Embracing the Act of Remembering.
Marianna Dellekamp
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Marianna Dellekamp
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Marianna Dellekamp is an artist whose work invites us to reflect deeply on memory, identity, and the complex relationship we have with objects and the past. Through a thoughtful and multidisciplinary approach, she transforms everyday materials and spaces into evocative reflections on how memories are formed, preserved, and altered over time. Her practice challenges conventional notions of collecting by emphasizing the emotional and symbolic significance embedded in seemingly ordinary things.
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Dellekamp’s art often blurs the boundaries between the personal and the collective, revealing how individual histories intertwine with broader cultural narratives. She explores the traces time leaves behind—not only in physical objects but also in the fragmented, sometimes elusive ways we remember. By employing techniques that disrupt linear storytelling, her work simulates the associative and often nonlinear nature of human memory.
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In this interview, Marianna shares insights into her creative process, her fascination with the passage of time, and the ways in which memory and materiality intersect in her work. She reflects on the power of collection as both an act of preservation and a poetic gesture, inviting us to reconsider how we relate to the past through the objects we hold dear.
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J.P.: Marianna, can you take us back to the very beginning—when did you first feel that there was an artistic impulse within you? Was there a specific moment or experience early in your life when you realized that art, in some form, would be central to your path?
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M.D.: I grew up in a family where my parents weren’t artists themselves, but they were always surrounded by creative people. My mother used to organise shows and exhibitions — at the time, the term ‘curator’ wasn’t really a formal role. From a young age, I was immersed in an environment filled with painters, sculptors and photographers.
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Early on, I became fascinated by the power of images—how a single image could speak to you and convey so many layers of meaning. I started practicing photography when I was just 15. I was curious about the craft itself: I learned how to work in the darkroom and how to use an analog camera. Someone gave me a printer they no longer needed, and for me, it felt like magic. I would spend hours in the darkroom, completely captivated by the technical process.
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I experimented a lot with my camera. So, when I finished school, I decided to study photography and fashion design. But in the end, I stayed with photography—or perhaps, photography stayed with me. Today, I can say that photography is my main medium as an artist—my backbone, my colonne vertébrale.
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J.P.: After studying photography at the Escuela Activa de Fotografía in Mexico and later at the International Center of Photography in New York, you began developing a multidisciplinary artistic practice early on. At what point in your artistic journey did you begin to feel that photography alone was no longer sufficient to express your ideas—and what prompted you to expand beyond the medium into other forms of artistic language?
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M.D.: As the years went by, I began to experience some tension with photography. I didn’t like feeling confined to a single medium, especially when I was trying to express something more complex than what one image could convey. I realized that a single photograph often wasn’t enough—I needed more.
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That led me to explore artists’ books. I created many of them during that period. Eventually, I produced a book titled “No.4,” which consisted of four chromogenic prints on cotton paper sheets. Through that work, I realized I was no longer speaking only through the image—it had become a concept. The image itself could also carry conceptual weight.
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From that point on, I began to use whatever medium I needed to explore and resolve the questions that arose in my practice. For me, my work is a way of working through questions—each project is a form of resolution.
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I came to a realization that profoundly changed my practice: the medium is the message. That understanding gave me a deep sense of freedom—suddenly, I felt at liberty to explore and use any form that served my ideas. I was already working with artist books at the time, but I became increasingly intrigued by bookshelves—not just as physical objects, but by what they represent. I started thinking beyond the shelf itself and began to question the meaning of the library. Who is behind it? Is it an artist, a collector, an academic? That curiosity led me to explore the personalities behind libraries and how their collections reflect their identities.
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In that process, I started analyzing these characters—how they structure knowledge, what they choose to display, what they hide. It became almost like meddling with their psychological or conceptual positioning. As an artist, everything I create stems from my own story, my personal background—my valise, so to speak. All of that is present in my books, in the choices I make. As an artist, I’m not only visual—I read a lot. I also cook, I have children, and these aspects of life are part of my practice too. You can see how it all intertwines. It’s not just intellectual information that shapes who you are or how you think and structure your ideas—it’s everything else as well. That’s what guides me through each project, including this ongoing exploration of the library as both a container of knowledge and a portrait of its keeper.
