Can you start by giving us an overview of your practice and what led you to create sculptures out of recycled cardboard and paper?

My practice is centred around creating sculptural work from recycled cardboard and paper —  materials that are often seen as disposable but hold an incredible potential for transformation.

I've always been drawn to making things by hand. I used to paint watercolours and make small clay figures, but at one point I wanted to work larger. That's when I started exploring cardboard and paper, which were right there in front of me — accessible, overlooked and full of possibility. The more I worked with them, the more the ideas started to unfold.

These materials are imperfect in a way I find honest and captivating. They come with their own history — creases, textures, stains — I rarely try to cover that up. Instead, I work with the material’s natural character, letting its rawness and limitations guide the process. That sense of limitation, of working within boundaries, is something that has shaped my visual language over time.

Your statement mentions that the concepts of transformation, resilience, and emotional tension profoundly influence your work. In what ways do you explore these phenomena through your artistic practice?

These themes show up in both the material and the subject matter of my work. Cardboard and paper themselves go through a transformation — from discarded, overlooked waste to something more permanent and expressive. That process mirrors a kind of emotional or personal shift that I often try to capture. 

I'm especially drawn to moments of tension — when something is about to shift but hasn't yet. My sculptures often sit in that space: caught between being held back and breaking free, between strength and fragility. The rough textures, the way the forms are bound or held together, all reflect those inner states of pressure, endurance and change. I think transformation doesn’t always look like a big breakthrough — it can also show up as resistance, hesitation or a kind of steady strength. That’s what I try to give shape to.

Discarded materials play a central role in your art. How do you approach working with these materials, and do you see it as a conversation or collaboration?

Working with cardboard and paper often feels like figuring things out together. I don’t try to cover up what the materials are — the creases, the rough edges, the imperfections are where I begin. Sometimes the material doesn’t do what I want — it bends, it tears — and I have to change my approach. It’s a bit of a back-and-forth. So yes, in that way, it does feel like a kind of collaboration, one that’s more about working with the material than forcing it into shape.

Growing up in southern Sweden, surrounded by forests and folklore, clearly influences your work. How does this connection manifest in your sculptures, and do you see your art as a kind of modern storytelling?

The forest and the feeling of growing up close to nature have shaped how I see the world — and how I create. I wasn’t told folktales in the traditional sense, but elements of Swedish folklore — especially the darker, more mysterious creatures like trolls and forest spirits — have always been around in the background. They weren’t central to my upbringing, but I’ve become more drawn to that world over time.

That darker, more psychological layer shows up in my sculptures. Especially in my first collection, My Inner Forest, I explored ideas like imposter syndrome, self-doubt and inner urges. These emotional states often feel like shadowy figures we carry with us, and that’s where the folklore influence starts to echo. It’s not about literal storytelling, but more about tapping into that eerie, unseen atmosphere — the emotional undercurrents beneath the surface.

Please tell us more about the submitted work titled "Held". What is the conceptual foundation behind this piece?

Held explores the pressure to conform, particularly the invisible weight of being defined by others. The sculpture has a nearly featureless surface, which invites projection. Its horns are tightly bound, symbolising suppression and restraint. The piece sits in a moment of tension — right on the edge of change, but held back. 

It's about strength under pressure, the silence we maintain and the complexity of carrying expectations that may not align with who we really are. In that sense, it's both deeply personal and widely relatable, a reflection of what it feels like to hold it all in while trying not to unravel. 

Cardboard and paper are often seen as fragile or disposable materials, yet your work highlights their resilience. How do you balance showcasing both their fragility and strength in your sculptures?

One of the things I love most about working with cardboard and paper is the texture they bring — rough, layered, often uneven. That texture adds contrast and tension. I try not to smooth everything out or aim for a polished surface. Instead, I let those 'imperfect' elements stand out. 

There's strength in that imperfection. The forms might be bold or even imposing, but they still show signs of vulnerability — creases, frayed edges, visible seams. It’s a way of showing both fragility and resilience at the same time, without trying to fix or explain the difference between them.

From the perspective of an artist deeply engaged with materiality and sustainability, what guidance would you offer to emerging artists regarding the adoption of sustainable practices?

Start by looking at what's already around you. Sustainable practices don't have to be expensive or complicated — sometimes it's as simple as shifting your mindset. There's so much material already in the world waiting to be reused. 

Try not to focus on perfection. Working with discarded or found materials comes with unpredictability, but that's also where new ideas and aesthetics can emerge. Sustainability isn't just about reducing waste — it's also about creating in a way that feels mindful, responsive and grounded in the present. 

In the context of your artistic practice, how do you engage with the evolving relationship between human-made materials and the natural world, and in what ways do you challenge traditional notions of materiality to foster sustainable practices that minimize environmental impact?

Even though I paint my sculptures, I never try to hide the fact that they're made of cardboard and paper. In fact, I often highlight those textures rather than disguising them. I like it when people can tell what the sculpture is made from — it makes the transformation feel more grounded and real.

These materials have already been made and are part of our waste stream, but ultimately they come from nature — trees, plants, and organic matter. By working with what already exists, I’m engaging with a cycle rather than adding new resources. I hope this approach encourages viewers to reconsider what materials can hold meaning and beauty in art, beyond the usual or expected.

Art and artists play various roles in the fabric of contemporary society. How do you see artistic practices advancing sustainability and social consciousness?

Art has a unique ability to change how we see the world and start important conversations. By using sustainable materials and highlighting environmental issues, artists can raise awareness and encourage people to rethink their impact. 

Art also creates emotional connections that inspire empathy and action. It models new ways of working — like reuse and mindful creation — showing that sustainability can be part of the creative process, not a limitation. In this way, artists help build social consciousness by blending creativity with responsibility, encouraging reflection and change. 

What message or call to action would you like to share with our readers?

I hope people learn to see the value in what's often overlooked — discarded materials, forgotten moments or hidden parts of ourselves. Sustainability begins with awareness and curiosity. It starts by asking: How can I give new life to what's around me? How can my choices, big or small, show respect for the environment? 

Art reminds us that beauty isn't only in the new or perfect — it's also in the worn and unexpected. Embracing imperfection and transformation can guide us on our creative and sustainable journeys. 

Find more about the artist here.

Cover image:

The Trickster by Caroline Lindqvist.

Images courtesy of Caroline Lindqvist.