Jakub: From the Prague perspective, Berlin was always this capital of dark autumn nostalgia and post-rave depression. There is definitely a romanticisation. It was the nightlife we wanted to have in Prague, but maybe we were just afraid to go that deep into the darkness full-time.

J: This whole year was so overwhelming that it’s honestly difficult for me to leave room for any emotions. I was travelling a lot, I was absorbed by socialisation, by the stress connected with the Venice project. All the feelings and emotions I could have towards Berlin are now completely wasted in that cloud of the exhausted myth of ’26.

J: Visual art is not rock music, you don’t get unfiltered feedback from an audience. Nobody’s clapping their hands every day for you. There’s an opening, and that’s it. Some best friends are going to give you their real opinion, and some wider audience is going to give you something you want to hear. But, there is one thing: Since the opening I’ve been constantly receiving messages from people I never met, over social media, giving me feedback on the work in Venice. Mostly, they’re really nice messages about how they relate to the topic and how they relate to the work itself. This is, of course, really encouraging and super supportive. What else has changed? I have a gallery now (Kodl Contemporary), and I can really feel the support of a whole team of people behind me. It’s a huge relief.

J: Since the beginning we knew it was going to be difficult due to the political situation in the Czech Republic and in Slovakia. The Slovak National Gallery and the Slovak institutions were already deconstructed by the far right. We expected the same thing to happen in the Czech Republic — which is happening right now. We understood that if we entered the competition, we would have to face a lot of forces against us. Which also happened.

J: During this whole year we experienced different tensions and threats — just so that we wouldn’t be as critical at the opening, and wouldn’t support any protest during the Biennale. And we also faced censorship pressure during the preparation of the catalogue.

J: We helped Pussy Riot with their protest, because we didn’t agree with the presence of the Russian pavilion. We were seeking a way to do something, and the most meaningful thing was to help with infrastructure, to help Pussy Riot bring technical equipment and their people to the Giardini. We felt like spies from a seventies espionage movie. Plus we decided to close the pavilion in support of Palestine, against the Israeli pavilion. Which was also considered an unpopular decision, given that the Czech perspective on the discussion is super pro-Israeli, and it’s really difficult to be critical at all on this topic.

J: We did it as a team. It was a shared presentation of Czechs and Slovaks. It was the hundred year anniversary of the pavilion. And that was actually the first time after 1989 that Czechs and Slovaks collaborated on a show with a unified concept that was brought together by Alex Selmeci and Tomáš Kocka Jusko, and the curator Peter Sit and Me. We wanted to talk about what happens to imagination when it falls into the hands of soft power. In fact, the whole project is about national representation in times of political darkness.

The main character of the pavilion is the Mole, referring both to the famous Czech animated figure and to Franz Kafka. It is also about silence: at one point, the instruments through which the Mole communicates fall silent. The question, then, is whether silence can become a gesture of protest, or whether it ultimately represents a failure.

J: I think it perfectly illustrates what we are experiencing in everyday life, in the current global political situation, from the perspective of Central Europe. All of these elements which trigger you in everyday political reality were so physically present in one place, in the Giardini, in one moment. It felt like a movie scene. All of that allegorical power of the Biennale, representing global issues while simultaneously bringing in local perspectives, everything was present at once. I don’t even know if it could be more illustrative than this. Of course there was a lot of drama. The drama took a lot of attention away from the art itself, and from the artists. But for me it was completely understandable why and how it’s happening. I didn’t select this situation. I would rather live in a world that is easygoing and everyone is chill, sure. But this is not where we are. We’re in the middle of madness. So I don’t think it could have happened in a different way. Of course it’s not comfortable, but it’s more and more real.

J: It’s purely a political allegory and satire, which, I don’t know how that even happened, but it’s based on the world of vegetables. It started as a one-day improvisation: I had twenty euros as my budget and decided to produce the show in one day, bought the celery root, and invited the Czech philosopher Kamil Nábělek, who gave a memorable lecture on the ontology of the celery root. That’s how we introduced the celeriac into the new upcoming story.

J: We were exploring what a celeriac can be, and what the problems of the celeriac are. The biggest problem is a class issue between celeriacs and avocados. Avocados are established, highlife, expensive, fancy, hipster, and with their own Avocado toast. And celeriacs are below, always invisible, doing the hard work in the broths and creams taking care of the flavor, even though nobody sees them as flavorful. So there was a class tension. This notion completely disappeared from a public Czech discussion after 1989. The rise of the populist far-right agenda is also founded on this invisible presumption we have in society, because we cannot discuss class without being targeted as a communist.