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J.P.: Is this line of inquiry—exploring the personalities behind libraries and the meaning of collected knowledge—what eventually led to the creation of your project La biblioteca de la tierra?
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M.D.: The concept of collecting memories and related reflections eventually inspired the project La biblioteca de la tierra, although this came later in the process. Initially, the work was developed under the title Collector. A collection can be understood as a group of similar items brought together through personal taste, curiosity, or a spirit of exploration. For this piece, the bookshelf belonging to an art collector was transformed. The books were wrapped in plain white paper to hide their titles and distinguishing features, turning the bookshelf and its contents into an abstract, formal object. Symbolically, the bookshelf stands for the collector’s power and authority to amass their curiosities. During this transformation, certain images from the books were selected and photocopied.
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After one year, the paper wrapping was removed, leading to the creation of two memory books representing the collector’s collection. The first book acts as a kind of “memory” for the collector, composed of fragmented images of the books from the shelf. This volume’s creation was inspired by William Burroughs’ “cut-up” technique, where images from the photocopies were cut and randomly rearranged to produce new visual compositions that mimic the way memory works.
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The second book was made using the paper that had covered the books for the entire year. Over time, dust and sunlight left traces and marks on the paper, capturing the passage of time and symbolizing the memory of the installation itself. Eventually, the collector and their family relocated, leaving the bookshelf behind. With their permission, I photographed this “memory” of the books on the shelf, marking the beginning of a new layer of memory being formed.
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So at some point, I began thinking more deeply about libraries—specifically those that already exist. Typically, libraries aren’t tailor-made; you inherit them, or they grow organically. For example, a museum might have a library, and then smaller collections are added over time. You can try to give it some structure, but in the end, you’re always working with something that wasn’t fully planned. That led me to ask: what would happen if I had the opportunity to create a tailer-made library—a library designed with intention? What would that look like? That’s how the idea for the Library of the Earth / La biblioteca de la tierra was born.
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J.P.: Library of the Earth strikes me as one of the most powerful and defining works in your artistic career. It carries such deep meaning and poetic resonance. How you understand its meaning?
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M.D.: The title La Biblioteca de la Tierra carries much more meaning in Spanish because it’s also a play on words. In Spanish, ‘La tierra’ can mean earth and dirt, land, soil, or even homeland. For us, ‘tierra’ represents not just dirt, but something deeply personal—it’s where we were born, it’s tied to our roots, to religion. It’s also our emotions—they come from my ‘tierra’. It holds a very intimate and symbolic value. That’s why I felt it was a powerful and meaningful way to enter into the subject of memory, place, and identity.
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J.P.: Marianna, in Library of the Earth, as in much of your broader practice, participatory processes and the relationship between objects, memory, and identity play a central role. This library includes contributions from over 300 individuals—many of whom you never met personally. How does this sense of collective authorship influence the emotional and narrative dimension of the work?
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M.D.: At that time, I was reading the philosopher David Abram. One of the ideas that really stayed with me was his discussion of Merleau-Ponty and the concept of perception—how our sense of being in the world is deeply connected to our bodily awareness and surroundings. For example, I know I’m here not just because I see you looking at me, but because I can feel someone walking around the room, and I’m aware of the port in front of me. That sensory awareness anchors me in the space.
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It struck me that this kind of embodied presence is something we’re really lacking in today’s world. Abram also talks about collectivity, and how real change or action requires interconnectedness. He uses the metaphor of an analog clock, where every gear and mechanism must align and move together for time to function. They have to be precise, they have to collaborate—otherwise, the clock doesn’t work.
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Those two ideas—the importance of embodied presence and the necessity of collective effort—were central to my thinking. I realized that Library of the Earth would only be meaningful if it was created through collaboration. A library doesn’t exist without its authors. It wouldn’t have made sense to build a library made only by me. Being the sole author didn’t interest me; in fact, it would have been quite boring after a while.
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I wasn’t interested in what I had to say; I was interested in what other people had to say about tierra. So, quite naively, I sent out emails through the web. I had collected around three thousand five hundred email addresses over the years—mostly from the international art world and people I knew. This was back in 2008, when concerns about spam were less intense, so it felt politically acceptable at the time.
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I sent a very brief message explaining that I was working on a project called the Earth Library and shared what interested me about it—how the soil from different places could carry meaning. I invited people to participate by sending in soil samples.
