FROM a childhood on a dairy farm in post-communist Poland to forging a sensitive, community-driven art practice across regional Victoria, Aldona Kmieć’s journey is anchored by migration, memory and a quiet defiance against forgetting. Her work — spanning long-exposure portraits, cyanotypes, mosaic installations and intimate site-specific projects — draws deeply on personal and collective histories, always attentive to voices that risk being silenced.
Raised amid Poland’s lingering traumas and the unspoken legacies of war, Kmieć carried an early restlessness to see beyond what she knew. “I longed to travel, to see the world beyond what I knew, and I was sure that something else was out there, waiting for me,” she says. That impulse would lead her first to the UK and eventually to Australia, where she has spent the past sixteen years negotiating life as a migrant artist, repeatedly reinventing herself far from family and familiar ground.
Settling in places like Ballarat sharpened her commitment to telling regional stories and exploring the fragmented nature of memory and belonging. Whether creating large-scale photographic portraits woven from thousands of images, building installations in spaces charged with difficult histories, or turning the camera inward to navigate her own cultural inheritance, Kmieć’s practice remains rooted in empathy, trust and the belief that “freedom is hard fought for and often at enormous cost.”
In this conversation, she reflects candidly on the complexities of displacement, the invisible weight of inherited trauma, and why paying attention to marginalised stories — in Australia as much as in her native Poland — has become the driving force behind her art.
Aldona Kmieć: Migrating twice — from Poland to the UK, and again to a faraway country like Australia — is, in itself, a massive undertaking… Over the past 16 years in Australia, I’ve had to reinvent myself more than once.
Aldona in her studio. Photo: Marcie Raw Photography
Aldona’s story begins on a farm in a village of Bieżeń, near Częstochowa, Poland, surrounded by the demands of farm life and the quiet weight of family and national history. This upbringing gave her a lifelong respect for regional communities and those living beyond the centres of power.
“Each place I’ve lived in has definitely made an impact on how I see the world through my art. Let’s start with my native Poland, where I spent half of my life. Growing up on a dairy farm instilled in me a strong work ethic and a deep connection to regional communities. That experience gave me respect for people who live outside of major cities. In Poland, there was often a kind of cultural hierarchy — city people looked down on those from the countryside. I don’t see that as much in Australia. If anything, regional life is often celebrated here, and that’s been refreshing. It made me even more committed to discovering local stories and connecting with people living outside the ‘big smoke’.”
Moving to Australia
In 2019, Aldona moved to Melbourne—drawn not only by its creative energy, but also by love, having met her partner, Luke, a born-and-bred Melburnian. But only six months later, the pandemic struck — pushing her to deepen her work in regional Victoria.
“I only moved to Melbourne in 2019 — ten years after arriving in Australia from the UK — and just six months before the pandemic hit. In December 2020, during one of Melbourne’s long lockdowns, I was commissioned alongside three other regional photographers by Photojournalist John Rodsted and State Library Victoria for their Rural and Regional Commission. We were invited to document the lived experiences of regional Victorians during that extraordinary time. It was a project I loved, both challenging and important — and it reinforced my commitment in the regional community.”
The long shadows of war
Aldona’s art is deeply shaped by Poland’s traumatic twentieth century — wars, occupation and the slow emergence from communism. These histories taught her to pay attention to whose voices get silenced.
“Of course, given Poland’s tumultuous history and our family surviving WWI and WWII, there’s a historical and cultural impact that can be seen in my art too. In my documentary work, whether it’s more autobiographical documentation of my personal life, or the lives of others, I strongly focus on unheard voices and stories from marginalised communities. Here in Australia, we’re quite removed from the direct experience of war, and many people don’t think much about what it means for a country to be oppressed, or involved in a war, although it is changing with the current world conflicts. We are starting to see it more and more often, and are unfortunately divided by it.”
She’s troubled by how often Australia also avoids its own painful histories, particularly around First Nations peoples.
“In fact, many Australians don’t actually know or refuse to learn about the full history of their own country — especially when it comes to First Nations histories, the frontier wars, and the impact of colonisation and genocide across generations. What troubles me most is the lack of willingness, in some cases, to even engage with this truth. And this includes the multicultural communities. I genuinely struggle to understand that kind of blind resistance.”
That’s why she says her work will always side with those overlooked by power.
“I believe it’s crucial to bring these histories into wide public consciousness. Freedom is not something easily won — freedom is hard fought for and often at enormous cost. As an Australian, I suppose I’ll always stand with the underdog — with those whose voices have been ignored, erased, or silenced.”
