Tereza Štětinová is a sculptor, visual artist, and teacher who seeks both her creativity and life balance between Prague and the Vysočina region. She speaks openly about motherhood, faith, the art of allowing oneself to take a pause, and about how she discovered the power of the present moment—with an unexpected confession by the campfire playing a part in it.

Her sculptures are records of memories and stories that touch upon what is most essential between us—family, motherhood, and the perception of natural laws. Every material, every symbol carries the strength of a moment that will never repeat itself, and Tereza appreciates when she can work on her sculptures not only mentally but also physically—when they bear the traces of both thought and the sculptor’s chisel.

“Alone, a person can achieve only little, but through collaboration we grow — not only professionally, but also personally. And for all of this, humility is essential.”

These days, many people dream of leaving the city behind—trading a small apartment for a house, or the corner shop for a forest just outside the door. How do you balance life between the city and the countryside?
There was a time when I longed for nature, but not necessarily the countryside itself. Yet the more often we visit our family cottage, the more it brings back warm memories of the village where I grew up. Rural life certainly has its drawbacks, but because we don’t live there permanently, we avoid the daily struggles and get to enjoy only the beauty. The cottage—currently being built by Facha Architects—is set in near solitude. At the same time, I still love Prague. I relish being able to slip into a café, dress up a little, meet friends, or take the children to a museum. I enjoy moving between these two worlds. Ideally, I’d have both in equal measure.

What makes country life special?
For me, it’s the freedom to create. In my Prague studio I worry about disturbing others when I grind stone, but at the cottage I can work without restraint, and everything flows more easily. I also feel a different kind of connection with myself there. We live on the edge of a forest, spend time by the river, and my husband meditates—our daughter has recently joined him. The children roam freely across the large grounds. Another beautiful aspect is the sense of community. Where I come from, it’s natural for people to look out for one another. If your car gets stuck, a neighbor shows up with a tractor; in return, you help with what you know best.

ALLOWING YOURSELF TO SWITCH OFF, DO NOTHING, AND LET THINGS FLOW

How do you create? When do the muses usually visit you?
When I calm down… They’re always there, but this year I had a particularly demanding end to the school year. After my maternity leave with my son František, I took on too much and completely overextended myself. I was truly exhausted. So I allowed myself two weeks of doing absolutely nothing—no work on my art at all. And it helped me tremendously. I could focus solely on allowing myself to slow down and simply reflect from time to time. I really needed that. My husband supported me greatly in this, as he does with everything I do.
I had been running at full speed, feeling my nerves fray, my thoughts spinning in circles, doubting whether I could manage everything, and worrying if our family budget could cover the costs of a new exhibition. So I gave myself two weeks of pure idleness. I spent time only with the children, enjoying every day, and then suddenly I found myself standing over the stones—the future sculptures—fresh from a river bath, knowing exactly what I wanted to do. I immediately began creating, and once I started, ideas flowed from one piece to the next. For the first time, I truly experienced how restorative and healing a pause can be.

You speak about an experience that might be important for many of us: the art of allowing yourself to do nothing. To take a proper break, truly switch off, set your out-of-office, and give your mind some rest…
Do you know what’s even more interesting about this? I remember an experience this summer, when our three-year-old son had his christening. It was a big celebration in the Vysočina region. The day before, we had a campfire at our cottage, and the priest came to hear my confession and get to know our family better. We sat by the fire, talking and roasting sausages. He heard my confession at sunset, under a full moon. The Sacrament of Reconciliation has its rules, and we also discussed matters that troubled me. At the end, the priest mentioned a passage from Ecclesiastes, chapter 3, verses 1-8: everything has its time and its pace. There is a time to rest as well as a time to work, a time to be angry and a time to be content, a time to be sad and a time to rejoice. It’s a beautiful text that helped me deeply and continues to guide me.
These days, people often feel they must constantly work on themselves and keep improving. It’s important to remember that sometimes it’s okay to let go and ease up. I sometimes convince myself that I can’t—can’t leave the house untidy, can’t stop doing laundry or creating. What if I stopped creating forever? When I’m overloaded, a strange panic and fear creep in.
I have chapter 3 of Ecclesiastes photographed in my phone, and I often read the verses. They remind me to recognize what has its time and what doesn’t—for example, that there is a time to grow old.

