Rooted in memory, identity, and inherited archives, the practice of Caroline Bergwinkl moves between sculpture, photography, and performance to examine personal and collective history. Drawing from a deeply Bavarian upbringing and a global trajectory through anthropology, journalism, and design, the work interrogates narratives passed down through generations—especially those shaped by silence, tradition, and trauma. Through the use of archival materials, twin performance, and process-driven experimentation, Bergwinkl creates a language that resists simplification and invites critical engagement with power, responsibility, and the echoes of history.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

My artistic practice engages with family archives, historical trauma, and performative identity to challenge inherited narratives and question authority. I was born and raised in Bavaria, a region in Germany known for its picturesque landscapes and rich cultural traditions, but also for its deeply rooted conservatism and complex history. Growing up in a small Bavarian town, my environment was like something out of a fairytale: neatly organized, seemingly idyllic, yet under the surface, there were tensions and unspoken histories. My family home, where I lived with my parents and my identical twin sister, was a place filled with warmth, but also a space where the weight of tradition was palpable. Being a twin shaped my sense of self in profound ways. As teenagers, Stephanie and I often found ourselves struggling to carve out our individual identities. While many of our peers felt naturally embedded within their communities, I often felt like an observer — watching, questioning, and sometimes feeling disconnected. This experience seeded an early awareness of identity as something complex, performative, and fluid, a theme that would later permeate my art.

 

At the age of 18, I decided to leave my hometown and step into the world, living in various countries across Asia, Europe, and Africa — from China and England to Tanzania and the Czech Republic. These years of travel and cultural immersion exposed me to a broad spectrum of worldviews and artistic expressions. They challenged my earlier notions and planted the seed for my multidisciplinary, experimental approach.

The real catalyst for my artistic journey, however, came unexpectedly. Upon returning home a few years ago, I stumbled upon a box and other artifacts in our family attic—an archive of memories left by my grandparents. Among its contents was my grandmother’s poetry album from 1934, filled with handwritten dedications, delicate angel and flower stickers, and poems penned by her young brothers, who would soon perish as soldiers in World War II. This album was a testament to hope and resilience in the shadow of impending catastrophe, a fragile relic of a family’s lived experience amid historical trauma.

 

Alongside this, I discovered a war photo album belonging to my grandfather, a soldier during the Nazi era and after a police chief master in Bavaria. These photos – potraits of camaraderie, landscapes of warzones across France, Italy, and Russia – were uncaptivated by names or dates, almost like a fragmented story. Seeing these images sparked a deep reflection: What is remembered? What is forgotten? How do personal and collective histories intersect and diverge? My artistic work has since become a response to these questions. I use archival materials inherited from my grandparents—photographs, documents, objects—as both inspiration and raw material. Through a process-driven, experimental practice, I transform these fragments into tactile, layered artworks that engage with themes of memory, identity, and authority. The fragments themselves embody the elusive nature of memory—partial, subjective, and often contradictory.

 

Last year, I started to work with my identical twin sister Stephanie Bergwinkl as a subject in front of my lenses in order to bring a performative aspect into my family archival work and negotiate my own identity but from a distance. I am concered with questions such as: Are we allowed to appropriate the archival material with our own bodies? What responsibility comes with it? In doing so, I try to create new conscious approaches to the archive material through appropriation. Ultimately, my upbringing and cultural heritage provide both the foundation and the tension in my work. They offer me rich, complex material and also push me to interrogate, disrupt, and reimagine inherited narratives. My art is an invitation to viewers to engage with history—not as a static archive, but as a living, contested, and deeply personal terrain.

Have you ever felt drawn toward a conventional career path? What made you take the ‘‘creative leap‘‘ despite the risks?

I did not start my professional life as an artist. My first academic path was in social anthropology, and I worked as a journalist for some time. These fields allowed me to explore society, culture, and human behaviour, but I always felt a growing urge to express myself more freely and creatively beyond academic or journalistic frameworks. My creative leap came gradually, intertwined with personal experiences that reshaped my perspective on life. A pivotal moment was a close encounter with death, which profoundly impacted me. Facing mortality made me realise how precious and fleeting life is and how important it is to follow one’s passions wholeheartedly. It was a stark reminder not to take life for granted and to live authentically, even if that means taking risks.

This experience pushed me to pursue a formal degree in digital design, where I discovered new forms of expression and experimental media that resonated deeply with my need for freedom and innovation. Over time, I realised that creative practice was not just a hobby but a vital part of my identity and purpose. Being politically engaged, especially in Germany’s social landscape, I was fortunate to receive a fully-funded scholarship for an MFA program at the University of the Arts in Prague. Starting anew in a country where I do not speak the language is challenging, but it is also an opportunity for growth, both artistically and personally.

Choosing this path was not without risks. It meant leaving behind stability, certainty, and a conventional career trajectory. But the drive to create, to challenge dominant narratives, and to forge new ways of seeing the world outweighed the fear of uncertainty. In summary, my journey toward becoming an artist was shaped by intellectual curiosity, personal transformation, and a desire for authentic self-expression. It is a path fueled by resilience and the willingness to embrace change, driven by a profound belief in the power of art to question, heal, and inspire.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues – social, political, or environmental?

