Trickster Magazine

For Katrīna Neiburga, art is subordinate to a yearning for emotion, authenticity and the preservation of living memory. It is poetry that operates at the level of perception and feeling: pared to the bone, saturated with truth, searing and beautiful. One of Neiburga`s chief means of expression is her deeply personal iconography, which is evident in her video installations, both in exhibitions and as theatre set designs. She is interested in sociology, investigating preconceptions about the nature of things.

I studied at the Latvian Art Academy and later spent a year on exchange at the Royal Institute of Art in Stockholm. Although I earned both my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Latvia, it was that one year in Sweden that left the deepest mark on me. It completely shifted my attitude and approach to making art.
I went to Sweden specifically to study video: an artistic medium which 20+ years ago was still quite rare in Latvia. There wasn’t a dedicated department for it at the time; maybe something loosely connected to visual communication, but it was poorly equipped and underdeveloped. Still, I had this instinctive pull toward video. I’m not even sure where it came from. Even at the Art Academy in Riga, before I had access to proper equipment, I was already borrowing cameras and creating short video pieces, even when video wasn’t part of the assignment. Some of those early experiments ended up getting me accepted to the Royal Institute of Art.
The experience there was completely different from anything I’d known. There were no assignments, no formal structure, no one telling you what to do. At first, I felt disoriented, even depressed and isolated being away from home. I suddenly had access to everything: editing rooms, cameras, studios — but no set task to follow. Yet that initial sense of isolation slowly turned into something productive. Not knowing what to do gave me space. I started walking around the streets with my camera, filming whatever caught my eye. I was — and still am — incredibly curious. That curiosity became the foundation of my practice.

While I was in Sweden, I met another Latvian, Pēteris Ķimelis, the son of theatre director Māra Ķimele.  We began collaborating, and at the time, I was filming almost constantly… almost obsessively. That period felt like the true beginning of something for me creatively.
Together, we started creating strange VJ sets, mixing sound and visuals in a very raw, experimental way. We were even invited to perform in places like St. Petersburg and Riga, at massive raves with thousands of people. At one of those events, opera director Andrejs Žagars saw the visuals. He asked who was behind them, and when he heard it was me, he invited me to work on Wagner’s Flying Dutchman at the Latvian National Opera. I was only 21 at the time.
That moment marked the beginning of my ongoing work in theatre and opera — a path I’ve continued to explore alongside my visual art practice. Over time, the boundaries between the two have blurred. Installations sometimes become performances, performances morph into video works… the mediums and roles constantly shift.

Working in traditional theatre and opera houses has been an incredible kind of school — deeply formative. But that world still feels very old-school in its structure. There’s always a chain of command, a hierarchy that must be followed. Of course, theatre is also a way to survive — you can earn money from it. That’s not so easy with video art. Video pieces or installations aren’t something people often buy; they’re large, they take up space, and are more difficult to present compared to a painting. Still, I love it.
In my own projects, particularly in this more performative direction I’m exploring now, I feel much more free. What I love most is when an idea grows from nothing, when people come together and create freely, with roles that shift and evolve — when anyone can become the director at any given moment. I try not to create work synthetically.

In general, I try to create a dialogue between the work and the world — to let real life influence me. In Lady Macbeth, for instance, I was thinking about dreams — dream lives, dream logic. I ended up filming mushrooms, mold, things that grow… even on spoiled food. I went deep into it. I was drawing, filming, coloring, directing these textures in a way that made them look beautiful, almost hypnotic. The character in that piece is very complex, even a bit evil. I imagined what her dreams would look like, something vivid and lush on the surface, but with a disturbing undercurrent. Dreams that seduce you with beauty but hint at illness or decay underneath. That’s what I’m often searching for… beauty with strange shadows behind it.

I’ve always had this deep interest in people — watching them, listening to them. Sometimes I feel like a doctor performing an autopsy, trying to understand what lies beneath. Making these works often feels like a therapy session for me and for the audience. It’s healing. And often, people come up to me afterwards and say they felt the same, because in the end we’re all dealing with similar emotions, fears, and questions.

I have to say, I turn the camera on myself quite often, so I’ve gotten used to it. In a way, I think it’s one of the most honest ways to go really deep. I can open up fully, because I know I won’t hurt myself — and if I do get hurt I can take responsibility for it.
As for discovering something new about myself, I’m not sure. Maybe I haven’t thought about it enough. I’ve explored the idea of being with yourself, learning how to live with and love yourself. I think in the end I probably learned more through the research itself. It started as a personal investigation but it turned into something shared.

Yes, absolutely. Sometimes I was even acting a little because I already knew what I wanted to get out of it. So it wasn’t purely a documentary. I was performing in my own film, and maybe that’s why I wasn’t so surprised by what I saw, because I already had a sense of where it was going.
But the surprising part came from something else. I made those videos using different methods. Some of them I recorded spontaneously. For example, one morning I woke up feeling really open, and I just sat down and spoke from the heart — maybe even talking nonsense, but it felt honest. I recorded about six minutes of that. Then I filmed myself again, this time sitting in a different chair, responding to the first video as if it were someone else sitting across from me.
When I edited those two videos together, it really worked in this strange and amazing way. I didn’t plan it in detail, and I didn’t remember exactly what I had said the first time. So when I brought the two clips together — even with just a 10- or 30-second difference between them, the meaning shifted completely. It became a kind of intuitive puzzle, and that was exciting to work with.