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The responses were incredibly diverse. Some people sent their tierra with political significance, others sent samples connected to their religious origins, and everyone contributed something unique. The variety of submissions gave the project its rich and complex content. By 2010, I already had about a hundred books. The exhibitions of this project have continued to grow and evolve year after year. In the very first exhibitions of this project, I was interested in creating a working table to show that it was a work in progress. At the Museum of Modern Art in Mexico, this approach allowed me to present a small-scale show with a social aspect, letting people know they could be part of it. It also helped me find more collaborators. This was an important element because every time I showed the project, it grew exponentially.
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In 2012, I was invited to participate in the Book Fair for youngsters, which is exclusively for books aimed at people 18 and under. This invitation was very important to me because one of the most exciting aspects of this project is the involvement of kids. I have received many collaborations from young people who discover the project, get inspired, and then contribute their own work. I tend to think of it as a democratic and accessible form of art—something everyone can relate to. In a way, there’s always something within it that feels personal and relatable to each individual.
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At the beginning, I thought mainly about tierra / dirt. I hadn’t considered bottles with dirt, trash or documents, but then people started sending me what they thought represented their own tierra. So, I decided to take on the role of a publisher—I didn’t create the content myself, but I made arrangements to present it in a better way. And this project is still growing; it hasn’t ended yet.
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La bibioteca de la tierra. Museo Universitario Arte Contemporáneo. Mexico
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J.P.: I’d love to talk more about collaboration and its role in your work. Your broader practice often involves participatory processes and explores how identity is shaped through objects and relationships. For example, in some of your later projects, you create replicas of people’s meaningful objects, which you then break and restore using the Kintsugi method—highlighting the beauty of repair and the memory of fragility. Could you tell me more about the role collaboration has played throughout your artistic journey and why it’s important to you?
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M.D.: Now we can talk about the Porcelana project. Porcelana was created as a result of an invitation from inSite/Casa Gallina to develop a project with one of the communities in the Santa María la Ribera neighborhood of Mexico City. INSITE is an initiative committed to the production of artworks in the public sphere through collaborations among artists, cultural agents, institutions, and communities. However, for this project, they shifted their attention to Mexico City—specifically to a very traditional neighborhood that dates back to the early 20th century. Many of its residents have lived there their entire lives; it’s a close-knit and long-established community.
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Casa Gallina wanted to carry out socially engaged work in the neighborhood—specifically, projects where artists would collaborate directly with the local community, possibly including workshops for children and other activities. I was invited to develop a project with the community and was given the freedom to decide how I wanted to approach it, using any aspect of the neighborhood that interested me.
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I was very curious about what happens when you gather a group of people around a simple, shared activity—like knitting. I’ve noticed that when people sit around a table, quietly working with their hands, they start to talk. And once a space feels safe and informal, intimate conversations tend to emerge naturally. That’s what I was hoping for—to see if that kind of environment could form.
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So I began spending time with them. I put up signs around the neighborhood inviting women to join. In the end, around 17 or 18 women responded. The group eventually stabilized at 13 participants. There were women of all ages—the youngest was 14, and the oldest was 83. Sadly, the eldest passed away during the process. We worked together for nearly two years. Over that time, we shared many personal stories and experiences. It became a space not just for craft, but for connection.
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Porcelana. In process
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M.D.: To encourage them to open up about their lives, I asked each woman to bring an object that they considered meaningful—something that had belonged to someone else but that they had kept for a long time. I was especially interested in why they hadn’t been able to let go of it. Why had this object remained in their lives for so many years, even if it no longer served a practical purpose or was simply taking up space?
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These objects served as catalysts for conversation. They weren’t the focus in themselves, but rather a way to spark memory, reflection, and storytelling. Each week, only one person would bring an object, we met regularly every Wednesday. Our meetings were marked on the calendar, and we always knew in advance whose turn it was to share. It created a sense of rhythm, anticipation, and ritual.
