Meeting Your Gaze: Marina Pohl on Memory and Fleeting Moments

In the quiet countryside of the Netherlands, I had the pleasure of visiting the winner of the Delphian Open Call for the Clover Mill Residency, Marina Pohl. The Berlin-based artist has unveiled haunting portraits inspired by the natural world, capturing primal instincts and fleeting memories. Her work blurs the line between presence and absence, revealing figures that are at once intimate and elusive. I sat with her to discuss the meaning of stillness, the quiet longing embedded in her spectral figures and how this residency has shaped her practice.

In Depth, 2025, Oil on canvas, 15x20,5cm

Let’s begin in the Dutch countryside. What does a typical day in your residency look like, and how has the stillness (or wildness) of the place seeped into your process?

I usually get up early and drink tea at this really nice spot. It’s been super peaceful, kind of like a meditation, just sitting there looking at the still water. And there are so many animals, especially birds. I’ve never seen so many different kinds in one place. To see actual wild animals is really nice. I think in my art, I’ve always liked exploring this animalistic side of beings, and there’s something really inspiring about watching them just exist naturally, in their own element.

How do you begin a new piece? Is it a face that haunts you, a mood, a gesture, a fragment of landscape?

Sometimes the inspiration starts with a picture I come across, or maybe someone I know. But once I start painting, they always shift into something else. They become more than just one person. That’s why I wouldn’t really call them self-portraits, even though, yeah, there’s definitely a lot of me in them too. I think they end up becoming these characters, maybe like representations of something deeper, like figures from the unconscious side of society.

Water Lilies (diptych), 2025, Oil on canvas, 55 × 40 cm each.

There’s something spectral in your portraits, like they’re hovering between presence and absence. Where does that emotional depth come from for you?

My process is a way of figuring something out. It’s me trying to understand a certain side of myself: how that side fits into the world, how it’s perceived by society, and how it interacts with everything else. Jung talks about the 'anima' and 'animus,' not that I think Jung is perfect or anything, but that one concept kind of spoke to me in a way. The idea of representing an animistic side of the individual is very interesting to me. And then, with the hovering, it’s like the figures are in these rooms, but the rooms aren’t ever really closed off. They're not confined by the canvas, so they could easily drift in or out. And while they’re there, they’re looking at the viewer, almost like they’re challenging them or watching back.

They’re saying: I see you seeing me. But also asking, why are you looking?

Glue is such a specific material: binding, messy, ephemeral. What’s your relationship to it? Did it arrive in your studio by accident or intention?

Well, using bone glue is actually very old school. It’s a traditional foundation in painting. It’s often mixed with pigment and used before oil, because it dries really fast and has no fat in it. So it gives you this kind of dry, matte surface to work on and just feels very natural to me. I discovered it a few years ago whilst studying historical painting techniques. It has this lightness and openness which creates this delicate transparency. Sometimes I add oil colors on top because oil behaves so differently, and that contrast is really beautiful. It adds depth and richness to the whole painting.

Your figures often feel suspended in time, caught in a breath. Are you interested in the idea of capturing the ‘unseen’ moment?

I think that’s one of the things I really like about painting, you can capture longer stretches of time in a single image. It’s not just one moment; it holds more. And I think it also allows me to show sides of people that are, perhaps, somewhat forbidden to express openly in society - or at least not really welcomed.

So you're giving those forbidden parts a space to be seen?

Yeah, that’s a really nice way to put it. Because, like we touched on earlier about primal instincts, it’s not really acceptable to express those openly. If you do, people will look at you like you’re strange. But I think most people, deep down, do sometimes feel the urge to actually act on them.

Transparency, glue, layered paint, all of it feels like a metaphor. Do you think your materials are saying something about memory, decay, desire or time?

It's really hard to put into words. I’m not always super connected to my feelings; it can take me a while to actually feel something, you know? So I don’t always know right away. But I think, yeah, these things are definitely present. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about aging : what that means for the body and the self. But in the paintings, it kind of doesn’t matter if the person is young or old, or if it’s someone from a hundred years ago or now. There’s something I really like about that timelessness. I’m actually going to be part of an exhibition soon called Transmute, which is all about transitions and the different stages of change. I really like that idea: that you can paint something that’s in between, something that’s still evolving, not fixed. That space feels very true to me.

Two Springs, 2025, Oil on canvas, 65 × 50 cm

Nature clearly plays a role in your work; not as background, but almost as a character. What parts of the natural world are you most in conversation with right now?

I think nature gives you a sense of freedom that’s hard to find in the city. It’s really calming. I live near the river, so I often go there just to sit and watch the water. That’s probably why this place here feels so familiar, it reminds me of home in a way. And actually, the nature around Berlin is really nice and diverse. I especially love the more overgrown, damp areas; they're kind of rustic and wild. There’s something about that atmosphere that really speaks to me.

What does ‘finished’ mean to you in a work? How do you know when a piece is done, or at least ready to be let go?

Sometimes I do know when a painting’s finished, but other times I really don’t. And there’s always the chance I’ll pick it up again in five years and paint over it. So maybe they’re never truly finished.

Nils, 2025, Oil on canvas, 15x20.5 cm

And finally, if someone stood in front of one of your portraits for a long time, what would you hope slowly reveals itself to them?

I think I’d like it if, over time, the viewer started to feel a bit fond of the figures in the painting. They’re not trying to be overly appealing or demand attention, but still, there’s this quiet desire in them to be loved and appreciated. Just like anyone else, they want to belong, to be part of society.

I love that answer, it's beautifully poetic. It feels very full circle from the point of inception contrasted against these deeply humane feelings. These characters have a whole life of their own on the canvas, but in the end they're just like the rest of us, we all just want be loved, don't we?

Exactly.