Discover / Meet the Artist
Featuring
06.10.2025
Alexia Psaradeli works at the intersection of material, memory, and movement, transforming everyday encounters into sculptural reflections on fragility, rhythm, and the body’s dialogue with space. Rooted in the contrasts of Athens—where antiquity meets modernity—the practice unfolds through walking, collecting, and shaping hybrid forms that embody tension and tenderness. Each work becomes an act of balance between control and openness, gesture and stillness, presence and absence. Through this process, art emerges not as an answer, but as a continuous inquiry into coexistence, emotion, and transformation.
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Growing up in the city center of Athens has shaped my practice in a very direct way. Daily life here means constant exposure to contrasts: ancient ruins next to modern apartment blocks, fragments of history scattered around a beautifully chaotic city. That coexistence taught me early on to notice the “in-between,” the spaces where opposites overlap or blur together, and it continues to inform both the themes and the techniques I explore in my work. I’ve always been someone who walks everywhere—whether it’s for work, errands, or simply to wander. That rhythm of walking made me a natural collector of “street treasures”—materials, fragments, and small accidents that often find their way into my practice, coming directly from this habit of moving slowly and being open to what the city might offer me. At the same time, being surrounded by ancient figures, ceramics, and myths has made me very sensitive to form and transformation. I often work with ceramics, fabrics, and industrial materials, but I approach them with what I like to call a kind of "gentle disrespect"—allowing chance and accident to enter the process and shift the outcome. Through this balance of control and openness, I create hybrid “creatures”—abstract forms that embody memory, femininity, and the strange balance between fragility and strength. This play between control and openness is not limited to materials—it extends to the body itself, which I often treat as both tool and subject in my practice. And just as walking—shifting weight from one leg to the other—is the basic line of dance, I use my body within my practice: as a mold, as a puppet, as an experiment, even as a failed dancer. Female figures, from ancient history to contemporary dance, have been a strong influence for me. From Neiko, the “walled-in woman” found in Episkopi of Sikinos, who became the heroine I merged with for the print I presented at the Wom.a festival, to Martha Graham and her powerful body language, I draw from these references. They have given me the sense of opposing forces as the main way of making my sculptures stand. So really, my upbringing in Athens didn’t just influence my practice—it gave me its foundation: the rhythm of walking, the act of collecting, the coexistence of opposites, and the constant reminder that history and contemporary life are never separate but always intertwined.
For a long time, I thought feeling stuck, experiencing self-doubt, or going through periods of stagnation were obstacles to creativity. I used to try so hard to force ideas, desperately searching for inspiration everywhere. But over time, I’ve realized that these moments are often the most productive ones. Now, I approach it differently: I simply embrace the feeling and stay present in my studio. No matter what, I go there every day—even if it’s just to sit and stare at the wall. It might seem passive, but those seemingly “boring” moments often lead to the most unexpected discoveries. Out of restlessness or boredom, I end up trying the most unorthodox things—experimenting with materials, testing unusual gestures, moving like a performer, or doing things that feel completely ridiculous. Keeping a visual diary of those periods has always been part of the process. I have ended up with a self-made book of fabric pages, with a stich/ embroidery of the day, a video performance of unease "choreographies" under my studio sink, or a series of video stills of me failing to give movement to one of my soft sculptures—a personal record of stagnation for self-consumption. There’s a kind of liberation in that: giving myself permission to explore without expectation, letting the happy accidents and surprises guide me. Those periods of uncertainty, self-doubt, or stagnation have become, paradoxically, some of the richest moments in my practice—and the ones that consistently reignite my creativity.
For me, it’s less about whether viewers fully “understand” the intended message and more about whether they feel something—whether positive or negative. What matters is that the work leaves an impression, sparks a thought, or stirs a shift, however small, rather than letting someone walk away untouched. Each of my works seems to develop its own personality: some are more outspoken and direct, while others are quieter, more inward-looking. In that sense, I enjoy the dialogue that happens between the work and the viewer. And I always like when I hear an interpretation that I had never thought of. There is, however, the aspect of the willingness of the viewer to invest their time—because I feel that for ambiguity to truly add value, it requires a certain openness and patience from the person encountering the work. At the same time, I believe that a work doesn’t stay fixed once it leaves my studio. It begins to take on a life of its own, growing and unfolding beyond my first idea. That transformation feels more valuable to me than holding on to a single, rigid meaning.