J: Since the beginning I felt that the project would be like therapy through alter egos. Issues from my personal life, plus something I need to experience in this shared political universe. In “Shame to Pride” I took the role of the villain Avocado, because I didn’t want to compromise any of my friends. Haha. Yes, I do work with friends – non-actors.  They are mostly people I know from real life, with special rhetorical skills, or they are just incredibly funny. With this particular film, though, the trickiest part was that I was performing in it while directing it at the same time. When you have a crew and other performers on set, it’s incredibly challenging to bring everything together. I’ll probably come back to it at some point, once I start missing the adrenaline again.

J: He started as a meta commentator, became a character, and then he became a character of a meta commentator. But he also became my partner in crime for a while. We were travelling from one biennale to another. In pre-pandemic times, in 2018, I had around twelve shows a year, travelling to Athens, to New York and other places together with Kamil and a backpack full of celeriacs. Kamil was performing at the openings and during the shows. In many shows he was even present during opening hours. But he had no costume, he had no name on his chest, so nobody could recognise him as the official performer. There were no announced hours. But, he was also something like my philosophical coach, helping me all the time to take distance from the story and myself.

J: I remember one thing from my childhood. I went to school in a small town, so everything was more or less conservative. Then I found a CD of a Czech singer who is quite specific, quite absurd, quite respected and disrespected as well. His name is Daniel Nekonečný — Daniel Neverending. He’s somewhat of an eccentric figure from nineties pop culture in the Czech Republic. His music was full of South American appropriations. It was fantastic and horrible at the same time. But when you played his music, it was a reimagination of what it could be to live in Rio de Janeiro — for Central Europeans. He had super colourful costumes, feathers, using glitter, colourful nails and necklaces. He was always shining, and that was his personal agenda: to shine. In the Central European context I always felt that the strategy of deciding to shine also covers some kind of deeper frustration or depression. You’re living in a world which is black and white, greyish. Nothing shines. So to pretend that you want to shine is a kind of self-declaration which is super strong. But you also want to overtake your own background, your own conditions and live in some kind of imaginary world. When you live in darkness your dreams will likely not be black and white. So for me, colours and vivid shininess represent the strategy of how you want to beat the depression. And it’s really difficult for me to read the works of other artists who use a lot of colour. When I see a colorful painting, I definitely read it as: okay, this person is really depressed.

J: When I brought his CD to school, they immediately called my parents to ask if I’m gay. It was absurd. Since then I was like: okay, maybe I’m not gay, but I love colours, I love nails, I love glitter. Maybe a hetero person doesn’t have to follow this whole hetero construction. Maybe you can wear a pink shirt even in a small town. For me it was a symbol of courage and self-realization.

J: I don’t have an answer. But what I see is that we are constantly adapting to all of these new tools and structures. We’ve been fighting the overwhelm of information for the last ten, fifteen years. Now Instagram, all the social medias, are facing trials where people frame them as dangerous for our health as cigarettes. Maybe, if this concept wins, all of these addictive algorithms will be regulated a bit more like smoking in a public space. The same for AI. I hope we will find a way to regulate all of these things. And if we don’t find a way to regulate them on a global scale, maybe there’s still the option to turn off your phone for a week, completely by your own will.

Tadashi Kawamata: Nature, for me, is a continuous state of flux, a process of growth, decay, and renewal. It is not something fixed, but an ever-evolving entity that profoundly influences our existence. I converse with nature through my installations by highlighting subtle shifts in light, the movement of wind, and the presence of other living creatures. It’s about recognizing the interconnectedness of all things and our place within that delicate balance. My interventions are not intended to dominate or disrupt a space, but rather to engage in a dialogue with it, offering a new perspective and subtly shifting how one perceives their surroundings. By creating structures that blend with the environment, or that are built from natural and often reused materials, I emphasize that nature persists and reclaims spaces, even in man-made settings.

TK: Nature plays a central and fundamental role in my art. My work, with its focus on ephemeral structures and natural materials, inherently speaks to the impermanence that pervades both the natural world and human experience. My installations are designed to evolve and transform with time and the elements, reflecting the vulnerability of ecosystems and reminding us that nothing is fixed in nature. This continuous transformation, the subtle integration with the environment, and the dialogue it creates between human activity and nature are all paramount to my artistic philosophy. I aim to re-connect visitors to nature, inviting them to observe, reflect, and recognize the interconnectedness of all things, without imposing a permanent, unyielding presence.

TK: My experience working with Maison Ruinart was profound. The collaboration presented a unique opportunity to engage directly with a very specific, cultivated natural environment – the Champagne region. Ruinart’s deep dependence on the terroir, the vines, and the climate, and their commitment to sustainability, resonated deeply with my artistic approach. 

My first encounter with the Ruinart vineyards was particularly evocative; it was a very foggy and quiet day, with only the sounds of birds passing, and I felt a very natural connection, smelling the air and feeling the wind. This impression of the field of vines, which eventually becomes champagne, was profound. It underscored for me the idea that champagne is synonymous with lightness, patience, and precision – a long, invisible process that resonates deeply with the ephemeral nature I explore in my own work. 

