Georgia Lale's art is a pulse — raw, urgent, and deeply human. Born in Greece and now creating in New York, their work is a visceral dialogue between the body’s personal struggles and society’s broader fractures. As a cancer fighter and activist, Lale channels their experiences into performances and installations that challenge systems of power, from refugee advocacy to healthcare access. Unafraid to disrupt and provoke, their art has been both celebrated and censored, pushing boundaries wherever it’s shown. In this conversation, Lale opens up about the unflinching vulnerability that fuels their work and the role of art in shaping more just, human-centered narratives.
It was a true pleasure to sit down with Georgia Lale for this conversation. I was struck by how open, warm, and deeply thoughtful they were, approaching each question with both honesty and care. What began as an interview quickly turned into an engaging, personal dialogue about art, resilience, and the power of vulnerability. Let's dive into this dialogue to uncover the stories and motivations behind their work.

Full Interview:
Q1: Can you tell us about your artistic journey and how your background influences your work?
I come from an artistic family. My father is an artist — a sculptor named Charis Lales— and he’s created several public monuments in Athens and other places in Greece. My two siblings, Kostas and Peter, are also artists. So, I was essentially born into this environment.
Since I was a child, I was fascinated by watching my father work in his studio. Seeing him come up with an idea, manifest it, and create an object out of thin air was mesmerizing. Then, witnessing how people interacted with his work at exhibitions — how they connected with it emotionally — really shaped my understanding of art’s power.
One thing that stood out to me early on was how art sparks conversations. It opens dialogues on subjects people might not have discussed otherwise. That realization became a key part of my own practice. I aim to create pieces that first attract people through their visual impact, but then trigger deeper thoughts and conversations.
Q2: At what age did you start experimenting with artistic materials?
I have a picture of myself at around three years old, playing with paint alongside my brother Kostas, who was two. Our father was very strict about us using only primary colors — no black or white — and figuring out the rest on our own. Of course, the result was always some shade of brown!
But we had so much fun growing up in that artistic environment. We bonded as a family through art — visiting museums, discussing artworks — and it became a significant part of our relationships.
Even now, my siblings and I often share progress on our work in a group chat. We send pictures from our studios and give each other feedback. Sometimes the feedback isn't what I’m looking for, but through those disagreements, my concepts become more concrete.

Q3: Are there recurring themes or symbols in your work that hold special significance?
When it comes to recurring themes or symbols in my work, I’d say my art navigates through different physical expressions. I engage in live art, performance art, and object-making. Over time, three core themes have emerged in my practice.
First, there’s the refugee phenomenon and forced migration, especially around the Mediterranean region. This is a deeply personal theme for me because of my family history. Both of my grandfathers were refugees from Asia Minor — modern-day Turkey — who were forced to migrate to Greece in the 1920s during the Greek-Turkish war. When the refugee crisis peaked in 2015, I was living in the U.S., and I witnessed it primarily through American media outlets. Seeing people arriving on boats, wrapped in life vests and emergency blankets, was overwhelming. It brought back memories of my family’s story. In my mind, those refugees weren’t strangers — they were my ancestors. I felt a personal responsibility to raise awareness, especially in the U.S., where many people weren’t fully aware of the crisis. That’s how my project ‘’#OrangeVest’’ began, which we can talk more about later.
The second theme I explore is the U.S. healthcare system and what it means to live in a country with a commercialized healthcare structure. I’ve had firsthand experience with this since being diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 2019. Navigating that system was difficult and, at times, traumatic. The cost and complexity of healthcare forced me to remain in toxic situations longer than I should have, simply because I needed coverage. That experience really shaped my understanding of the healthcare system and became a significant part of my work.
The third theme in my practice is gender-based violence and equal rights for all, regardless of biological sex or sexual orientation. These are human rights issues that affect millions, and I feel a responsibility to address them through my art.
A unifying aspect of all these themes is their universality. They’re personal to me, but they also resonate with a wider audience — people from all walks of life, including those who aren’t part of the traditional art world. Activism through art is central to my practice. I’m always trying to find ways to reach people outside of museums and galleries, which can often feel intimidating and exclusionary. To me, art is inherently democratic. It’s for everyone, and it’s created by everyone.
Even when an artist produces something, it’s never in isolation. Their work is shaped by the collective influences of society — visual and conceptual triggers from social media, news, culture, and shared experiences. I strive to break down barriers and communicate with those who may feel disconnected from the art world, because ultimately, art is about fostering understanding and dialogue across all communities.

