On a winter day in an eastern Polish village, three-year-old Izabela Tarasewicz built a fire for her friends in the family barn. It burnt the entire shelter to the ground, melting her father’s motorcycle collection and scorching all of the food supplies for the season.
Everyday as a child, Iza would observe her parents and grandparents build something from nothing and share it with their neighbours. It was deep communism politically, but also because of necessity.
When Iza’s father died in her arms, she quit studying physiotherapy, and started thinking about abstraction.
When Iza cut the umbilical cord of her niece, she closed a loop.
After studying sculpture for a number of years, Iza’s teacher had a simple suggestion: use materials and processes that you know. She thought of her grandmother.
At the opening of an early exhibition, Iza climbed onto her large sculpture to demonstrate how stable she had built it. She fell on her ass, permanently injuring her lower vertebrae. And then she woke up.
While at an artist residency in Georgia, the external bathroom building caught on fire. Unable to contain the flames, Iza’s host and friends took out their fishing poles and they all went fishing. When Iza visited San Francisco, a colleague gave her two options: meet with a curator who would show her fine dining, or meet up with another who would bring her to tranny bars and nightclubs. She chose the latter, and then married him.
At an Umbanda session in Brazil, an Orixa instructed Iza to eat her mom. She did