My installations there, like the “Tree Hut,” “Nest,” and “Observatory,” were designed to explore how a centuries-old institution must adapt and innovate in the face of ecological shifts, highlighting the intricate dialogue between human activity and natural cycles.

TK: I am drawn to wood because it is a living material. It retains the memory of its different uses – nails, blows, and grooves. Each plank tells a unique story. Wood is like skin: it breathes, changes color, and transforms. Over time, it will age and transform, becoming grey and cracking, and moss may start to grow. This process of aging is an integral phase in the life of the artwork. This continuous transformation, this inherent quality of life, and its connection to natural processes of growth and decay, are what I deeply appreciate about working with wood.

TK: Working with wood allows for a certain simplicity and artisanal dimension. It is a material that anyone can cut or assemble, which makes it accessible for creating my structures. The ease comes from its natural adaptability and its inherent narrative; it carries its own history and transforms organically, which aligns with my artistic philosophy of impermanence. The challenge, if one can call it that, is less about the material itself and more about ensuring that the ephemeral nature of my installations is understood. I don’t seek to achieve static perfection, but rather to create works that will age, evolve, and ultimately transform with time and the elements. This means accepting and embracing its natural processes, rather than forcing it into a fixed state.

TK: Beyond wood, I am intrigued by materials and elements that speak to similar themes of temporality, transformation, and a connection to the environment. I often use simple, reused materials in my work, as they inherently carry a history and reflect cycles of usage and decay. The broader elements of a landscape – light, wind, sounds, textures – and how they interact with my structures are also crucial. I am constantly observing how nature persists and reclaims spaces, even in man-made settings, and how these elements can collectively form a powerful statement about our relationship with the environment.

TK: When I consider the pace and expectations, particularly in artistic contexts, I find that Paris, while a vibrant cultural center, offers a different dynamic than what I experienced in New York. My installations are not about perpetual novelty but rather about creating a dialogue with existing spaces and natural processes. In Paris, as in other European cities, there is often a deep appreciation for the historical context and the subtle interactions of art within its surroundings. 

This allows for a focus on the transformative journey of the artwork and the contemplation it evokes, rather than a constant demand for the next “new thing.” My work emphasizes the ephemeral, the ongoing conversation with a place, and this resonates well within a European context where history and continuity are often valued alongside innovation.

TK: My artistic journey has always involved a process of discovery and self-expression that extends beyond any single geographical location. Leaving Tokyo was part of a larger exploration to engage with diverse environments and architectural philosophies, seeking new contexts where my artistic vision could evolve. While there is a Japanese aesthetic of harmony with nature that my work often aligns with, my aim is to bridge perceived divides between architectural traditions and highlight the porosity between art and landscape, wherever I am. 

Moving allowed me to engage with various urban and natural settings, fostering new dialogues and expanding the reach of my artistic conversation about nature, time, and human interaction.

TK: It is difficult to point to a single work as the “proudest.” My artistic philosophy is fundamentally rooted in the ephemeral nature of installations. My works are in-situ installations designed to exist for a specific period, with their disappearance or transformation being an integral part of their creation. 

Therefore, my emotional connection is not to a static object, but to the ongoing process itself. Each project, in its dialogue with the specific site and context, is a part of a larger, continuous evolution of my exploration into the vulnerability of ecosystems and our relationship with time. What I value most is the ability of these works to provoke thought, to shift perspective, and to create a connection with the environment.

TK: No, it is not getting hard to think of “new things” because my artistic process is not primarily about seeking novelty for its own sake. I like to work, I always need to think of another project, another idea. I also draw sketches, a lot of sketches and I get bored if I don’t work on new installations. 

When inspiration feels distant, I often return to the fundamental act of drawing. For me, drawing is like breathing; I do it every day, often without any specific objective. Some drawings serve as studies, others are simply traces of a moment, and sometimes, they evolve into artworks themselves. More than anything, these drawings are traces of my thoughts, a way to connect with my inner landscape and allow new ideas to emerge naturally.

TK: Beyond the art itself, my greatest achievement, I believe, lies in the connections and collaborations that art has opened up for me. Art has allowed me to connect with diverse individuals, explore places, cities, and countries I wouldn’t otherwise encounter. It has enabled me to engage in meaningful dialogues about our environment and societal values, fostering a deeper understanding and respect for the Earth. This ability to facilitate connection, to invite contemplation, and to subtly shift perceptions through interaction with my installations, particularly regarding our relationship with nature, is perhaps my most significant achievement beyond the physical artworks themselves.

TK: I am always excited by the potential for new dialogues between human activity and nature, and the continuous opportunity to engage with different landscapes and communities. Right now, I am very excited by the installations of my artworks in Reims for Ruinart, it is quite something to see my work on this incredible environment. And of course, I’m excited when it comes to a glass of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs champagne!