Alison Klymchuk
In Loving Memory
About the project
In Loving Memory examines urban development a form of erasure, drawing parallels between construction sites and gravesites. At the center of the work is a salvaged tile from a demolished residential building in Berlin, printed with an image of a borrow pit shaped like a coffin. The piece reflects the emotional impact of "reverse migration" and modern-day colonization. Gentrification, driven by rising rents and foreign investments, displaces communities and leads to a silent yet widespread cultural death. The work contemplates death as a transition—from vitality to emptiness—and the displacement experienced when homes are lost. Construction sites and gravesites, building and destruction, life and death, become eerily intertwined through the erasure of collective memory and history.
About the artist
Name: Alison Klymchuk
Born — Location: Canada — Ukraine — Germany
Born in Canada to immigrant parents, I spent every summer in Kyiv reconnecting with my family and heritage, bridging the cultural distance between my two worlds. After my ancestral home in Makariv was destroyed by Russian shelling, I felt irrevocably lost by the death of my roots. I relocated to Germany to be closer to my Ukrainian family while navigating the loss of our home. This journey has deeply shaped my understanding of cultural survival.
Alison Klymchuk is a Ukrainian-Canadian multidisciplinary artist based in Berlin,
working in sculpture, mixed-media, photography and semiotics to unearth urban
methodologies. She sources her materials from skip bins and construction sites,
reconstructing remnants of demolished residential buildings to translate stories of
erasure. Alison has mapped cities across Germany, Ukraine and North America
through a process rooted in rituals of gathering and home-building in the face of
colonial power structures.
Website: www.alisonklymchuk.ca
Instagram: @alisonklymchuk
For me, death is not only the end of life but also a metaphor for loss, erasure, and transformation. Growing up between two worlds—Canada and Ukraine—death has often symbolized the spaces between belonging and displacement, between what is remembered and what is forgotten. The destruction of my ancestral home in Makariv during the Russian invasion felt like a kind of death—a severing of roots, identity, and history. It made me acutely aware of how death is not just biological but cultural, tied to the loss of homes, traditions, and collective memory. Yet, within this loss, death also signifies resilience and the act of rebuilding. It forces us to confront what we hold onto and what must change. In my practice, I often explore death as a transition—a point where vitality becomes emptiness, and yet, from that emptiness, something new can emerge. To me, death is as much about endings as it is about the potential for renewal, a space where grief and hope coexist. It’s a reminder of the fragility of what we call "home" and the enduring strength of what we choose to preserve.
Born — Location: Canada — Ukraine — Germany
Born in Canada to immigrant parents, I spent every summer in Kyiv reconnecting with my family and heritage, bridging the cultural distance between my two worlds. After my ancestral home in Makariv was destroyed by Russian shelling, I felt irrevocably lost by the death of my roots. I relocated to Germany to be closer to my Ukrainian family while navigating the loss of our home. This journey has deeply shaped my understanding of cultural survival.
Alison Klymchuk is a Ukrainian-Canadian multidisciplinary artist based in Berlin,
working in sculpture, mixed-media, photography and semiotics to unearth urban
methodologies. She sources her materials from skip bins and construction sites,
reconstructing remnants of demolished residential buildings to translate stories of
erasure. Alison has mapped cities across Germany, Ukraine and North America
through a process rooted in rituals of gathering and home-building in the face of
colonial power structures.
Website: www.alisonklymchuk.ca
Instagram: @alisonklymchuk
For me, death is not only the end of life but also a metaphor for loss, erasure, and transformation. Growing up between two worlds—Canada and Ukraine—death has often symbolized the spaces between belonging and displacement, between what is remembered and what is forgotten. The destruction of my ancestral home in Makariv during the Russian invasion felt like a kind of death—a severing of roots, identity, and history. It made me acutely aware of how death is not just biological but cultural, tied to the loss of homes, traditions, and collective memory. Yet, within this loss, death also signifies resilience and the act of rebuilding. It forces us to confront what we hold onto and what must change. In my practice, I often explore death as a transition—a point where vitality becomes emptiness, and yet, from that emptiness, something new can emerge. To me, death is as much about endings as it is about the potential for renewal, a space where grief and hope coexist. It’s a reminder of the fragility of what we call "home" and the enduring strength of what we choose to preserve.