When I lived in Edinburgh, I experienced severe insomnia for two weeks—a period that felt like an eternity. I couldn’t sleep, rest, or concentrate, so I decided to stitch a small “sleep monster” each day I hadn’t slept, inspired by Dalí’s “Monster of Sleep” painting. That series, which I named “Occupants”, eventually became the characters for my master’s degree show, visually animated through sculptures and videos with a light, humorous touch. Exploring that in-between state of being half-asleep—sleep, or the lack of it, dreams and nightmares—and articulating things on the edge of conscious knowledge carried a significant emotional weight for me. It’s a gray zone that can easily drive you mad if you fully delve into it. What made this project particularly significant, though, was that it was the first time I created a large-scale sculpture. The piece quickly outgrew my comfort zone, the usual scale of handling—it went far beyond the size I was used to manage with my hands. It was placed in a dark room, and its size and form allowed it to lose its boundaries in the absence of light. It was a big challenge, stressful at times, but ultimately an incredibly rewarding experience that helped me evolve as a sculptress.
Yes, definitely. Speaking for myself, and for others I’ve seen, art can be truly therapeutic. Of course, the life of an artist isn’t easy, and there are moments when I feel completely overwhelmed—or even “doomed.” But putting that aside, creating and experiencing art has a real, almost indescribable healing power. It’s hard to put into words, and I think you really need to experience it yourself to understand. So if anyone is questioning it, I’d just say: try it, and see what happens.
One of my most cherished creations is a music box I designed during my third year at university, based on the theme of “Memory.” It featured seven anthropomorphic puppets, each placed on a separate music mechanism that played the same melody. Yet, when all of them were wound up together, the slightly different tunings produced a new composition every time — sometimes harmonious polyphony, other times fragile dissonance, even paraphony. Each performance felt unique, unpredictable — a bit annoying at moments, yet strangely addictive to hear and watch. If I could become one of my creations for a day, I would choose to be one of those puppets. I would like to experience what it feels like to be surrounded by others yet moving in my own orbit — to discover whether that is a state of solitude, liberation, or something in between. How would it feel to be part of a choir? Turning endlessly on my axis as part of a delicate, unpredictable dance feels both poetic and tragic. But only for a day — because while the puppets are condemned to turn forever inside the box, I would have the gift of leaving. That contrast, between permanence and transience, is where the beauty lies. I think it would be very interesting to see what impact it would have on my future art practice if I, the creator, could step inside my own creation.
It’s been a very productive period for me. In July, I presented the first chapter of my body of work "Botanical Relics". Through installations that combined natural and industrial elements, ceramic sculptures, archival photographs, and snapshot-style embroideries with botanical motifs, I explored questions such as: How does urban ecology infiltrate the natural environment and the ecosystem of an island? and can plant cells store valuable information about human and non-human lifeforms? All these elements came together to form a cohesive ensemble, evoking a kind of timeless, imagined garden. So, at the moment, I’m working on the second chapter, which focuses on staging "Contemporary swamps". I really enjoy stepping into the role of a contemporary naturalist—as I use methods of collecting and classifying and gathering botanical fragments during my urban wanderings through the city. Really looking forward to see where it will take me. Another exciting project I’m currently involved in is a collaboration with dancer Theono Ksidia for her upcoming performance at the M.I.R. Festival this November. I’m responsible for the costume design and overall art direction. What makes this collaboration truly special for me is that, for the first time, one of my sculptural pieces is in motion—activated by a living, moving body. I approach the body here as a kinetic sculpture, and that shift has opened up new creative pathways. The practical challenges that came with this process have led to some of the most unexpected and rewarding outcomes. Working with Theono has been a inspiring and playful experience—full of discovery and shared vision.
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The work of Alexia Psaradeli reveals an ongoing negotiation between the physical and the poetic. Whether through ceramic forms, soft sculptures, or collaborative performance, each piece carries traces of process, movement, and vulnerability. What remains constant is the search for connection—the fragile line where material, body, and environment meet. From the streets of Athens to the stage of performance, the practice continues to evolve as a living archive of gestures, encounters, and quiet metamorphoses.