religion, politics, and other powers in play of creating fluctuating standards in art as well as lived reality. These tensions reveal much more than they hide, and that is where things get truly interesting. Perhaps this is why the intersection of beauty and discomfort resonates with me—and, ultimately, with my work.

Speculative and science fiction is an intriguing literary genre where authors often reflect on political situations, envisioning dystopias or potential utopias—offering alternative solutions to societal problems through fantastical worlds. These narratives frequently use coded language, acting as veiled commentaries on issues that can’t always be spoken about directly. I reference these writings in several projects because they’re often the first to question gender, patriarchy, race, capitalism, and oppressive regimes.

Themes of catastrophe—whether flood, explosion, or attack—are common in speculative fiction and provide a backdrop for exploring deeper issues. In Nine-Sum Sorcery, we interpret elements from Cyclonopedia, depicting oil as a dark force that fuels the wheel of greed and conflict, ultimately culminating in an apocalyptic vision of a desert consumed by infinite data-dust. Like many speculative disasters, this is symbolic, expressing an urgent need to reflect on where humanity’s destructive patterns are leading us. Ideally, we wouldn’t need the world’s collapse to spark realisation, but these exaggerated scenarios serve as reminders of the dangerous paths we tread.

In another project, Anti-Atlantis, created with the same team (Studio Labour, Enes Guc, Zeynep Schilling, Ikonospace), we confront human complicity in environmental crises directly. Using a multi-sensory installation combined with virtual reality, we explore whether experiencing extreme conditions with all the senses might resonate more deeply than the abstract but terrifying facts we’ve grown accustomed to. For me, the true impact of the work begins after the VR glasses come off—when viewers return to the real world, hopefully with a heightened awareness of their actions and surroundings where change is still possible.

To be honest, this is still an unresolved topic for me, and I’m constantly searching for the right balance. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for artists to juggle all aspects of the job, especially for those of us who come from less privileged backgrounds, where art is either the sole source of income or something we pursue alongside other work. These days, it’s no longer enough to create; we’re expected to present both our work and ourselves. Confidence is crucial, but for emerging artists, it’s natural to struggle with this—feeling like we’re building a persona larger than ourselves, far removed from how we often feel inside. Social media plays a major role in this, serving as both a support system and a source of constant anxiety, keeping us trapped in the “prison of appearances.”

I’d be lying if I said I’m not part of this system. Photography became my source of income from the moment I picked up a camera as a teenager. Most of my early jobs and opportunities came through online exposure—even securing people to photograph, props, and locations often involved Facebook back then. I’ve been fortunate to encounter kindness and help along the way, but I also learned early on that nothing would come to me unless I took the initiative. I’ve never felt like I was someone who would be naturally chosen or favoured; if I wanted my work seen, I had to push for it daily. I accepted every job, every interview, every exhibition suggestion, and I behaved like I could never afford to be even a bit picky, or ungrateful for even badly paid work. At university, I was told to focus more on my art, but I had to make a living, so I tried to excel in every direction, never feeling like I was doing enough to be accepted.

Looking back, I realise I’ve maintained much of that mindset. Only recently have my personal projects started to be seen as legitimate art or a part of my income, but even now, it’s hard to fully believe it. Is this imposter syndrome a typical experience for women (definitely but why?)? Or perhaps it stems from growing up in a post-Soviet country? Maybe it’s a natural feeling when you’ve had to build everything from scratch? Or perhaps it’s my responsibility to break out of this mindset? Or maybe—like the title of the project suggests—it’s all just a work in progress.

Ultimately, the less you start with, the more you have to build. It’s a hard truth. But more isn’t always better. There comes a point where striving for more becomes self-destructive. Hopefully, we learn to define the right size, appearance, and boundaries for ourselves in time. I went down a bit of a rabbit hole with this answer, but I’m leaving it as it is. After all, self-construction is also self-observation, and that’s exactly what this project, created with Enes Güc, is all about.

The first, photographic part of the project poses two questions: “What is the difference between thinking and imitation?” and “What is the difference between living and existing?” These boundaries, along with your question, are becoming increasingly blurred. Automation touches every part of our lives—from relationships to desire, intimacy, and even our daily commute. I look up on public transport and see everyone staring into their phones—myself included, typing this text. It feels eerily similar to the futuristic visions from the early 20th century, though in the next one, this may seem like an outdated image of the past. For some, it’s a source of fear, for others, excitement—technology is advancing at an ever-increasing speed.