In my personal experience, memory is not linear; it’s fragmented, emotional, and sometimes unreliable. I try to reflect that in the structure of my work.
Growing up in transition
Aldona came of age during Poland’s fragile move from communism to democracy — a time full of uncertainty and possibility that left her determined to see more of the world.
“I grew up during Poland’s transition from communism to democracy, a time of uncertainty but also possibilities. I knew early on that if I wanted a different kind of life — one that allowed for more creativity and progressive ideas — I didn’t feel I would find it in Poland. I longed to travel, to see the world beyond what I knew, and I was sure that something else was out there, waiting for me. I’ve always felt open to adventure. That post-communist atmosphere shaped in me a sense of resilience, and a hunger to explore — not just physically, but intellectually and creatively. I didn’t want to repeat what I already knew. I wanted something completely different.”
The UK was her first step into that wider world, balancing work and formal photography study. But it was Australia that truly gave her space to build an artistic life — even as the distance from family weighed heavily.
“In the UK, while working day jobs, I also trained formally in photography and was able to travel a bit to see the world. Moving to Australia has certainly been an unexpected turn and a huge decision in my life, as being far from my family has brought difficult feelings of guilt.”
“But it’s here, in Australia, when I finally had more time and opportunity to pursue art, and where I really began to set up ‘camp’. When I initially moved down under, I lived in Queensland for a year and then all over Victoria for a while, I wanted to experience what life in Australia looks like, far from the cities. I was always strongly involved in my local community, wherever I lived, and this learning has sharpened my need to explore themes of displacement, and the stories found there.”
How photography entered her life
Her introduction to photography was gradual, shaped by music, a fascination with foreign languages, and old family photographs that held stories no one spoke about.
“Photography entered my life gradually. I was curious and drawn to nature, languages and travel. I was also very musical and mischievous (sorry parents!) at the age of four or five, and when I was old enough to lift a piano accordion (smuggled from East Germany as there was nothing you could buy in Polish shops), my parents sent me for music lessons for about eight years to keep me under some kind of control.”
She loved tuning an old radio to faraway voices, dreaming one day she might live among them.
“I was fascinated by foreign languages. I had an old radio that I would tune to the BBC — even though I couldn’t understand a word. I just wanted to hear the rhythm and tone of another world. I wrote in my diary that one day I would learn English and live somewhere where I could speak it every day. That small written note became a dream that eventually came true. I went on to complete my VCEs in three languages, including English and then-mandatory Russian.”
For a time she imagined being an athlete, but the economic difficulties of life on the farm meant university was out of reach.
“I dreamt of becoming an athlete. But life on the farm was tough, and the reality of post-communist Poland — with its economic instability and inherited trauma — meant nothing came easily. Family members and people in general didn’t talk openly about what had happened to them, especially those who had survived war or oppression. That silence left a mark on me, and made me angry. The legacy of war, the hardship of the 1980s and 90s, and the ideological shift that came with the fall of the Iron Curtain shaped me deeply — not only in how I perceive authority, community, and truth, but in how I work and how I create art. I am very defiant. It drew me to pursue freedom in things that are unspoken, and that has become a recurring theme in my photography.”
Photography isn’t just about looking — it’s about being there for others when they need you. It’s about observing, listening, and interpreting what you see and experience with care and empathy.
It was a small bundle of gelatine prints in her grandmother’s handbag that first drew her into the quiet power of images.
“My interest in photography was first sparked by a small collection of old gelatine prints that belonged to my babcia. She kept them in her small treasured handbag, and I remember being mesmerised by their material texture and emotional weight. There was something haunting about them — like they held stories that no one talked about. My dad had a Russian Smena camera (Смена, meaning “Change”) and over time, I began to experiment with it.”
She realised she had always been an observer, using the camera to give form to feelings she couldn’t quite say out loud.
“I’ve always been an observer (and a voyeur at times) absorbing more than what was said. The camera gave me a way to express what I was feeling but couldn’t quite articulate. It wasn’t until I moved to London and studied photography formally that I began to realise it could be more than a personal tool — it could be a language, even a vocation. I saw that photography could help me understand my struggles with mental health and hold space for complexity: for memory, silence, identity, and all the contradictions of migration. It could help me answer my questions about life.”
Fragmented memories and mosaic portraits
For Aldona, memory is never neat or chronological. It’s fractured and emotional — something she tries to capture in how she builds her projects.