Did the camera create a kind of distance as if you were watching yourself perform, rather than simply being yourself?
were watching yourself perform, rather than simply
were watching yourself perform, rather than simply

I think for me, it’s less about preserving traditions or myths and more about questioning them. I’m always curious, I question the things we believe in, especially those that have been passed down without much thought.
In Witches' Brooms, I started with this myth I found about a strange growth that appears in trees. According to folklore, you’re supposed to harvest it and brew it into tea, but only if it’s picked by a wise person who’s still “in their senses.” It’s seen as something healing or powerful. But in reality, that growth is actually a disease — an illness in the tree. And that contrast really struck me: the way we, as humans, create these strange beliefs and how easily we give them meaning or power. That’s the part that interests me; not just the myth, but who we choose to believe, and why.
Right now, I’m working on a performative ritual piece with my friend Iveta Pole. We’re creating a fictional cult — a kind of ceremony for older people. Everyone today is so obsessed with staying young, with how not to die, and we wanted to flip that. Our ritual is about celebrating aging, being happy about your wrinkles, and accepting that death is natural, even a positive part of life.
In creating this work, we’re researching a lot of different spiritual systems… everything from Christianity to Mormonism, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and even lesser-known rituals. And the more you learn, the more fascinating it is, how people choose what to believe, and what draws them to certain ideas over others. Why do we believe in myths? Why do we trust nature, or symbols, or certain stories?
Personally, I also have rituals I believe in. For example I’m obsessed with collecting stones with holes in them at the seaside. I believe that if I find one I’ll be lucky. These little beliefs sneak into my life and mean something to me, even if I can’t fully explain them in words. That’s why I’m always drawn to people who can articulate their beliefs. I admire that. But for me, it’s more about sensing, questioning, and staying curious.

Yes! With this project about the fictional elderly cult, it’s also about the fear of losing control. When we don’t know what happens after death, we start creating stories, something to believe in. Maybe that we’ll meet our loved ones again, or become something else entirely. It’s a way to comfort ourselves, to hold onto some sense of meaning or control over the unknown.
And that need to explain things extends to everyday life too. Like, why is the summer so rainy? Why are things not going the way we expect? We invent stories to make sense of it, and often those stories include blaming ourselves — thinking maybe we did something wrong, and now this is the punishment. That’s how a lot of myths are formed: trying to find reason in chaos, even if it means turning the blame inward.

For sure. I’m more interested in aging, because I feel myself crossing that threshold into another stage of life. You begin to notice how people deal with growing older — how they speak about it, how they fear it.
My mother, for example, was deeply afraid of aging. For 20 years, she obsessed over how she looked and how she felt. And then she died at 60. I kept thinking: she spent her best years, her 40s and 50s, worrying about something that ended up coming much sooner than expected. That really stayed with me. I don’t want to live that way. That’s why we’re making this ritual performance around aging — to try to shift the narrative, to say that wrinkles are not something to fear. There’s life and beauty and absurdity in all of it.

At one point I was actually working on a film about small garden plots, these spaces people had cultivated for years. The city was planning to demolish them and build something new, but people were still growing food there. It became a big topic. I went to film and saw trees being cut down and gardens destroyed… it was awful.
While I was there, I met a guy named Kostya, and he told me, “No, no, if you want to see real life, you need to go to the garages.” So I listened to him and went. And it was unbelievably interesting. These garage spaces, like man caves — where men gather, fix things, build things, hang out... There was so much happening. I immediately felt like I wanted to dig deeper.
Then I started wondering: where are the women’s caves? Do we even have them? That question pushed me into a broader reflection — not just about spaces, but about roles. I began thinking about how men often have these escapes from daily life, while women are expected to stay in “real time,” dealing with children, domestic work, and constant responsibility.
So yes, in many of my works, you can probably feel that tension. It’s not an aggressive, confrontational kind, but a deep curiosity about gender roles and the structures around us. I always stand for equality — very strongly — but I approach it through observation and questioning rather than making loud or scandalous statements.

Yes, aggression never really helps when we’re trying to talk, or truly listen to each other.

Yes, that was exactly what we were researching — what do you do when you're alone, and how do you live with that? The topic of solitude has always been very important to me. I really believe that all of us are lonely in some way. But not necessarily in a bad way — sometimes in a good way. Our relationships with others change us, affect us deeply, and shape our lives, but at the end of the day we are still alone. When we die, we do so alone. And I think we need to be prepared for that moment.
Even in intense moments of life, like when I gave birth, I remember being in so much pain, and I didn’t want anyone to comfort me. I just wanted to be alone. That instinct felt very strong. It’s something I think about constantly — there isn’t a single day where it doesn’t cross my mind.
I'm very emotional, and I live in waves. Some days I feel great, like now — I’m in a good place. But it’s always changing. That’s why I keep returning to this idea of loneliness. I love exploring it. In Latvian, we have two different words for it. One is vientulība, which has a heavy, dramatic tone — the kind of loneliness that feels sad or painful. And the other is Vienpatība, which simply means being alone (often by choice) — and that’s okay, even beautiful. It’s like the difference between “loneliness” and “solitude” in English.
When we were making SOS, we used a little bit of strangeness in the piece, but we were careful not to fall into the cliché of the “weird person who lives alone.” That’s such a common stereotype — someone with too many cats, too many plants, something a bit off. But when you look at some of the greatest artists, many of them live alone, especially women. That fascinates me. I love researching why that is, how they feel about it, and how it shapes both their work and their lives.

