“I’ve known Katel Delia for ten years, since just a few days after her arrival in Malta,” says curator Melanie Erixon. “This exhibition is significant not only because of the urgency of the topic it addresses, but also because it marks Katel’s 50th birthday and the 10th anniversary of our friendship, a decade filled with exhibitions, projects, and creative journeys we’ve shared.”
To offer more insight into her current exhibition, Threads of What Remains, which is being held at the Wignacourt Museum until July 26, Erixon conducted a short Q&A with the artist.
This exhibition marks a return to the underwater world, a recurring theme in your work. What draws you so powerfully to this subject?
I’ve been diving for three decades, and from the very beginning, I was drawn to capturing the underwater world through photography. I’ve always focused more on landscapes than on fish. I’m fascinated by the vastness, the textures, and the silence of the seabed.
I’ve returned to this subject because I’m increasingly concerned about how we treat the ocean. Oceans cover 70% of the Earth’s surface. They’re like the lungs of the planet. We often talk about the devastating impact of deforestation and how cutting down trees contributes to climate change and biodiversity loss. But we should be just as concerned about the destruction happening in our oceans today.
You’ve been diving for nearly 30 years. How has the underwater environment changed in that time, from your firsthand perspective?
Even though I’ve been diving for over 30 years, I’ve rarely dived in the same place, so it’s hard to make direct comparisons. However, I think many Maltese people can relate to this small anecdote from my childhood. I used to visit my Maltese grandparents here in Malta, and back then, we had to be really careful where we jumped into the sea because there were so many sea urchins. Nowadays, you hardly see any.
The younger generation might think the Maltese sea has always looked like this, but that’s not the case. It’s important to share these personal memories and testimonies because they reflect the damage caused by human activity over time.
That said, there is hope. In areas that are properly protected, we can already see marine life returning and ecosystems beginning to thrive again.
Can you walk us through the process of creating these embroidered photographic works — from diving and shooting, to stitching and presenting them as artworks? How do you decide what design fits best the particular underwater scene?
Here in Malta, the sea is incredibly clear, and I love working with natural light. I don’t use any artificial lighting or flash. When you dive deeper, you start losing colours. First red, then orange, then yellow, because these colours don’t penetrate the water well. They only reappear if you use powerful lights, which I don’t. So most of the time, we’re immersed in a very monochromatic atmosphere.
That’s why it felt natural to present the photos in black and white. It brings out beautiful contrasts and draws attention to texture and materiality. The landscapes become more mysterious, ghostly, almost dreamlike, and sometimes even disorienting. You might ask yourself, ‘Where is this place?’
I started adding embroidery because, as I mentioned before, I was deeply affected by the absence of marine life in these images. The underwater landscapes looked so mineral, so barren. So I began stitching in sea urchins, and reintroducing colour into the Posidonia, an underwater seagrass that’s under threat, mostly due to boat anchors and pollution. And yet Posidonia is such a vital ecosystem, a real paradise for marine biodiversity.
In some series, I focus on underwater landscapes that feature natural lines or ridges. I create what I call a “double landscape”, a kind of superimposition, where I find visual echoes between the photograph and the embroidery: a line, a form, or a flow that continues between the two.
As for the embroidered fishing nets, those are very deliberate. They symbolise one of the main reasons behind the emptiness of our seas. I often design the nets to obstruct large parts of the photograph, just like real fishing nets block the passage of fish and marine mammals. Bottom trawling, in particular, is devastating as it destroys everything in its path. And even though the fishing industry only wants certain species, around 40% of what they catch is thrown back into the sea, dead.
The use of embroidery feels both fragile and deliberate. What role does this medium play in shaping the emotional or conceptual impact of the work?
You’re right, the photographic paper itself is fragile. By piercing it with a needle, I’m somehow desacralising the traditional status of the photograph. But at the same time, it becomes an act of care, of reparation, as I’m adding what’s missing, stitching back elements that have been lost.
