The Disposable Made Eternal: Helena Minginowicz’s Subversive Art of Reclamation
There’s something profoundly unsettling—and yet utterly captivating—about Helena Minginowicz’s work. At first glance, her pieces appear to be delicate, almost ethereal paintings, the kind you might find in a Renaissance gallery. But look closer, and you’ll notice the canvas isn’t canvas at all. It’s paper towel. Yes, the same disposable, mass-produced, utterly mundane paper towel that wipes up spills and gets tossed without a second thought. Personally, I think this is where Minginowicz’s genius lies: she forces us to confront the absurdity of our throwaway culture by elevating the most disposable into the realm of the eternal.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the way Minginowicz challenges our deeply ingrained hierarchies of value. We’re conditioned to believe that certain materials—marble, gold, oil paint—are inherently worthy of artistic expression, while others are destined for the trash. Minginowicz flips this script entirely. By using paper towel and plastic bags as her substrates, she asks: What if the things we discard are just as capable of carrying meaning as the things we venerate? In my opinion, this isn’t just a statement about art; it’s a critique of how we assign worth to objects, people, and even experiences in our daily lives.
One thing that immediately stands out is her technique. Minginowicz uses airbrushed acrylic to build up translucent layers, a process that feels almost alchemical. The result is a tension between fragility and permanence. The paper towel, with its machine-embossed patterns, retains its utilitarian identity, yet it’s transformed into something hauntingly beautiful. What many people don’t realize is that this duality mirrors the human experience itself—we are both fleeting and capable of leaving a lasting imprint. Minginowicz seems to be saying: Even the most disposable among us has a story worth preserving.
Her imagery, too, is rich with commentary. Drawing on the style of Renaissance paintings, she often depicts idealized female figures, reminiscent of Botticelli’s Venus or aristocratic portraits. But here’s the twist: these figures aren’t saints or heroes. They’re ordinary, vulnerable, human. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a radical act. For centuries, art has been used to immortalize the powerful and the victorious. Minginowicz, however, uses the same language to celebrate the overlooked, the everyday, the disposable. This raises a deeper question: Who gets to be remembered, and why?
A detail that I find especially interesting is how she presents her work. The paper towel pieces are encased between thick slabs of acrylic, giving them a sculptural quality. This isn’t just about preservation; it’s about elevation. The acrylic acts as a kind of armor, turning something inherently fragile into an object of substantial weight and presence. What this really suggests is that dignity isn’t inherent—it’s bestowed. And Minginowicz is the one doing the bestowing, challenging us to reconsider what we deem worthy of our attention.
From my perspective, Minginowicz’s art is a mirror held up to our civilization. She reminds us that the things we throw away often say more about us than the monuments we build. It’s a call to rethink our relationship with consumption, value, and humanity itself. As she prepares for her solo exhibition at Galerie Prima in Paris, I can’t help but wonder: Will we see her work as a mere curiosity, or will it spark a broader conversation about the disposability of our culture? Personally, I’m betting on the latter. Because in a world where everything seems temporary, Minginowicz’s art feels like a quiet rebellion—a reminder that even the most humble materials can carry the weight of eternity.
