The educator, artist, and writer from Belarus/Portugal reflects on how to see the contemporary jewelry scene in a broader context—and why we all need, from time to time, to climb up a ladder so that the “furrows” in the ground, when viewed from above, turn into meaningful shapes.
Karpilova gave this presentation as part of the 2026 “AJF Speaker Series: Jewelry that Makes You Think,” which featured 16 talks over five days. Most of the series took place in the booth AJF shared with Arnoldsche Art Publishers at the trade fair.
To Climb Up a Ladder
Last year, Liesbeth den and Saskia van Es organized a workshop for writers. I wasn’t able to attend in person because of document and legalization issues. I’ve been living in Portugal since 2022.
I’m originally from Belarus. Instead, I proposed participating remotely by writing an essay.
One of the questions discussed during the workshop was:
“Share concerns and hopes, discuss what the field needs for a mature critical writing culture to
emerge.”
Since I couldn’t attend in person, I offered to write an essay on the topic instead. The title was “To
Climb up a Ladder,” and both the title and its core idea became the foundation of my talk today.
I keep asking myself:
How can contemporary jewelry become as recognizable, as widely discussed, and as deeply
integrated into different spheres of life as other art forms?
How can it enter the broader cultural discourse? Otherwise, it looks isolated — even slightly
peculiar. Susan Cummins once called it subculture which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, in fact it
may even be more interesting — but how do we make this subculture more widely known? I
imagine jewelers themselves wouldn’t mind, considering they ultimately need to sell their work to
someone.
A friend of mine once said, after I enthusiastically described the field to him:
“Oh, I get it. You’re like a community of fishermen obsessed with your craft — with your own
strange stars who boast the biggest catch, laughing at inside jokes, spending lots of money on
gear…”
And yes… in some ways, it does look like that.
The second, and actually primary, field in which I work is architectural theory and education. Since
2016 I co-run a project called Architectural Thinking School for Children.
That’s why, in my talk, I chose architecture as a point of comparison. Architecture is everywhere — we encounter it constantly, whether we want to or not. Jewelry, on the other hand, is not.
I run this project together with my partner. When we introduce ourselves at conferences and he says he’s an architect, I see respectful, admiring looks. When it’s my turn and I say I’m an art critic, curator, the looks become more neutral. And when I mention contemporary art jewelry, the looks sometimes shift into something close to pity.
Rosi Braidotti, a major figure in posthumanist theory, speaks about “the human” as a construct of
power and visibility. For me, this idea can easily be translated into architecture.
Architects rarely suffer from inferiority complexes — they position themselves almost as gods,
creators of space. Without them, we couldn’t live the way we do.
Yes, we spend more than 80 percent of our lives inside architecture.
Yes, architecture integrates multiple sciences and arts.
Yes, it is deeply entangled even with politics.
And no piece of jewelry is likely to transform a city’s economy in two years the way Frank Gehry
did with the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao.
But still — where does this public perception come from? Why does contemporary art jewelry
occupy such a marginal position?
At the same time, I see profound structural similarities between architecture and jewelry. Not to
mention that there are jewelers who originally came from architecture — for example, last year’s
Herbert Hofmann Prize winner, Empar Juanes Sanchis. I want contemporary art jewelry to be as
recognisable and valuable as architecture!
But who is responsible for helping jewelry move beyond its own “Petri dish” — a space where life
and processes unfold, yet the dish remains inside the laboratory, hidden from broader view?
Critics?
During the workshop organized by Liesbeth and Saskia, several issues in writing were identified.
In my own work, I try to build bridges — or even dissolve boundaries — between jewelry and other art forms. For example, in 2024 I wrote a piece introducing a term borrowed from cinema:
mockumentary. When reality is reproduced with extraordinary precision, yet remains artificially
constructed — it is not a fact, but a fabricated fact.
I also enjoy translating postulates about reflecting on the place of humans in society into the field of contemporary jewelry.
In doing so, I emphasize that jewelry is equally contextual, expansive, materially engaged, and
culturally influential.
Jewelers themselves?
Perhaps the key lies in jewelers making a conscious effort to create interdisciplinary projects.
One of my favorite examples — and one of my favorite jewelry “stories” — is the project initiated and organized by Caroline Broadhead, with the participation of a group of CSM staff and students working in equal partnership with the Coram Foundation.
The jewelers had to create works responding to the Foundling Museum’s history of abandoned children.