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I began photographing the objects, and we gradually started creating something like an “inner museum” for them. The photographs—originally just photocopies—were enlarged to a large scale and displayed on the walls. In this way, their objects became part of something bigger; they were no longer just personal belongings, but part of a collective, shared space. Whoever had their object on the table that week became the center of the conversation. The discussion revolved entirely around her—her memories, her stories, her emotions. That was the dynamic we followed for over a year and a half. Eventually, I decided to create one-to-one replicas of those objects in porcelain. At first, I considered using other materials like clay or ceramic, but I was particularly drawn to porcelain. There’s something unique about it—while it appears delicate on the surface, it’s actually a very strong, almost unforgiving material to work with. That contrast really spoke to me.
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Porcelain became the perfect metaphor for the women in the group. Just like the material, they embodied softness and vulnerability, but also incredible strength and resilience. Whether they were 14 or 83, each of them had experienced moments of falling and standing back up again—many times. And that’s what I wanted to reflect through the work.
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J.P.: Can you tell me more about how the porcelain replicas and the video came together in the Porcelana project? How did the themes of womanhood and resilience shape this part of your work?
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M.D.: After we created the porcelain replicas, we also made a video where the women are shown knitting. The voices you hear in the video tell a collective story. It’s not just one narrative but reflects the many roles and identities within womanhood. You start as a daughter, then become a sister, a mother, a grandmother—and sometimes a mother again to your grandchildren. There’s a continuous thread of care, always looking out for someone else. This theme came up repeatedly in our conversations and felt like a shared experience among all of us. The ongoing act of caregiving and the changing roles throughout life were central to explore.
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In the video, our voices blend together as if speaking as one character—many voices merging into a single narrative.
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At the end of the project, as a way of saying goodbye and closing the experience, I invited the women to break their porcelain replicas. We all gathered to watch each woman break her object, then restored the pieces using the Kintsugi technique with the help of a professional artisan. This act of breaking and repairing symbolized both fragility and resilience, highlighting the beauty found in restoration and embracing imperfection.
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J.P.: In your Porcelana project, you chose not to complete the traditional Kintsugi repair with gold, instead focusing on the raw red lacquer stage. Why?
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M.D.: I didn’t want to go through the whole Kintsugi process because I didn’t want to romanticize the Porcelana project with the gold. I wasn’t interested in that decorative or flattering aspect. What really drew me in was what happens before the gold is applied—the red lacquer. It’s raw, almost like a scar, like blood, like skin. That stage felt much more powerful to me. It speaks to the real process of mending, the vulnerability, the wound. I was more interested in that space—the one that’s not yet polished, not yet healed with gold—because that’s where our uniqueness lies. We’re all a bunch of scars — and that’s what makes us unique. It’s what makes us different, beautiful, and human.
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J.P.: You’ve previously worked with books as vessels of meaning. What led you to shift your focus from books to personal objects, and what do you feel they reveal that texts might not?
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M.D.: Books were containers of meaning—not just of literature, but of many other kinds of content. Over time, I shifted my perspective. I began to realize that objects, too, can be powerful containers of information. That’s something I hadn’t deeply considered before. Gradually, my focus moved from books to objects—objects that can reveal so much about the person who owns them. Why do they keep them? What stories do they hold? That’s what Porcelana is about.
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Porcelana. Museo Amparo. Mexico
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J.P.: Your work often weaves together objects, places, and personal narratives. Would you say that memory is the central thread running through your entire artistic practice?
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M.D.: Yes, memory has been at the core of my work from the very beginning. One of my earliest pieces is an artist’s book that narrates the relationship between my grandfather and my dad—how they were blooming very close together, how deeply they disliked each other, and yet how much they resembled one another. It’s almost as if they were mirrors, and that tension of seeing yourself reflected in someone else created a kind of emotional friction. That book was really the starting point for me. Whenever I think about memory in my practice, I go back to that piece. It was the first time I explored how personal history and emotion are stored and transmitted—not just through stories, but through the way we remember and the way we relate to others across time.
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J.P.: How does your creative process unfold? How does one project lead into the next—do they grow out of each other organically, or do you approach each one as a distinct chapter?
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M.D.: I think it’s really interesting how each project tends to grow organically from the previous one—almost like each work plants a seed that eventually blooms into the next. There’s always something left unresolved or a small idea that didn’t fully unfold, and that becomes the starting point for what comes after. So, even if the themes or mediums shift, there’s often a quiet continuity that connects them all.