We can trace the roots of automation back to the Industrial Revolution, but AI questions more than just our physical capabilities. Artificial Tears examines how, while we grow anxious about thinking machines, we often overlook the ways we are becoming more mechanical ourselves—more robotic, more alike. The project captures stereotypical actions, learned behaviours, and appearances that conform to societal norms, but it focuses on the moment when this pattern is broken, when the senselessness of it all is realised. Of course, this is neither an easy nor a fully conscious process—it’s more like a sudden but fast pause, a glitch in the matrix, as the pressure to “perform correctly” is upheld by society, power structures, and investments.

The idea of creating artificial women—dolls or tools that come to life—has been around for centuries, but today the dream of a perfect, obedient, programmable “dream girl” is more real than ever. In a time when face filters define beauty standards (feeding the plastic surgery industry), we have to acknowledge how deeply technology shapes not only how we want to appear but also what we accept as normal and desirable.

Artificial Tears focused on the programmed behaviours of AI voice assistants like Siri and Alexa. When I completed the project five years ago, I wondered where this technology was headed. Would it reinforce the long-standing, criticised models of female submission, servitude, and objectification? Or would it break these patterns, aligning with real-world movements toward empowerment and equality? The troubling reality is that these constructed behaviours set an example for how we should act, look, and speak, which then reflects back into our own actions.

The issues addressed in Artificial Tears haven’t disappeared—they’ve evolved and grown. Today, AI girlfriends are marketed as “perfect companions,” advertised as hotter and better than any real woman, while robotic sex workers offer unlimited, one-sided pleasures. The perception of human interaction and identity is undeniably shifting, and it’s something I plan to explore even further in my future projects.

humanity has always shaped the form of nature, but something fundamental in this relationship has shifted. At first humans were simply part of nature, like any other animal—fragile and respectful, even fearful of the mysterious, life-giving yet unpredictable environments. Gradually, we learned to understand nature and used that knowledge to our advantage. The logic of seeking shelter for protection evolved into creating settlements where crops could grow, reflecting the fruits of our knowledge.

At some point, humans decided that the land they inhabited belonged to them, giving them the right to exploit it as they wished. Soon after, they extended this sense of ownership to land occupied by others, justified simply by military power. Without delving too deeply into this, as people appropriated and simultaneously damaged nature, there arose a recurring urge to simulate, reconstruct, and even fake it. SimulacRaum explores these artificially constructed spaces as a form of simulacra—copies without an original—since they often fail, or don’t even attempt, to capture the essence of what they claim to represent.

At some point, humans decided that the land they inhabited belonged to them, giving them the right to exploit it as they wished. Soon after, they extended this sense of ownership to land occupied by others, justified simply by military power. Without delving too deeply into this, as people appropriated and simultaneously damaged nature, there arose a recurring urge to simulate, reconstruct, and even fake it. SimulacRaum explores these artificially constructed spaces as a form of simulacra—copies without an original—since they often fail, or don’t even attempt, to capture the essence of what they claim to represent.

In this ongoing project, I visit ancient and contemporary quarries where urban structures have been carved out, and botanical gardens that attempt to simulate nature’s diversity, tightly constrained within glass walls. Early on, I noticed how exotic bird and insect sounds emanated from speakers, and how some of the most magnificent trees were painted sculptures, supporting the heavy machinery needed to sustain the climate within these artificial spaces. This project is more of an observation than a critique, and it uses two models—the “temple” and the “garden”—to draw comparisons between fragmentation and recreation. The temple sacrifices nature for commodification, while the garden resurrects it as a product. One space attempts to represent wilderness; the other seeks to control it.

Though both of these spaces have a certain logic to their existence, they reveal a deeper truth: one process feeds the other. The more we destroy, the more we feel the need to simulate. Is this what technological progress offers us? A world of endless copies as the original sources are damaged or disappear? These are the questions that inspired the title SimulacRaum, a nod to Jean Baudrillard’s concept of simulacra in Simulacra and Simulation, which delves into this very phenomenon.

Some of the photographs in this analog project have been further digitally manipulated, collaged from different times and places to create SimulacRaum worlds of their own—fragments transformed into something that never truly existed. On another level, the project asks us to question the reality or authenticity of images. Even unedited photos can appear surreal, sometimes even more so than those that are completely constructed. This is the feeling I aim to evoke throughout much of the project—an intentional blurriness and uncertainty that leaves room for thought.