Lin Cheung was so deeply moved by the subject that she decided not to make a piece of jewelry at all. Instead, she focused on a small pin which holds a textile token onto each page of the billets that documented the admission of every child. The pin is witness to a small but poignant intervention performed by the departing mother as she pins a token to her baby’s clothing followed by the Foundling Hospital diligently attaching each textile token onto a billet page as a means of identifying the child with its mother.
So Cheung’s response on this project was not jewelry but tattoo in exact shape and scale of this pin, which she made close to her heart.
In that gesture, jewelry moved beyond objecthood. It became a trace, history, memory, wound.
Curators?
Perhaps curators are responsible for organizing interdisciplinary exhibitions and projects —
contexts in which jewelry moves beyond its purely material frame.
Or perhaps exhibitions are not enough to escape our “fishing community.” What is actually holding us back from moving forward? Perhaps we need to address the internal issues within the field first.
For example, I run a project which is happening right now, where jewelers can come and consult
with “doctors.” They send in their symptoms and complaints in advance, and during one-on-one
sessions we explore possible diagnoses and conceptual treatments. It is both playful and serious — a way of expanding discourse beyond object production. No, I’m not suggesting that we’re going to “cure” anyone, and I don’t want to position anyone above anyone else. I believe that in this case, first aid means conversation and gathering symptoms — dialogue itself can lead to unexpected and meaningful insights.
A few years ago, I wrote an article titled Jewelry Thinking, in which I argued that a single jewelry
piece can serve as an entry point into multiple disciplines.
As an example, I discussed a crown by Mairi Millar that addresses the imposed Catholicism
brought by colonizers to Trinidad and Tobago, drawing a parallel with medicine — which does not
always heal, even when prescribed with authority.
In that same text, I proposed a metaphor: a jewelry exhibition is like a library filled with textbooks
from different disciplines. Through each piece, one can study politics, economics, geography,
mathematics, anthropology.
Sometimes I incorporate lessons on contemporary jewelry in my educational project, Architectural
Thinking School, and my colleagues say that my dream probably would be to introduce jewelry-
making into school curricula. Actually, no, but I’d love to introduce jewelry objects as educational
tools.
Through a single piece, students could learn everything from mathematical calculations (scale,
proportion, material weight) to geography (where materials are mined), to history and trade routes.
Children respond to jewelry with immediate fascination — especially when they learn the prices. At that point, I assure you, mathematics suddenly becomes very interesting.
Galleries?
Or perhaps the responsibility lies with galleries.
Why don’t we see jewelry represented at major international events such as the Venice Biennale,
Manifesta, or documenta?
When jewelry is placed within a broader cultural framework — particularly one where potential
collectors and culturally engaged audiences are already present — it shifts into an entirely different dimension.
Not necessarily higher.
Just different.
Ornamentum gallery, for example, participate in the main program of Design Miami since 2008!
What do we see here? Massive stones…a field of stones in chaos with an endless view.
There is an event — the Venice Architecture Biennale — which appoints a new curator and theme
each edition.
In 2016, its poster featured a middle-aged woman standing on a ladder in the middle of a desert,
gazing into the distance. Many people, unaware of the context, simply smiled or saw it as an
intriguing surrealist image.
In fact, the woman was Maria Reiche, one of the first archaeologists to study the Nazca geoglyphs in Peru. From ground level, these massive 2,000-year-old figures appear as nothing more than scattered stones. Maria could not afford to rent a plane for aerial research, so she used a portable aluminum ladder.
In the non-fiction book The Mystery of the Nasca Lines Tony Morrison, describes the process:
“She walked about 25 kilometers a day in sandals looking for answers to the geoglyphs she found,
sweeping, measuring, analyzing, and mapping nearly a thousand lines that formed those mysterious figures — until Parkinson’s disease weakened her, and she could no longer return to the desert that had already left her blind.”
Reiche began studying the lines in 1930, systematically mapping and cataloging hundreds of lines
and geoglyphs. In 1994, she succeeded in having them officially protected and recognized as a
UNESCO World Heritage Site.
Sometimes, in order to truly understand jewelry, I feel that we all — critics, jewelers, galleries —
must take our own ladder.
We must rise slightly above the physical space of the exhibition and look outward — into the
broader social, political, and cultural landscape.
Only this way can we see the bigger picture and then understand what our sphere means in the
overall context.
