My Rug, My Plate, and Me: An Artist’s Voice in an Academic World

Brighton welcomed me with a crisp sea breeze, a slightly chaotic train timetable, and more creativity per square meter than most capitals I’ve visited. I arrived to speak at the Objects and Memory conference, organized by the brilliant Material History Group at the University of Brighton. And while I came with two suitcases full of trauma, history, and hand luggage-friendly tech, I left with something far softer: a sense of connection.

Let’s start at the beginning.

My presentation, What Remains of My Great-Grandmother’s House, was part of a panel that, to our collective surprise, harmonized beautifully. I shared the story of two objects inherited from my Ukrainian great-grandmother — a Nazi porcelain plate and a Soviet pioneer rug. These items aren’t just things. They’re condensed narratives: of silence, violence, ideology, and the domestic spaces that hold all of that. I explore them through photography, installation, and performative gestures that attempt to stitch memory and material back together.

What made the experience so moving was how the audience responded. After the talk, I received a wave of meaningful questions, observations, and conversations. It felt as if the objects had done their job — they had spoken.

But my talk wasn’t in isolation. Alongside me in the panel was an American-Korean artist whose work centers on preserving her grandmother’s culture through domestic objects, making sure it reaches her children. We were joined by a Brighton-based researcher studying retro British film magazines — their aesthetics, their subtexts, and their place in material memory. None of us had coordinated beforehand, and yet our three stories wove themselves into a collective tapestry of femininity, inheritance, and domestic archives. That magic? You can’t plan it.

This was my third academic talk this year, and I’m already confirmed for two more. Slowly but surely, I feel like I’m building something — a cross-border, interdisciplinary, heart-and-head kind of platform. One where being an artist, a mother, a migrant, and a researcher doesn’t require splitting myself into parts.

Outside the formal sessions, I immersed myself in panels and workshops that were just as transformative.A session on textile practices — embroidery, fibre art, repair — brought home the beauty and resilience in women’s hands and labour. A zine-making workshop reminded me of the joys of simple creation (scissors, glue sticks, and folded paper still have magic in them). And a hands-on workshop on turning humanities-based or archival research into documentary film gave me practical tools for future directions of House of Vera. Ideas began clicking in unexpected ways.

And then… there was Brighton itself. Oh, Brighton. You wonderfully eccentric, seaside dream. Between the conference panels, I strolled through streets full of colour and character — from rainbow-painted townhouses to medieval lanes buzzing with street musicians, vintage shops, and bookstores with cats in the windows. I stumbled into independent art galleries, met local ceramicists and illustrators, had the best flat white of the week at a tiny café hidden in a courtyard, and spoke with a gallery owner about how they combine art shows with social justice events.

There’s something about Brighton — its blend of history and rebellion, architecture and activism — that makes you feel like anything is possible, especially if you're carrying a tote bag and some unresolved ideas.

I’m truly grateful to the University of Brighton for hosting me and to the organizers of Objects and Memory for creating such an open, thoughtful space. As someone whose work often sits between categories — art and research, personal and political, image and object — I felt seen and welcomed. And that, for a migrant artist speaking about trauma and family history, is a rare and precious thing.

If you’re curious, I recorded my lecture. You can watch it on my YouTube channel — it’s in English, and includes all the objects, metaphors, and awkward pauses you’d expect from a heartfelt presentation.

To everyone I met — thank you. To Brighton — thank you for the fresh air, the alleyway art, and the inspiration. I hope to be back soon. Maybe next time with a film.