SimulacRaum may be my most different and radically non-figurative work. It’s about human behaviour, and while no human bodies are depicted, their presence is palpable. A friend of mine once told me that there is something strange in my works but he doesn’t know what it is, it almost feels like the air, scenes, and places, topics change but the air, spirit stays the same.

technology often mirrors spirituality in several ways. Most of all we hope it solves many of the problems we are creating, as it often does, but it still does not do magic, as we sometimes expect due to the mystification which surrounds it. The reflection on ancient rituals connected to spirituality and religion appears in several works, including Sungazing again initiated by Studio Labour. Belief whether it is a cult, religion, or code of a certain subculture always creates the world around itself- a set of explanations, rules, and practices. It can create a narrative so strong, that it is taken for only possible reality or norm, where everything else becomes unacceptable. The technology could be seen as an application of science, but science is no exception to the history of creating harmful constructs (like eugenics for example). A friend of mine who is a data activist said to me recently “Science without morals is just power.” and that goes for any other field, no belief can question moral logic based on its agenda, but exactly that happens very often.

Sungazing explores the ancient and potentially dangerous practice of gazing into intensity, bordering between damage and enlightenment. It references the danger of radicalization and coming too close to the source of what seems light but burns oneself. I believe any form of extremism—when someone stops thinking critically, ceases to consider context, and views others simply as “the other”—is dangerous. These rigid beliefs are often manipulated by power structures and political regimes to fabricate fear and hatred.

That is why it is so important to look and think about what is at the core or foundations of these systems. Are they trying to teach us the right morals or censor us? Are they supporting values or enslaving the masses? Whom do these rules and standards serve? Good questions to ask with tools and appliances of technology indeed.

I can seamlessly continue from the previous response, as our current project, Æther—developed in collaboration with Samson G. Balfour Smith—tackles some of the most enduring and destructive narratives that have shaped not only belief systems but also the evolution of culture and morals. Æther aims to deconstruct these narratives through a digital audio-visual journey. Chapter O premiered a year ago, and I’ve already discussed it in several interviews. So before diving into Chapter I, which is still in progress and set to premiere this November at Photo Paris, I’ll make a brief overview.

Chapter O reinterprets the Genesis story, the origin myth that serves as the bedrock for all Abrahamic religions, and, by extension, shapes the societal position of women even in contemporary times. The familiar tale of Adam and Eve, cast out of paradise after Eve—created secondarily from Adam’s rib—dared to disobey and eat the forbidden fruit, has long been used to justify the subjugation of women. Eve’s defiance, spurred by the devil’s temptation, supposedly unleashed divine punishment upon all of humanity. The moral, if any, seems to be that disobedience, curiosity, and especially the autonomy of women are inherently sinful, and thus, they should not be trusted. God’s command that man shall rule over woman has been followed zealously for centuries.

It’s astounding how smoothly this story could have taken hold, but the reality is that it took centuries of eradicating earth-bound religions and stripping women of their rights to cement such beliefs—a position we are only now beginning to reclaim. The foundation laid by Chapter O is essential for challenging these constructs, questioning them, and reclaiming agency. Using this archetypal story seems to me like a perfect opportunity to engage this critique.

Æther offers a counter-narrative, built on alternative meanings of the words and symbols found in Genesis. In our interpretation, Adam and Eve symbolise human life, the fruit represents information, and the snake stands for healing, duality, goddess religions, and the concept of the pharmakon—both poison and cure. This retelling becomes a story about the birth of consciousness and the fall from innocence into knowledge—a painful but necessary and empowering step. The interpretation we explore in Æther flips the traditional narrative: instead of condemning this loss of innocence, we embrace it as a blessing and a curse, encouraging us to open our eyes and see without fear. Avatar Eve—an entity present within all of us, rather than an actual individual—symbolically frees herself from the constraints of shame and guilt. The key takeaway is that stories shouldn’t be accepted blindly or interpreted literally.

Chronologically, Chapter I precedes Chapter O, as it examines the societal shifts that laid the groundwork for Genesis and similar myths. This chapter explores the transition from egalitarian, earth-bound societies to hierarchical, sky-god-worshipping ones. It delves into how these shifts enabled the conquest of lands, the separation of people from their environment and each other, and the enslavement of belief systems that upended previous values and morals. The nurturer, once a celebrated archetype, was replaced by the warrior—a shift that still resonates in our modern world.

In this Chapter the voice of a symbolic entity again talks to the viewer – as she/it shifts its form from landscape to anthropomorphic form – linking the change of beliefs with losing connection to the environment as alive. The transformation of soil into flesh highlights the brutality in treatment of what was once considered sacred. We are currently still in the process of writing and developing so let’s see where the flow takes us.