In the context of aging, what do you feel most acutely?
Life goes through many phases. Of course, it can be hard sometimes when I realize that, for instance, we can’t afford a third child right now, and by the time we could, my body might say it’s too late. I struggled with this for a long time. I have some long-term health concerns, and our financial situation isn’t ideal. Yet my husband and I deeply desired a third child. I reflected on it a lot. It was difficult to recognize and admit that one reason I wanted a third child was a sense of guilt—that perhaps at times I hadn’t given enough attention to František, since he’s the second child, and that with a third child, I might try to make up for that. At the same time, I felt that maybe the best choice was to let things flow: whatever happens, happens. Right now, I needed to be present with the children I already had, rather than thinking I needed to do even better with a third. Mothers today constantly feel that they are failing. Motherhood can be demanding in this way. But to tell myself, “I’m doing my best, I don’t have to fix everything, I can simply enjoy the present moment”—that realization came to me through confession. I often dwell on my past mistakes and doubt myself, but once I realized I could apply my experiences to my children without needing a third child, I felt true liberation.

How important is faith to you?
Increasingly so. In elementary school, I attended religious classes and went to church several times a week. In art school, I went through a certain crisis of faith, but it wasn’t just because I was a teenager. It had deeper reasons—I needed to let go of an orthodox view of religion.
I began returning to faith, rituals, and ceremonies only when my first daughter, Lotka, started kindergarten. By chance, it was a Catholic kindergarten—St. Clement in Prague 7—and they approached faith very beautifully. The rituals and ceremonies that had once felt exhausting and restrictive now feel different. Part of this is also due to the wonderful priest we are fortunate to have in our village. With him, I can discuss what I found difficult about faith and share my doubts.

What kind of doubts did you have?
The Catholic Church carries a certain sense of suffering that always bothered me. But it doesn’t have to be that way if you meet an excellent priest who chooses meaningful texts and speaks openly and relevantly. More broadly, faith can be a form of meditation and self-work. Focusing on the present moment is a common thread in all religions.

THE TEACHER AND THE POWER OF APOLOGY

You mention the importance of a person, an individual who is able to interpret and guide in the right direction. A good teacher. This is also a topic for you, as you yourself are a teacher at an elementary art school. How do you perceive the role of a teacher
The more I teach, the more I realize that teaching isn’t easy. It’s mentally demanding work, even though I teach a wonderful subject—visual arts at primary art school. We work with children in three-hour blocks, which is very long for many of them. I notice big differences in how long today’s children can focus—those who got a smartphone too early often struggle to maintain attention. So we teach them to calm down, work slowly, and concentrate on one thing over a longer period.
I really enjoy teaching and love working with children, but I also understand how thin the line is between “being kind but inconsistent” and “being kind, yet strict and consistent.” It’s a delicate balance, especially when teachers have children of their own. Fatigue from parenting at home can affect your energy at school. Managing bad moods at home while teaching children who themselves may not be in a good mood makes maintaining that balance challenging.

Even teacher is only a human.
I believe in the power of apology. When things get overwhelming and children misbehave, and a teacher raises their voice, it’s important to address it in class afterward. Saying: “I know, I shouldn’t have reacted that way, and I’m sorry.” Talking about these moments matters.

Did you have teachers in your life who left a lasting impression?
I was lucky to have wonderful teachers. At primary art school in Velké Meziříčí, Mrs. Mastnicová was amazing. On the village level, I attended tactile modeling classes led by Tereza and Štěpán Axman—Tereza taught me drawing, Štěpán modeling. In high school and university, I had many essential teachers and professors. But I think it matters enormously whom you meet in your youth, when you’re just beginning to create as a child.