Motherhood has never felt like a weight or something that held me back, quite the opposite actually. It kept me grounded in reality and protected me from drifting into darker places, because I had to be present; I had to be a mother. That kind of responsibility changes a person. You begin to understand what it truly means to be responsible for someone else, and in that, you experience a very powerful kind of love. I’m just speaking from my own life, but I’ve felt it deeply. And perhaps it’s something you’ve experienced differently — from the perspective of being a daughter.

Yes, and that bond between mother and child, it’s very intense. Before I became a mother myself, I used to get really lost in dark thoughts. It was easier to spiral. But once I had children, everything shifted. Life wasn’t just about me anymore — there was something more important than myself to live for. It gave me structure, and it gave my life a different kind of value.

How did your early experiments with video and performance evolve into working in theatre and opera? Was there a particular turning point that set
How did your early experiments with video and

I love getting out of my bubble… that’s how I really learn. If you’re curious about different people and stories, and you don’t just stay in your little scene or comfort zone, it’s amazing what opens up. That’s the beauty of being an artist — you’re allowed to go to unexpected places and ask questions. I remember back in 2002, we made a film about the tea mushroom; the kombucha. At first, I didn’t even care much about the mushroom itself, but we placed a small ad in a local magazine looking for people who grow them. So many people reached out, eager to share their stories. I ended up visiting all these different apartments, meeting strangers who somehow stay with me to this day.
I’ve done similar projects, like going around the Latvian countryside searching for truth. It became this chain — one person recommending another, and I had no idea who I’d meet next. It was like three weeks of diving into people’s lives, one by one. Later I took all those stories and wove them together — and that became the work. It’s not easy. It’s a kind of emotional hunting or fishing, and I have to build up the strength to go out there. But when I do, the connections I make are so fulfilling. People have said I have a talent for listening, and I think it’s true — they open up, and I really listen. I think it makes them feel seen. And for me it’s also a kind of responsibility, to show life from different angles.
Maybe there’s something anthropological in me. I could’ve been some kind of scientist, gathering stories and artifacts. But I also love the second part: coming home with all these ‘catches’ and thinking, “What now? How do I shape this?” That’s when the real work starts — editing, contextualizing, transforming. That’s what turns a conversation into art. It’s not just collecting, it’s sculpting the narrative. Sometimes I spend hours editing, thinking about the rhythm, the form, how the viewer will enter the space. Especially in installation work, when you have eight projections or twelve screens, you have to think in layers; not just how the story unfolds, but how the audience can move through it and create their own version. I love that — when the viewer becomes part of the piece.

I’ve sometimes reflected on my earlier work in the context of today — how certain working methods that were once considered unique might no longer feel that way. But the truth is, I don’t really think in those terms. I don’t care much whether something seems “unique” or “relevant.”
Sometimes, when I talk to younger artists, they ask, “Where do you get your ideas? How do you decide what to focus on?” And I honestly can’t answer that. I don’t know. What I do know is that if I care deeply about something and put my whole self into it, it will connect — because we’re all human, and we share so many of the same fears and questions. It’s even frightening sometimes how similar we are.
I think that’s why my work resonates… because it’s personal, and I’m not afraid to say things out loud. It’s like when I read my mother’s writing and recognize something I’ve felt myself. She found a way to name a feeling that’s familiar to many people. I hope my work can do the same — even if it’s through visual language.

Of course, we’re surrounded by so many influences today… Instagram, social media, all that. But honestly, I don’t feel like those things really influence my creative work. They’re always around, yes, but they don’t drive what I make. That said, I do use tools like ChatGPT when I need to gather information — for example, I might ask for all the different beliefs about what happens after death, and it gives me a useful overview. I'm not afraid of artificial intelligence — I'm more curious to see what will happen. I actually love that things are moving faster.  But in the end, they’re just tools. If you don’t already know what you want, these tools can’t help you. But if you do have a direction, then they can be incredibly useful.

Yes, the themes are universal, but my background is very strong. I’m deeply rooted here; my cultural and family background are incredibly important to me. I don’t feel like a “world citizen” the way some people say they do. Even if I’m, for example, in Indonesia standing by the ocean, I find myself happiest when I catch a glimpse of those grayish, brownish-blue and green tones that remind me of home. I’ve always been happy living here, and I hope I’ll never have to flee or move away. I truly wish for peace, so this place can remain livable.

Interview by Diandra Rebase
Portrait by Jane Treima