My art is shaped by an awareness of the ongoing legacies of fascism and patriarchy and I ask myself in my artistic process how German culture of remembrance works and how effective it actually is. Unfortunately, these are not just historical topics; they remain urgent and present challenges in contemporary society, such as German silence on Gaza. For example, in my most recent artistic project, I work with the method of excessive repetition of the sentence ‘‘Our past is a foreign country, We do things differently here.‘‘ in order to create a thought-provoking reaction.

 

Besides, my practice challenges traditional representations of authority and questions patriarchal power structures. I use feminist and queer theoretical frameworks, such as Judith Butler’s concept of gender performativity, to explore how identities are constructed and maintained through cultural narratives and symbols. My art functions as a space for critical dialogue, inviting audiences to question power, history, and identity. It aims to keep alive the memory of resistance against oppressive systems and to foster awareness of the ways in which the past informs the present and the future.

Have you ever struggled with the ethics of your art, such as who it represents or who it impacts?

As an artist working deeply with personal and collective histories, ethical reflection is at the core of my practice. I constantly ask myself: Who am I representing? Whose stories am I telling? And what impact do my artworks have on the communities connected to these narratives?

Much of my work is based on archival material inherited from my grandparents, which relates to sensitive periods of history, including the Nazi era and World War II. Handling these materials means navigating a complex ethical landscape. These are not just objects or images, but testimonies of lived experiences—some painful, some contested. I am aware that by interpreting and transforming these materials, I take on a responsibility towards both the memory of those involved and the viewers who engage with my work. It’s important for me to approach these histories with respect and critical distance, without glorifying or simplifying the traumatic past.

 

In my project, where I use my identical twin sister as a model wearing my grandfather’s police cap and boots, for example, I intentionally highlight the gaps and tensions in memory and identity. This staging questions authority and confronts viewers with uncomfortable questions rather than offering easy answers. It’s a way to provoke dialogue and reflection about the legacy of power structures and the construction of identity.

Struggling with ethics means balancing personal expression with social responsibility. I reflect continuously on my positionality—as a descendant, a woman, an artist—and how that shapes the stories I tell. This ethical awareness keeps my practice grounded and honest, reminding me that art is never neutral.

However, I did face strong reactions against my art already. For example, when I presented my most recent project in front of a Czech jury, which includes writing with Fraktur font, which carries historical associations in Germany, someone asked me that I should ask myself if I really want to be connected with that Font, as a German citizen. Or someone else gave me feedback that my work is problematic because it questions which history is remembered.

Even though I would want my work to be a space for empathy and critical engagement, I know that not everyone finds the method of reenactment and recreation as appropriate regarding this topic and many people would just rather ignore or silence the side of the perpetrators. As long as I make this kind of art, I have to deal with it, and it is also a learning process for me as to how best to deal with strong rejection or moral reproaches.

Describe a piece you’ve created that has held the most emotional weight for you. What makes it significant?

One of the most emotionally significant works I’ve created is Das Blütenstaubzimmer, a sculptural reconstruction of my grandparents’ apartment. This piece is a deeply intimate exploration of memory, inheritance, and trauma. Working on this project, I felt like stepping into a fragile world between past and present. The miniature format—almost dollhouse-like—evokes a sense of nostalgia and familiarity. Yet the materials I chose—plywood, textiles, wax—suggest fragility and impermanence, highlighting how memories are delicate and often incomplete.

 

The installation invites viewers to examine history in a layered way. Each room reveals stories of love, loss, and resilience, but also the burden of cultural and political inheritance. For example, the bedroom features a large book containing photographs of my grandfather, supporting a delicate white rose. This juxtaposition symbolises the fragile endurance of antifascist ideals despite unstable foundations. The kitchen, inspired by my grandmother’s 1934 poetry album, brings warmth and sentimentality through angel stickers and flowers. Yet the presence of “Silver Wax Eyes” introduces a critical element, questioning how inherited cultural perspectives shape the way we see ourselves and others. This piece means a lot to me because it encapsulates my personal history, but also resonates with broader social and political concerns. It’s an invitation to engage with history not as a distant story but as something living and relevant, full of contradictions and emotions. Creating Das Blütenstaubzimmer was a form of healing and reflection. It challenged me to confront painful family legacies while honouring their complexity and humanity.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally, or seen it impact others?

I firmly believe that art can be deeply therapeutic for both the artist and the audience. Creating art allows me to process emotions and experiences that are difficult to express with words alone. Working with personal and collective histories, especially those marked by trauma, means engaging with pain and memory in a way that can be both challenging and healing.

 

For me, art has become a vital tool to navigate complex feelings related to family history, identity, and inherited trauma. Projects like Das Blütenstaubzimmer are not only explorations but also acts of remembrance and reconciliation. Through the physical act of building, layering materials, and transforming archival objects, I find a space to come to terms with difficult legacies and to honour those who lived through them.