“In my personal experience, memory is not linear; it’s fragmented, emotional, and sometimes unreliable. I try to reflect that in the structure of my work.”
One of her first major Australian projects was a residency with Uniting Care Ballarat, where she spent weeks embedded in services supporting people living through trauma.
“One of my first major projects in Australia was a commissioned residency titled Under the Floorboards. I only moved to Australia 2.5 years earlier and it was a formative experience — I spent five weeks embedded in various Uniting Care services, observing, and listening to the lived experiences of people. A phrase stayed with me during that time: ‘The truth is that we are all fragmented. Some more than others. There are a thousand pieces to one’s story.’ That became the motto for my residency.”
The resulting artworks were life-size photographic portraits made from thousands of images, each piece carrying traces of many lives.
“I documented my days through hundreds of digital photographs. From those, I created four life-size mosaic photographic portraits made up of thousands of images. Staff, volunteers, and clients became my subjects. It was an intense process — emotionally and technically — during that time, I also experienced a traumatic event of a house fire, which has affected me.”
Veil, Hills Hoist and searching for home
More recently, Aldona has turned the camera on herself to explore themes of memory, cultural inheritance and femininity. Her series Veil uses long exposures to create partially obscured portraits — images that conceal and reveal, much like memory.
“During a recent 2024 residency I created Veil, a contemplative long-exposure photography series exploring femininity and my cultural heritage. I’m both the artist and the sitter — a solitary figure which is partially obscured. The veil is a central metaphor: it conceals and reveals, much like memory itself.”
She links this idea of resilience back to her Polish roots, drawing on monuments like the Warsaw Nike.
“It speaks to cultural inheritance, and stoic, intergenerational silence. There’s a connection here to the Polish symbolism of resilience — such as the Warsaw Nike monument which commemorates the Polish resistance fighters of the 1944 Warsaw Uprising.”
Her upcoming project Hills Hoist, to be shown in Melbourne in 2025, uses family photographs and cyanotypes to tie the Australian backyard to broader ideas of diaspora and longing for home.
“My new Hills Hoist project is still a work in progress, due to be exhibited in November 2025 at City Library Gallery on Flinders Lane. It’s built from archival family photographs, rephotographed and created with fabric and cyanotypes. It’s purely an experimental exhibition which I’m very excited about. It connects the domestic with the diasporic — using the Australian backyard and the ubiquitous clothesline as a metaphorical anchor. In this work, I rely on texture, symbolism, and emotional resonance to communicate what can’t always be put into words — especially the longing for family, for closeness, for home.”
Migration led me to question my identity. Suddenly, I’m not Polish enough, or not Australian enough.
Building trust through art
Aldona doesn’t just photograph people — she works alongside them, building trust and creating spaces where complex, often painful stories can be told.
“It reminds me that photography isn’t just about looking — it’s about being there for others when they need you. It’s about observing, listening, and interpreting what you see and experience with care and empathy. In my community work, I’m not a bystander with a camera. I’ve actively engaged in advocating for complex and painful issues that have emerged in the Ballarat community over the past decade — most notably the historical church sexual abuses, and the immense hardships faced by people seeking asylum amidst political interference and public misunderstanding.”
“The act of co-creating images builds trust. It gives visibility to stories that are often overlooked. I’ve found that people are not particularly engaged with what’s happening in regional Australia — not necessarily out of lack of interest, but because they’re overwhelmed, distracted, or simply disconnected. But I believe that for the health of the whole country, we need to pay attention to one another — we can’t afford to live in silos.”
Site installations
For Aldona, buildings and landscapes are never just backgrounds — they carry emotional and historical weight. Her immersive installation In the Process of Healing, created for the Ballarat International Foto Biennale, brought this idea to life inside a former convent.
“For site-specific installations, I always try to research and connect to the specific history and experience an emotional energy of a site. A key example is the two-part immersive installation developed for the 2017 BIFB. My final two installations were presented within a room with mirrors, with broken or no glass in windows, in the former Sacred Heart Convent in Ballarat — a space embedded in institutional memory. When I got that commission, I wanted to spend a night at the former Convent — on my own, but I wasn’t game enough, there were stories of ghosts.”
Her work there explored the lives of a Tamil asylum seeker family and the long shadow of clergy sexual abuse, using photography, sound and a haunting sculpture made from reclaimed wood and hundreds of nails.
