11.9.–11.10.2026

Beeswax is known in the history of Western philosophy as a material through which the relationship between form, matter and perception has been examined. Its ability to transform while maintaining its continuity has made it a recurring example for the thinking of both identity (i.e. an object is one with itself) and change. Elina Vainio’s exhibition Muistipalatsi Photo Gallery at Hippolyte poses the question differently: beeswax is a coating of a serial work that leaves nothing untouched that which it attaches and protects. In this way, it makes visible that the image is always a somewhat helpless condition of human experience.

Vainio examines layered and gapped perceptual experience, a memory composed of interruptions, and corporeality that is attached to words but is constantly torn and prone to distortion. Consciousness does not appear in Vainio’s examination as a clear psychological reality, but as a kind of cluster of very random traces. Vainio’s experimental work, in which artistic thinking occurs through the specificity of the method used at any given time and is always limited by the properties of the new material, emphasizes the question of the uniqueness of form and matter. In the case of speaking objects, corporeal uniqueness makes a whole and unified being or a permanent anchoring of the self impossible.

The exhibition’s body of work is made up of photographs recorded on a phone, which were taken from the reflections of a bent mirror film. The printed images are attached to a steel plate with a thin layer of beeswax. The images are then coated with liquid beeswax, which, when solidified, permanently binds the image to the steel base. Each individual image is dipped in turn into water at about sixty degrees and slowly lifted through the wax that remains molten on the surface of the water. With repeated treatments, the beeswax coating creates a figure that distances itself from the original photographic surface of the image and gives the image a new shape. Optical distortions, material layers and the gradual loss of sharpness are placed in parallel with the internal logic of the images: instead of a clear meaning, the viewer is supported by the repetition of observations and linguistic distortions. In Vainio’s treatment, the deviations in the image do not indicate a disorder, but rather reveal the absurd aesthetics of human existence.

– Aino-Marjatta Mäki, psychoanalyst

Elina Vainio (b.1981) is a Helsinki-based visual artist whose installations and serial works have been exhibited at, among others, Liste Art Fair Basel (2026), Ulterior Gallery in New York (2026), EMMA – Espoo Museum of Modern Art (2025) and Seoul Museum of Art (2025). She studied for a Bachelor of Fine Arts at London Chelsea College of Art & Design and graduated with a Master of Fine Arts from the Academy of Fine Arts, University of the Arts Helsinki. Vainio is the recipient of the 2026 Nordea Art Foundation Art Prize.

The exhibition has been supported by the Kone Foundation and the Uusimaa Fund of the Finnish Cultural Foundation.

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Amorphous

Laura can’t explain what happened: “I started losing my concentration and couldn’t practice anymore.” Since then, everything has been “unfocused” and “things just slip by me.” Laura is a young pianist and has been playing since early childhood. She is returning to her professional studies after a year’s break, but she still can’t keep up her practice: “It’s not at the level it should be. Not good enough.”

The lack of character first appears in writing: “I couldn’t catch words or whole sentences. Everything just slipped away, it was incoherent.” Laura did well in elementary school, quickly memorizing what was covered in class. However, she couldn’t cope with written homework. In high school, the situation changes, because she can no longer keep up with her studies solely on the strength of what she learned in class. Gradually, talking to others also begins to feel like a real threat of loss to Laura: “It’s like other people are tearing things away from me.” She prefers not to interact with other people than to take the risk that something “would go wrong.” However, this idea creates a new problem in her relationship with music. For her, the special thing about music is “the impossibility of playing perfectly.” However, individual musical expression is impossible for Laura. She would like to play technically pure, minimizing the possibility of mistakes, but this means losing musicality. Her teacher constantly reminds her of this.

Laura has no memories of her childhood or stories about her family, and she doesn’t recognize her own image: “It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just not familiar.” She describes her experience through the tension that pierces her: “It’s unbearable to be in this body as it is, and it’s unbearable to change it.” Laura knows that her difficulties are unlikely to change in any significant way. The same goes for her piano playing. I position myself accordingly: no expectations. It’s the same with psychoanalysis, she doesn’t expect major changes from it. However, the work allows for a very small margin of maneuver: “It’s not necessary to believe in anything, but it doesn’t mean complete disbelief if you keep going,” she says.

However, as a result of one of our conversations, Laura develops a new idea about how playing technically and without musicality can be a form of expression in itself, if it is unconventional. Gradually, Laura returns to practicing. Now she focuses on technical problems of the sound: how the fingers press the keys too hard or too lightly, move over them at the wrong speed, or slight problems with the position of the hands and wrists. With this “trinity of errors” she can play “without too many possibilities.” Now she plays from her errors, limited by them.

However, his ability to play comes and goes. During one particularly difficult period, I ask him to teach me how a pianist positions himself in relation to his instrument. He guides me precisely: I ask how the body is positioned in front of the instrument, at what angle the hands are, what the curve of the back is, and how far apart the feet are. I follow his instructions, imitating them with my own body, while naming aloud the parts of the body through which the piano supports the player. When he arrives for his next visit, the difficulties of the previous visit have disappeared. His figure is carrying again, but not without the instrument.

Aino-Marjatta Mäki, psychoanalyst (The New Lacanian School, WAP)
The text is a fictional excerpt from a case report.