UNESCO Voices of Impact: Youth Ideas for SDG Solutions
The conversation explores how Ginny stages peace not as a fixed outcome but as an ongoing process—expressed through fragile gestures, memory, childhood imagination, and material metaphors. The interviewer and artist discuss the five sculptural installations that together form a narrative of peace as tenderness, fragility, and coexistence. Themes include childhood, memory, displacement, coexistence, and materiality.
Interviewer: Thank you for joining us. Your exhibition States of Peace has drawn quiet but profound attention. To begin, could you tell us about the central question your work is asking?
Ginny: Thank you. I think at the heart of States of Peace is a question that doesn’t ask for resolution, but for presence: Can peace exist not as an endpoint, but as a continuous negotiation of difference, memory, and stillness? My works don’t try to define peace—they stage it. They make space for viewers to sit with its fragility and complexity.
Interviewer: The exhibition brings together five sculptural installations. How did these individual pieces come together to form a unified narrative?
Ginny: Each piece began from a different emotional or cultural thread—childhood, memory, displacement, power, and play. But as they developed, I realized they were speaking to each other. A brass vessel shaped like a fig leaf recalls ancient poetry, while a bench made of transparent acrylic reimagines power as something fluid and balanced. The ducklings in the bathtub recall a child’s mind untouched by fear. Together, these works offer glimpses of peace—not loud declarations, but soft Staging Peace in Fragile Gesture
Interviewer: The piece with salvaged window frames and childhood drawings is especially moving. Can you share its personal significance?
Ginny: That piece is very personal. The window frames come from buildings marked by time and migration, their paint peeling, hinges rusted. Inside each pane, I etched drawings from my childhood—fantastical animals, homes, flowers. They speak to a moment before fear took hold. The installation holds these two layers of time together: the innocence that remains, and the structural decay around it. It’s about how memory endures even through rupture.
Interviewer: Your use of materials—glass, brass, yarn—is very intentional. How do you think materiality influences the message?
Ginny: I work with materials that are transparent, reflective, or soft. Glass, for example, is fragile yet enduring. It captures light just as memory captures emotion. Yarn knots, binds, and unravels—it’s tactile, relational. Brass carries historical and spiritual significance. These materials allow tension and tenderness to coexist. They’re not just mediums—they’re metaphors.
Interviewer: There’s a recurring theme of childhood and imagination throughout the exhibition. Why revisit that space?
Ginny: Because that space, even if fleeting, is where many of us first knew peace—not as an abstract concept, but as a feeling. The bathtub filled with amber ducklings invites us back to that sensory calm. It’s not about nostalgia, but about remembering our capacity for softness. In a world that values speed and certainty, I wanted to create a space where slowness and ambiguity could be embraced.
Interviewer: One of the final pieces, the woven circular form, stands out as both chaotic and unified. What was your idea behind it?
Ginny: That piece embodies the paradox of coexistence. The threads pull in different directions—some tight, some loose, some unraveling. They represent the tensions and connections between cultures, identities, and histories. Peace isn’t the absence of conflict but actively weaving through knots, accepting frictions, and finding temporary balance.
Interviewer: If there’s one main message you want audiences to take away, what would it be?
Ginny: I hope they leave not with answers, but with resonance—a gentle echo that encourages them to keep weaving. Peace doesn’t need to shout. Sometimes it expresses itself most powerfully through quiet gestures—through stillness, remembrance, and the refusal to forget.
Interviewer: The piece with salvaged window frames and childhood drawings is particularly moving. Can you share its personal significance?
Ginny: That work is deeply personal. The window frames were sourced from buildings marked by time and migration, their paint peeling, hinges rusted. Into each pane, I engraved drawings from my childhood—fantastical animals, homes, flowers. They speak to a moment before fear. The installation holds these two temporalities together: the innocence that remains, and the structural decay around it. It’s about how memory persists even through rupture.
Interviewer: Your use of materials—glass, brass, yarn—is very deliberate. How do you think materiality shapes the message?
Ginny: I work with materials that are transparent, reflective, or soft. Glass, for example, is fragile but enduring. It captures light the way memory captures emotion. Yarn knots, binds, and unravels—it’s tactile, relational. Brass has historical and spiritual weight. These materials allow tension and tenderness to coexist. They are not just mediums—they’re metaphors.
Interviewer: There’s a recurring motif of childhood and imagination throughout the exhibition. Why return to that space?
Ginny: Because that space, however fleeting, is where many of us first knew peace—not as a concept, but as a feeling. The bathtub filled with amber ducklings is an invitation back to that sensory quiet. It’s not about nostalgia, but about remembering the capacity for softness. In a world that pushes speed and certainty, I wanted to stage a space where slowness and ambiguity could be held.
Interviewer: One of the final pieces, the woven circular form, stands out as both chaotic and unified. What was your intention there?
Ginny: That piece embodies the paradox of coexistence. The threads pull in different directions—some tight, some slack, some unraveling. They represent the simultaneous tensions and connections between cultures, identities, and histories. Peace isn’t the absence of conflict, but the active practice of weaving—of working through knots, accepting frictions, and finding temporary balance.
Interviewer: If there is one takeaway you hope audiences leave with, what would it be?
Ginny: I hope they leave not with answers, but with resonance—a soft echo that invites them to keep weaving. Peace doesn’t need to shout. Sometimes it performs most powerfully through quiet gestures—through stillness, remembrance, and the refusal to forget.