Also, many people tend to think that taking a photograph is a simple gesture where you just press a button. But that’s far from the reality, especially when working underwater. I won’t go into all the technical details here, but it’s far more complex.
By adding embroidery, I introduce another kind of time into the work — a slower, meditative process. It becomes a layered piece, not only visually but temporally. And I think that contrast is important: nature takes so long to create these delicate ecosystems, yet humans can destroy them so quickly. The embroidery, in a way, mirrors that contrast, slow creation versus rapid destruction.
One of the works features a stitched fishing net, referencing the destructive impact of bottom trawling and ghost nets. How do you balance the poetic and the political in your work?
It’s always a challenge to balance both the poetic and the political in an artwork. But I believe that if a piece creates a strong visual or emotional impact at first glance, it can prompt viewers to ask questions, and hopefully, encourage them to look deeper into the subject or issue being addressed.
For me, the political dimension is essential. It’s what drives me to create. It’s always the starting point of using art as a way to deliver a message. Whether it’s through photography, sculpture, or installation, I aim to raise awareness and spark reflection through the visual language of art.
This exhibition also includes sculptural pieces. What prompted the shift from two-dimensional photography to three-dimensional expression in this context?
As a multidisciplinary artist, I enjoy exploring different mediums. Sculpture allows me to express ideas and emotions that photography alone cannot convey. In this exhibition, my main concern is how we treat and exploit the ocean. How we speak of protection while still allowing destructive practices like bottom trawling, or how we fail to protect and rescue the people who cross the sea.
The Mediterranean has become a vast cemetery. Each sculpture highlights a different issue, like the environmental concerns surrounding fish farms and the growing threat of deep-sea mining. These three-dimensional works give physical form to urgent realities that we too often choose to ignore.
Your work often touches on themes of migration, memory, and the unseen. Do you see the underwater world as a metaphor in some ways?
I really appreciate the way you connected my current work with previous themes I’ve explored. Yes, in many ways, the underwater world serves as a powerful metaphor. For most of us, it’s a realm we rarely see, distant from our daily lives, almost invisible. And because it’s out of sight, we’ve treated it like a dumping ground, overrun with plastic and pollution. It’s like sweeping the dust under the carpet. One of my photographs is titled Look Under, Look After, is a call to pay attention to what lies beneath the surface.
Underwater, your sensations shift, everything feels unfamiliar, suspended. It’s a unique environment that invites contemplation and mystery.
And yet, there’s still wonder: every time scientists explore the deep sea, they discover hundreds, sometimes thousands, of new species, some with extraordinary abilities like producing their own light. But this beauty is fragile. While there is so much left to explore and understand, some governments are already pushing to extract and exploit these areas, threatening to destroy ecosystems we’ve barely begun to know.
With the increasing visibility of marine environmental issues, do you think art can play a role in effecting real change?
Art is powerful and incredibly so. If it weren’t, why would anti-democratic regimes so often try to silence artists and shut down their voices across all sectors? And then, once in control, use art as a tool for propaganda? So yes, absolutely, I believe art can and must play a role in effecting change.
I strongly advocate for the protection of our oceans, the environment, and human rights. Art can raise awareness, provoke thought, and move people emotionally, and that’s where change begins.
What message or feeling would you like visitors to walk away with after experiencing Threads of What Remains?
I hope they carry with them a sense of the sea’s beauty — its light, its mystery, its fragility. But beyond the feeling, I want the message to be clear: protect the ocean, stay informed, and take responsibility. Nature is resilient, yes — but only up to a point.
Lastly, what’s next for you? Are you already working on new projects or ideas inspired by this ongoing dialogue between nature and humanity?
I haven’t finished exploring the subject of the oceans, the challenges we face, and the urgent need to protect them. I have several ideas in mind for new installations and sculptural works. Time will tell which of these will take shape and reach the public. But this dialogue between
nature and humanity will certainly continue to guide my practice.
Q&A with the artist by Melanie Erixon.
Threads of What Remains runs at Wigancourt Museum until July 26
See Katel Delia on Instagram.