“The work engaged with themes of trauma, resilience, and the potential for collective healing by activating the site through photography, sound, light, and sculptural intervention. The feedback was so positive. The first part centred on the lived experience of an asylum seeker family, portrayed through intimate portraits and field recordings. The second installation addressed the legacy of clergy sexual abuse in Ballarat and beyond. At its core was my composed soundtrack and Chair of Nails — a sculptural piece made from reclaimed timber and hundreds of hand-hammered nails, symbolising pain. Accompanied by a resonant soundscape, the work created an emotional landscape of grief and remembrance. I wanted that space to become a memorial, a call to listen to what was going on in Ballarat at that particular time, when The Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse was at the forefront of media attention. Projects like this continue to inform my interest in site-responsive practice and the ethics of representation — especially how art can genuinely hold space for those whose stories are often silenced.”
Dreamscapes, survival and working conceptually
Conceptual work gives Aldona the freedom to be poetic, to explore emotional terrain that might be too raw or complex to show literally.
“Conceptual work gives me permission to be poetic — to move beyond what’s visible and work with sensitive material, intuition, and emotional nuance.”
Her new series The Survival of the Self, influenced by her own experience surviving a rare cancer, uses layered self-portraits to explore pain, time and the struggle for breath.
“The Survival of the Self (work in progress) is a deeply personal meditation on memory, impermanence, and resilience, shaped by my recent and sudden recovery from a rare cancer. These digitally layered collages-self-portraits create the illusion of being submerged beneath the surface of a lake — my face suspended underwater, voiceless, enduring pain, time, and the obstruction of breath. The series is influenced by the Polish songwriter Marek Grechuta’s 1971 song Ocalić od zapomnienia (To save from oblivion), which speaks to the power of remembering. This work is about what we hide, what we reveal, and how photography can hold space for the parts of ourselves we refuse to let disappear.”
I’ve always been an observer — absorbing more than what was said. The camera gave me a way to express what I was feeling but couldn’t quite articulate.
Techniques, materials and slowing time
Her practice often involves long exposures, cyanotypes and installations. These techniques help her slow time down — or give that illusion — and invite viewers to engage physically with the work.
“Experimenting with various techniques and materials is a fundamental part of my creation process. It can shape how a viewer engages with the work. I volunteer at Heide Museum of Modern Art in Melbourne, where I often observe how people respond to artworks: which pieces they want to touch, lean into, step back from, or sit with quietly. Their responses fascinate me, and I try to carry that awareness into my own practice. Long exposures, for instance, allow me to slow time — or at least offer that impression to the viewer because, ironically, creating these images can be quite physical and fast-paced, requiring repeated movement. But the resulting stillness, texture of the finished canvas, play of colour, and blur offer a kind of visual exhale — a way to pause in a world that moves so quickly.”
She’s drawn to processes that are tactile and sometimes frustratingly unpredictable, echoing the handmade creativity of her childhood.
“More recently, I’ve been working with printmaking techniques like gelatine cyanotypes and glass prints. I’m drawn to the tactility and unpredictability of these processes which I love and find frustrating at the same time. I love working with my hands — maybe that comes from my childhood, weaving baskets with my babcia or making things from found materials on the farm and in the forest. Installation in multi-dimensional space allows me to extend photography beyond the frame — into space and sound. It offers an immersive environment where viewers don’t just look, but feel and move through the work. I want people to slow down, read notes, to sense the atmosphere, to reflect. That’s the power of choosing the right medium — it doesn’t just present the work, it is part of the message.”
Migration, identity and the fragile art of belonging
Migration has meant Aldona constantly rethinks what it means to belong — never quite Polish enough, never entirely Australian, always navigating the space between.
“Migration led me to question my identity. Suddenly, I’m not Polish enough, or not Australian enough. Then there are the name mispronunciations (which I now hilariously collect): ‘Nice to meet you, Donna Kimec!’ I’ve come to understand belonging as a process of educating others: about Poland, about history and language, of adapting, of claiming space, and of becoming the person I need to be — for myself. Home for me isn’t just where you are physically — it’s also how you choose to live, contribute to, and connect in that place.”
This is also why she approaches intimate portraits of family or elders with such care, always seeking consent and collaboration.
“With care, I never take access for granted. For one of my projects, I’m hoping to photograph my young nephews, and I know it will be a difficult negotiation with them, perhaps impossible. Whether I’m photographing my family or a community elder, it’s about building trust and being transparent about what my images are intended for. I often involve participants in editing and presentation decisions — so they have agency in how their story is shared. ”
Recognition, resilience and the art of surviving
Over time, her work has gained recognition through prizes and residencies, helping her connect with curators, artists and funding bodies. But Aldona is clear: it has taken years to build this as a migrant artist starting without networks, balancing art with the realities of paying bills.