How do you teach?
I try not to stifle a child’s talent, encouraging originality and praising achievement. If a child overcomes a challenge, like completing a long task, I recognize it publicly. I don’t make things easier for them, but when they succeed, I highlight their accomplishment and may offer a small reward or a choice in their next task.
That’s why I love teaching at primary art school—I can watch children grow, help them discover what excites them, overcome challenges, and even prepare them for art schools. I teach children from five to eighteen years old. With older students, I play music, podcasts from Czech Radio, and discuss books—both those they read and those I read. Teaching isn’t one-way; it’s a dialogue.
A few years ago, one of my students went through a gender transition. He felt supported not just by classmates but also by school leadership, who had no problem issuing his report card in the male form. His mother later told me that at least once a week he could be in a safe environment where he was happy and didn’t have to struggle. Watching a person’s development and realizing the profound impact a school can have on their experiences is fascinating.

Do you lead your own children to art?
Lotka has been drawing naturally since she was a baby. At eight months, she was rolling on the paper I had on the floor for my own work, holding crayons and drawing. She continues to create and seems truly passionate about art, making comics and constantly producing work. František draws with me occasionally, but he’s more drawn to music—he has a sense of rhythm, constantly sings and drums.
What they share? They dislike exhibition openings. They do attend exhibitions, but when they don’t like something, they express it openly. I try to make art enjoyable, not a burden. They don’t have to pursue it, but I hope they see it as a part of life—whether as creators or simply as observers.

MOTHERHOOD AS THE KEY TO SELF-CONFIDENCE

How has motherhood changed you?
Fundamentally! I’ve always struggled with self-confidence, and if anything has helped me gain it, it’s motherhood. It allowed me to appreciate my body, and in my art, I stopped being afraid. I just dove in wholeheartedly. Even during pregnancy, I felt a new sense of freedom – the desire to create what I wanted without worrying about others’ opinions, especially in my artistic expression. My children give my life immense meaning. I had always longed for a family, and if there was one wish I held most deeply, it was to have children; everything else came later. My husband, Roman, and I share this joy – children enrich our lives, and we love watching them play and explore the world.

Isn’t it magical that at the moment you realized this, your art also started to flourish?
It took a little time. When Lotynka was born, I can’t say that I immediately achieved special success. But it troubled me less. From the very beginning of my artistic efforts, however, I felt strong support from women. My first object works were purchased by the curator Valérie Horváth, then still Dvořáková. Janja Prokić was also one of the first who appreciated my work. At the very start of my practice, before I had children, I worked on an exhibition with Anna Hulačová and Karolína Rosí. We were friends as well as colleagues and supported each other. My female friends are a great blessing in my life. But overall, my best friend and collaborator is my husband. I believe he gave me the most courage at moments when no one else knew about me.

Which moments would you highlight as particularly important for you as an artist?
I feel that much of it is down to chance. There are many women creating beautiful things, and yet no one has noticed them yet. I was fortunate to have collaborations that brought me greater visibility, whether through magazine articles or working with the perfumery house Pigmentarium. On your own, you can achieve only a little, but through collaborations, we grow not only professionally but personally as well. And humility is needed in all of this.

JEWELRY WITH GREAT POWER AND MAGIC

What is your relationship with jewelry?
When I was a child, jewelry didn’t appeal to me at all, and I didn’t want to wear it. During my teenage years, I received a ring from my grandmother and wore it occasionally. Today, I only wear my wedding and engagement rings from my husband. I can imagine wearing jewelry inherited from someone I deeply loved, but I can’t see myself buying pieces, for example, from antique shops. Although I don’t mind second-hand clothing, jewelry, in my view, carries the energy of its previous owner. In any case, I used to wear jewelry only occasionally.

