Dear Conservation,
I did not come to you with a clear calling.
When I began my studies, the decision felt pragmatic rather than passionate. I was advised toward a path that might offer stability. In a socialist country, art alone rarely promised a livelihood. Conservation seemed adjacent enough to art to satisfy a deeply rooted longing, yet grounded enough to be viable. It also struck me as a peculiar field—populated by individuals who spent their lives in strange proximity to things, gazing intently at sculptures or paintings. I followed that path without fully knowing where it would lead.
It led me, one summer, to Lower Silesia.
We were a small group of students, invited by a senior professor from a partner academy—an erudite figure in his old age—tasked with introducing us to the arcane craft of wall painting conservation. The churches we encountered were scattered across a landscape marked by rupture: on the one hand, the vibrant life of architecturally rich cities, whose neo-Gothic centres took our breath away; on the other, not far beyond, villages partially abandoned, their histories dislocated—ruins that felt meagre rather than romantic. These western territories were deserted primarily due to the mass expulsion of German inhabitants after World War II, followed by failed resettlement efforts. New settlers from eastern territories often struggled to adapt to the new environment, having felt no belonging to these places. When many left again, what remained were structures in varying states of neglect: large farm houses emptied, churches roofless, walls offering no shelter, exposed to wind, rain, and time.
One day, just three of us accompanied the professor to a particularly desolate site. The village around it had all but vanished. The church stood open to the sky, its walls whitewashed, weathered. God left the space, indifference entered it.
Somewhere beyond the transept, towards the altar, we began our work.
I was inexperienced—only just initiated into the discipline—but I had practiced the gesture before. With a small medical scalpel, I started to excavate a test square, no more than two by two centimeters. Carefully, layer by layer, I removed the surface: one coat of paint, then another. I worked slowly, attentive to the rhythm—the breath, the slight staccato of the blade against the wall.
Beneath the pale accretions, a different colour emerged—warmer, almost like skin. Then a darker line appeared, a textured contour so clear as if it was just painted. I continued, widening the small window.
Time stopped.
An eye, a face: a fragment of a medieval Madonna looking back at me across centuries. She appeared with a simplicity and clarity, so intact, so luminous—so alive. It was as if she had been waiting there beneath those layers for this intimate encounter.
That was when I knew: I had found you.
Many years have passed since that moment. My hands and eyes have since travelled through countless churches, museums, paintings, objects, and performances. At some point, I exchanged the scalpel for the pen and began to research and write. Yet the memory of that released gaze has never left me.
Perhaps that is what you first were to me: not a profession, not even yet a discipline, but an act of revelation. A way of touching time. A prayer for eternal returns. A way of entering into relation with what had been neglected, or forgotten, of what history still needs to be written, and discovering that it still looked back.
Yours,
Hanna
Center for Critical Conservation 