Ksenia Pukk
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Nov 11
- 5 min read
Ksenia Pukk is a textile artist from Saint Petersburg. She specializes in embroidery and sculptural textile techniques, using thread as her main material. Her process often starts with taking fabric apart and rebuilding it by hand. The colors and textures change based on how the threads are grouped; sometimes they are precise, other times they allow for more variation. In the series “Between Two Shores,” she focuses on form and texture, along with the physical act of creating. Each piece develops through repeated actions and the time spent working with the material.
Q: “Between two shores” feels like a turning point. What were you processing while making it?
A: “Between two shores” indeed became a turning point for me in several ways — in terms of technique, style, and meaning. It is the first work where I shifted from exploring external themes, such as cultural heritage, to expressing my inner state and personal reflections. For the past few years, I’ve found myself in a kind of suspended state — stay or leave — because of the unstable political and economic situation in Russia. This inner uncertainty is reflected in the title, “Between two shores.” I reflected in this work a sense of consciousness duality. On one hand, there’s the established way of life, my home, my friends — it feels like the solid shapes of the cliffs. On the other hand, the winding flow between two shores represents constant mental fluctuations, a desire for movement, change, and transformation.
This work also marked the beginning of a new chapter technically. It was the first time I used my own experimental materials and developed a new personal technique. I moved away from working with fabrics through collage and appliqué, which had begun to feel limiting, even though I was always trying to push those boundaries. I wanted to create something fundamentally new.That feeling of the tangled thoughts and complex emotions transformed into the technique of dense tangled threads.
Q: You break fabric down to single threads before rebuilding it. What draws you to that act of undoing?
A: By deconstructing fabric into threads metaphorically, I return to the origins of weaving — to the very beginning — in order to create a new structure using the same material: yarns and threads.
At some point, I started to feel constrained, trapped within the limits of what was already available — the colors, patterns, and textures of existing fabrics. And as the range of materials on the market kept shrinking, I realized I’d become a hostage to it. I wanted to work with the exact shades, subtle color transitions, and complex, voluminous textures I needed. As well, I wanted to move beyond the flat surface. That is how the idea of thread scraps that became the foundation of my technique appeared. I clearly remember the moment when, after cutting out the first textile work, I gathered the leftover threads from the table and couldn’t take my eyes off the complex, accidental combination of color and texture.
That knot sat on my windowsill for half a year. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Later I developed a technique based on thread mixing with elements of embroidery on metal mesh. This approach allows me to achieve a complex variety of shades, textures, and volume forms.
Q: Your work sits somewhere between control and chance. How do you keep that balance alive?
A: Every time I mix the yarns, they come together in a completely new way. One color might fade into the background, another suddenly takes the lead — the pattern shifts every time, even though I’m using the same set of threads. I usually think, oh, that’s interesting! or let’s try one more and see what happens. I can control the starting palette — the colors, the textures — but the final result is always a bit of a surprise, and I actually love that randomness.
In my practice, some of the most valuable discoveries have happened by accident. A flaw, a mistake, leftover materials, or even some technical detail can suddenly turn into something unexpected. The key is to stay attentive, to notice beauty in imperfection, to give it a chance — and then let it live.
Q: You come from interior design. What part of that world still follows you into the studio?
A: When I worked as an interior designer, textiles always played an important role in my projects. I like its tactility and the way fabric can transform the space. Textile and art were always my favorite parts of the design process, and I think this is what eventually led me to shift toward artistic practice and choose textile as my primary medium.
In my studio, I bring a deep sensitivity to texture, spatial composition, and the balance between volume, shape, and surface contrast. I usually have a clear sense of how the work will exist in space — as a result, my practice is highly physical, aesthetic, and material. I pay close attention to form and to how each element interacts with its surroundings.
Q: Nature appears in your practice as both memory and material. How close is it to your process now?
A: I weave my thoughts and memories into my works — sometimes it’s something that happened during the day, sometimes old memories that suddenly resurface. They leave their trace in the piece, and later I can almost look at them from the outside. I wouldn’t say I do it on purpose — it just happens naturally, because my process is very meditative.
I go into a kind of light trance, and the thoughts flow on their own. Right now, I’m continuing to work on my nature-inspired series. This series helps me stay grounded, slow down in my mind.
Q: What kind of space do you imagine when you think about your works together — a room, a landscape, something else?
A: Every time I imagine all my recent works together, I see them in an urban environment — among the concrete walls of Constructivist architecture, the legacy of Soviet modernism.
For me, this architecture symbolizes the cities of the future that came from the past. I’m drawn to its clear, minimalistic aesthetic.
I want to capture a neighborhood of something fundamentally new in architecture that was once represented and a new chapter of my own way in crafting. That neighborhood embodies the idea of man-made and nature-made, harmoniously coexisting and complementing each other. In my recent work I’ve been thinking a lot about the need to slow down, especially in the fast rhythm of city life. For me, nature becomes this grounding force — an anchor that helps restore inner balance amid the constant urban flow.