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J.P.: Let’s talk about your recent work. Just a few weeks ago, you presented your pieces in Portugal as part of a group exhibition at the new art space Circular, located in Melides. Can you tell me more about the artworks you showed there and how they connect to your broader practice?
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M.D.: I think, for the project in Melides, I’m giving myself permission to work with myself for the first time. In a way, all artistic work is autobiographical—it reflects where you were at a certain moment in life. But now, at this point in my life, I’m consciously allowing myself to be present in the work. Not physically—I’m not appearing in photographs or portraits—but I’m there through memory, through gesture, through process. I’ve been working more with my hands lately, so in that sense, it is more physical.
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I’ve decided to call this new series Domestic Settings, because it explores how the domestic space evolves over time—how it carries personal and emotional weight, and how it holds memory. I’ve been working with objects I’ve found among my family’s belongings—things that are broken, incomplete, or no longer serve their original purpose. A cup without its saucer, a lamp without a bulb, things that have somehow become isolated. I’m drawn to them because, like memory, they are fragmented, imperfect, and still deeply meaningful.
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I wanted to step away from the camera for a while and do something more with my hands. I wanted to express myself physically—through touch and material—so I chose two main materials to work with. One of them was cement. I used it to create small sculptural gestures, almost as if giving the objects I found a new part—something they were missing. I was really interested in how cement can encapsulate something and, in doing so, give it a new reason to exist. It’s a way of allowing these objects to continue living, but in a different form.
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The objects I’ve been working with often lack a functional purpose. They’re fragments—maybe a lid without its pot, or a plate that no longer belongs to a set. But when I intervene with cement, I’m not fixing them in a traditional sense. I’m helping them find a new way to hold themselves together. There’s something strong and permanent about the cement, but it’s also supporting these fragile, forgotten things.
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In a way, I see this work as an evolution of Porcelana. There’s still that tension between fragility and resilience. And one of the things I’m most interested in with this project is the balance, the equilibrium, that these objects find. Many of them look like they’re barely holding together—as if they could fall apart at any moment—but that tension is what gives them life. Some pieces don’t even have a clear connection holding them together, and yet, they manage to exist in this delicate balance.
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Another material I became very interested in was wax. It all started when I came across an image of someone using wax to create a metal sculpture—the red color of the wax completely blew my mind. It was so visceral, so intense. At the same time, I was thinking about how cement spills and fixes itself so quickly, almost aggressively. I started searching for materials that could feel closer to the body—materials that held not just weight, but temperature, texture, and even a kind of emotional resonance.
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That’s how I began working with wax—this deep, red wax. It felt incredibly powerful to me. In many ways, it looked like flesh, like skin. It felt like I was inserting myself into the work—literally throwing my presence, my body, into these objects. I started casting common kitchenware in wax, and it became this strange, beautiful metaphor: like cooking with the body, or cooking from the body. It was as if the objects became remains—intimate traces of something lived, something felt.
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The title I chose for this series is Remains of the Day. It doesn’t relate directly to the book of Kazuo Ishiguro, but I found the phrase resonated deeply with the emotional undercurrent of the work—what’s left behind, what lingers, what stays with us.
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Domestic Settings. Detail. 2025
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J.P.: To wrap up, how do you think the context of a museum changes the way we perceive everyday objects—especially those filled with personal memory and meaning?
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M.D.: I think placing these kinds of everyday, personal objects within a museum setting creates a powerful shift in perception. Museums usually validate objects through history, rarity, or monetary value. But when you introduce objects that carry emotional weight or personal memory, you’re expanding what is considered worthy of preservation.
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My work explores that tension. It’s not just about the object itself—it’s about what we, as individuals, project onto it. We turn ordinary things into signifiers of our lives, our relationships, our stories. A cracked ashtray, a broken plate, a lonely lid—all of these carry memory because we’ve assigned meaning to them. They become extensions of ourselves.
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So when you place those objects alongside “validated” ones, you create a dialogue. You challenge the viewer to rethink value—not just in terms of material or history, but through emotion, memory, and human connection. I think that’s where the real transformation happens.
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J.P.: Thank you for your shared thoughts and insights.
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Installation process of Marianna Dellekamp’s work “The Meaning of the Inhabited”. Here, the artist in action with Oscar Necoechea.