Q4 The #OrangeVest performance is a striking commentary on the refugee crisis. What inspired this piece, and how has public response shaped its evolution?
The #OrangeVest's performance was inspired by the refugee crisis, and the public space was essential for raising awareness. The first performance in 2015 took place at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Wearing black clothes and an orange life vest, I walked through the museum’s Syrian and Greek galleries, recreating the refugees route and commenting on the artifacts' displacement.
The performances were public interventions, done without permission to mirror the refugees' lack of papers as they fled for safety. Over time, other people, including artists and those with personal connections to the refugee issue, joined the performances. This led to the creation of small communities within the performances, with participants sharing intimate experiences.
The final performance in Brussels involved refugees and locals, who initially kept apart but became united by the end of the piece. Refugees shared that wearing the life vest was heavy but empowering, as it gave them confidence to express their stories through various forms of art, music, cooking, and crafts.
Q5: Can you share more about your work related to gender-based violence?
Themes of female sexuality, the fem body, and gender-based violence, have been present in my work since my undergraduate years in Athens. These issues are universal, rooted in the patriarchal society we all live in, regardless of gender.
A story from my family profoundly shaped my work: my grandfather’s sister, Maria, was murdered by her husband in the 1930s. He killed her after she refused to sing at a wedding while mourning her brother’s death. The murder was covered up, and he was never prosecuted. This story, which my father made sure was never forgotten, reflects a widespread issue: many families have similar stories, but stigma often silences them.
I believe it's important to talk openly about these stories. In many cultures, including Greek society, there’s a tendency to ignore such issues, which perpetuates violence. Victim-blaming is also widespread, with victims often being asked inappropriate questions in courtrooms.
In Greece, femicide cases are not automatically pursued by the state, leaving families to bear the legal burden, unlike in other countries where the government takes on this responsibility.
My art uses materials like hospital gowns and bedsheets because they hold intimate connections to the human body. These objects absorb emotions and history, and in cases of femicide, they tragically absorb blood. I choose materials that have real-world history, given to me by others, to add depth to the stories I’m telling in my work. These materials are not just symbolic but carry the weight of lived experiences.

Q6: What was the process behind creating the "Pink Flag" artwork?
The "Pink Flag" was inspired by the femicide case of Caroline Crouch, who was murdered in her bed. It hit me that she made the bed where she was murdered, a small act that’s part of the everyday labor of women. I decided to use bed sheets in my work because they are so closely tied to this labor. I invited women in Greece to contribute their used bed sheets, symbolizing the space where they dreamed of a safer, more equal world. I then used these sheets to create a flag. This work is not just about the women’s labor—it’s about their strength and the oppressive systems they have to fight against. The flag became a statement on femicides in Greece.
When I exhibited the "Pink Flag," it received a lot of positive attention from the audience and the Greek Consulate in New York. However, things took a dramatic turn when a far-right member of the Greek parliament complained about the piece, and the Greek Ministry of Foreign Affairs demanded it be taken down. I wasn’t even officially notified; I found out about the removal through an Instagram post. I received death threats, rape threats, and attacks online, all because of the piece. It was heartbreaking because the most painful part of the entire situation was the message it sent to women suffering in their own homes. The message was clear: “Don’t talk about it. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t share your suffering”.
Q7: How does this experience shape your view of the art world and your place in it?
This whole experience reaffirmed for me why I chose to have an artistic career outside of Greece. If I had stayed in Greece, my voice would never have been heard. I love my country deeply, but in order to address these issues, I needed to be in a place where my art could have more of an impact. The response to my work outside of Greece has been more open and supportive, but at home, they want to silence me. In New York, my work can reach a wider audience, and that’s important because it allows me to address uncomfortable truths that are being ignored back home.

Q8: How do you hope viewers interpret or connect with your art?
My art is conceptual, based on ideas and symbols. But I think it’s essential to leave space for the audience to interpret the work on their own terms. If people can’t connect personally with a piece, then I feel there’s no point in making it. I dislike seeing long explanatory texts next to artworks in galleries and museums. It feels like an insult to the audience’s intelligence. Art should invite people to bring their own experiences and emotions into the interpretation.
For example, in my public performance piece “#OrangeVest,” I staged a procession of people wearing life vests in unexpected public spaces. It sparked curiosity and conversations. I remember overhearing a five-year-old girl ask her mom, “Why are those people wearing life vests?” Her mom explained it was an artwork commenting on the refugee crisis, and the girl asked, “What’s a refugee?”
Moments like that are when I know my art has succeeded. Similarly, when I work with hospital gowns, some patients have told me they found comfort during difficult moments by imagining their gowns becoming part of my art.

Q9: What feedback or reactions have you received from viewers?
The feedback has been emotional and impactful.
In Greece, my work on femicides has created a community of support. People recognize the materials I use — bedsheets, for example — and know they’ve become part of the artwork. It’s a form of collaboration.
Some women have come to my exhibitions in tears. I take them aside, give them a hug, and speak with them. I never ask why they’re crying — that’s personal. But they know I’m there, and they know someone cares.
This is critical, especially for survivors of domestic abuse, who often feel isolated. Abusers rely on that isolation. They become most violent at night when they know their victims can’t easily reach out for help.
Art can be a way to break that isolation. It creates space for stories to be shared and connections to be made.
Q10: If you could collaborate with any artist, past or present, who would that be?
I do not often collaborate with other artists. But I really admire Frida Kahlo’s work. She talks through her art about her personal struggles—with her identity, relationships, and health. But she does it in a way that's universal. People can relate to her story. She really puts herself out there, like an open book,

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Really beautiful detailed interview with Georgia lake. She is so great abd wonderful. A lady you want on your team fighting every step of them way abd keading by explain. A true warrior through abd thru. Glad we connected. I'm a big supporter