“As a migrant who didn’t study art in Australia and started without existing networks, it took time to find my footing — balancing full-time work, life, and the slow work of building relationships within the arts. Recognition is definitely affirming — it has opened some doors and given me opportunities to connect with more artists, curators, and decision-makers in funding bodies. It’s allowed my work to reach wider audiences and offered me the chance to be part of important conversations in the arts community such as contributing to academic research into artists’ incomes, funding, etc. But, I certainly don’t feel I’m at the stage where I want to be yet. My goal of becoming better at articulating my ideas, refining my visual language, and learning how to present my work more clearly and confidently has been the most valuable part.”
Asked which project has challenged or transformed her most, she answers simply: life itself.
“Honestly, the project called life. Migrating twice — from Poland to the UK, and again to a faraway country like Australia is, in itself, a massive undertaking — one that continues to challenge me every day. Settling here without close family support, learning to work professionally in a second language, establishing both a business and an artistic practice, managing teams and projects, buying a house — these are huge milestones in anyone’s life.”
She’s also recently trained as an educator, keen to support other artists.
“Over the past 16 years in Australia, I’ve had to reinvent myself more than once. Earlier this year I completed an RMIT course to become a certified trainer/educator and I’d love to use my project and digital skills, and previous business mentoring experience to help other artists.”
Looking ahead
As we speak, she’s flying out for a residency in Poland to continue developing Hills Hoist. Like many artists, she balances long-term work with the need to simply survive financially.
“Right now, I’m about to leave for my self-directed residency in Poland, where I’ll be developing images for my solo exhibition Hills Hoist. The rest is about making work that stays true to my aesthetic, and my ongoing need for experimentation, especially with printmaking processes. Beyond that, much of my current practice is about economic survival, which means looking for paid work, applying for various funding opportunities and working on long-term projects.”
Her advice to emerging photographers is both tough and hopeful: pay attention to your themes, trust your voice, and to get a second job.
“I think, deep down, we all know who we are and what we care about — so the most important thing is to stay grounded in that. Pay attention to the themes that keep showing up in your work, as those are often clues pointing to something unresolved or important. Stay true to your voice, and set boundaries early — don’t be afraid to say NO — especially to exploitative offers that promise ‘exposure’ instead of real support or payment. On a practical level, I’d really encourage emerging photographers to build networks early. Don’t rush, let the work breathe. Let your ideas mature and your creative practice evolve in the direction that you want.”
The joy of undocumented moments
Asked who from history she’d most want to photograph, Aldona chooses joy over tragedy — imagining old village parties, full of life she never got to record.
“I have a vivid memory, from when I was very young, of being at an outdoor wedding — someone’s orchard in the village, a white marquee, a live band, lots of dancing, people dressed up and full of joy. I’m not sure how much of it is memory and how much is imagination, but it has stayed with me as this cinematic scene. I also wish I could have photographed me and my sisters as young kids on the farm. We don’t have many photos from our childhoods, and I often think about what’s been undocumented. To be able to document those scenes now — not just as a family member but as an artist — would be a way of preserving something precious that exists mostly in my memory. It’s about honouring where I come from.”
And what can’t she live without?
“Honestly, it’s the studio itself. Carving out a small creative space in our Heidelberg rental during a cost of living crisis feels like a major achievement! But it’s definitely too small for what I need to function properly (I can’t do any proper studio photography there for example, hence I apply for art residencies) — having a studio is absolutely essential. So it’s not one object I can’t live without, it’s the actual space to have things organised on shelves, and be able to make a mess.”
THROUGH her photographs, installations and deep engagement with community, Aldona Kmieć continues to chart the subtle territories of migration, memory and belonging. Her practice is anchored by an instinct to pay attention — to places marked by history, to people whose stories risk being overlooked, and to the fragments of personal and collective experience that shape how we see ourselves.
In sharing her own journey — from Poland’s quiet wounds to Australia’s regional heartlands, from inherited silences to acts of trust and collaboration — Kmieć offers more than a portrait of an artist. She invites us to consider what it means to carry both past and present, to honour where we come from while still searching for where we fit.
Ultimately, her work stands as a gentle, insistent reminder: that in slowing down, in listening closely, and in giving space to the stories that too often go unspoken, we come a little closer to understanding what it truly means to belong.
For more information: aldonakmiec.com