 

Moreover, art opens a dialogue with viewers, inviting empathy and reflection. I have seen how audiences respond emotionally to my work, sometimes finding personal connections to their own histories or feeling encouraged to confront uncomfortable truths about society and memory. This shared emotional experience can foster healing, understanding, and even solidarity.While art is not a cure-all, its capacity to create meaning and connection is powerful. It can transform silence into voice and invisibility into presence. I have experienced moments where art has helped me move through grief and uncertainty, and I have witnessed how it can inspire others to engage with their own histories or social issues. In sum, art’s therapeutic potential lies in its ability to embrace complexity, vulnerability, and hope simultaneously. It creates a safe space for exploring pain and resilience, making it a deeply human and necessary practice.

Do you think art that is created for commercial success loses its integrity, or can it still hold meaning?

We live in a capitalist world, and it’s unrealistic to think that artists can exist outside this framework. Financial stability is crucial—it allows creative freedom and sustainability. Therefore, creating art that achieves commercial success doesn’t automatically mean losing integrity or meaning.

 

For me, the key lies in intention and honesty. Art can be meaningful and commercially successful if the artist remains true to their vision and critical perspective. It’s about balancing the need to earn a living with the commitment to create work that challenges, inspires, or connects on a deeper level.

 

Of course, commercial pressures can sometimes lead to compromises, but these are not inevitable. Many artists find ways to navigate the art market while maintaining their critical edge and personal authenticity. In short, commercial success and artistic integrity are not mutually exclusive. It’s possible to create impactful, thoughtful art within the realities of the market if the core values of the work are upheld.

Name five pivotal lessons you’ve learned that shaped your artistic journey.

✧ Don’t wait for opportunities – create them!
Opportunities rarely come knocking at your door. I’ve learned to be proactive, to seek out residencies, collaborations, and projects. Taking initiative is essential to grow as an artist.

 

✧ Surround yourself with people you trust.
Artistic work can be vulnerable. Having a supportive community—friends, mentors, peers—who believe in you and offer honest feedback is invaluable.

 

✧ Talent is one thing, but how you finance yourself matters most.
Consistency in art requires resources. Managing finances, applying for grants or scholarships, and finding ways to support your practice sustainably are crucial lessons I’ve had to learn.

 

✧ Be kind and generous always. There is no competition between artists if you change your perspective.
Art thrives on collaboration and solidarity, not rivalry. Generosity opens doors and builds networks that enrich your work and life.

 

✧ Being an artist is not a myth—it’s hard work, mostly about consistency.
Creative inspiration is important, but discipline and perseverance are what shape a real artistic career. Showing up regularly, refining your practice, and pushing through challenges is key.

What are your long-term aspirations as an artist, both personally and professionally?

Personally, I aspire to create art that fosters community, care, and understanding. I want my work to build bridges between people, inviting dialogue and empathy across generations and cultures. Art, for me, is a way to connect individual and collective memories, to heal and rethink inherited histories.

 

Professionally, I aim to continue developing a multidisciplinary practice that challenges established narratives—especially around patriarchy, fascism, and identity. I want to expand my artistic language, working with diverse media and collaborating internationally, especially beyond Eurocentric perspectives.

 

Long term, I hope to contribute meaningfully to social and political discourse through my art. I want to be part of a global community of artists and thinkers who use creativity as a tool for transformation and resistance.Ultimately, my aspiration is to sustain an authentic and critical artistic practice that remains engaged with both personal history and urgent contemporary issues, while cultivating a collaborative and supportive artistic network.

Are there any upcoming projects or dreams that you’re particularly excited about?

I am very excited about my upcoming residency at the ARD Art Institution in Cairo, Egypt, scheduled for September and October 2025. This opportunity represents an important step in broadening my artistic practice beyond European contexts and engaging with a non-Eurocentric perspective. As a former social anthropologist, I am deeply interested in exploring how histories, memories, and identities intersect across different cultures.

 

During the residency, I plan to immerse myself in the local contemporary art scene and collaborate with artists and communities in Cairo. This will not only enrich my understanding of postcolonial narratives but also inspire new experimental approaches in my work. I see this as a chance to question dominant historical narratives and to reflect on shared experiences of trauma, resilience, and cultural transmission in a global context. Beyond the residency, I dream of creating interdisciplinary projects that combine sculpture, video, performance, and archival research to further explore the complex relationship between personal and collective memory. I want to continue questioning patriarchy and authoritarianism while amplifying diverse voices and histories.

 

Ultimately, my hope is to build a practice that is dynamic, critical, and engaged—one that fosters dialogue, challenges power structures, and supports a global community of artists committed to social justice.

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From reconstructed family spaces to politically charged reimaginings of inherited images, Caroline Bergwinkl’s work challenges dominant structures while holding space for empathy, ambiguity, and transformation. With a commitment to artistic inquiry that is as personal as it is political, the practice continues to evolve across media, contexts, and continents—fueled by care, reflection, and the belief in art as a tool for reparation and resistance.