When did that change?
One day, Janja reached out to me and offered to exchange a piece of work with me. At that time, I had very little self-confidence, and I was surprised that she—the artist I had admired for years—would want to exchange something with me. I see her jewelry as sculptures.
At that time, I was longing for a second child, but I wasn’t able to get pregnant, and I had experienced a missed miscarriage. I told Janja about it, and she advised me that I needed a moonstone. I chose the Šiška ring with this very stone. I put it on, and within two weeks, I became pregnant. Since then, I wear it almost all the time—it’s symbolic for me and works with me: when I feel overwhelmed or go through difficult moments, the metal under the stone darkens.
I also often wear a small necklace with a tiny Lumo flame, which, in its simplicity, feels very powerful to me. I wear Janja’s jewelry every day—they carry great power and magic. I feel that she puts her belief in goodness into them; she understands nature and symbols, and I trust her pieces in terms of energy.

You mentioned that you shop in second-hand stores. How do you perceive fashion?
I’m a true cloth lover—I love fashion! As a child, I didn’t want to dress up or wear dresses; I preferred to be like a boy. Not that I doubted my femininity, but I grew up in a village and also went to church, where I noticed that boys and men had many privileges while women were often oppressed.
The situation changed in high school, but my family didn’t have much money, shopping wasn’t as common, and there wasn’t much available that fit, so I experimented with fashion, tie-dyeing and trying out different things. Later, during university, I started collaborating with stylist Jana Kapounová, assisting her, and thanks to her I began to see fashion as a form of self-expression. I realized that I don’t need a single, fixed style; I can work intuitively with fashion, just as I do with everything else in life.

ON MATERIALS THAT PROVIDE A PLEASANT RESISTANCE

Your path to sculpture wasn’t exactly straightforward—you studied photography at FAMU in Prague. How did that journey unfold?
In elementary school, I wanted to do ceramics. For high school, I went to Jihlava, where at the time they were teaching fresh graduates from AVU and FaVU as well as some amazing older teachers. One of them was an incredible photography instructor. Back then, I did a lot of printmaking and sculpture.
I gradually leaned toward photography because no one at the school really focused on it, and somehow it just came naturally to me. After graduation, I got into FAMU on my first try, but I already felt a tendency to “break things over my knee.” I photographed landscapes on old materials—the more expired the film, the better—and the more chance played a role, the more I enjoyed it.
I still love photography, but over time I returned to a certain technological diversity. I’m not someone who can do just one thing; I always tend to combine different approaches. Working with stone and wood suits me best, the materials I most often use, because they resist. There’s a physicality to it, I can touch the material and interact with it through a strong tactile experience. After school, I returned to working with objects because I missed it.

How do the symbols you use in your sculptures come to you?
I read a lot—literature is an enormous source of inspiration. I read across genres and enjoy symbol dictionaries; I actually keep one on my nightstand all the time. I work with memories from childhood, process my own understanding of Catholic faith, and explore cultural archetypes.
My art also reflects my children—their questions and perspectives. I educate myself through every dialogue with people, and nature profoundly influences me. For example, nature will appear in the themes of my new exhibition, opening October 6 at the Lucie Drdova Gallery.

Is there a piece you would never sell, something essential to you?
I have three such pieces. One was a wing that was meant to be my first major acquisition, but my family asked if it could be placed on my grandfather’s grave instead. I declined the acquisition, and the wing is now on his grave. This was when I was starting out, and I hadn’t really sold anything yet—I decided then that some things are more important than money.
Later, I managed to make a marble head of my grandfather, which I gave to my mother for her birthday. And the last piece I refused to sell was an onyx sculpture of my daughter Lotka, shown from behind holding a doll. I originally wanted to give it to Lotka, but she didn’t want it. It felt strange, as if she sensed the sculpture represented the passing of burdens from one generation of women to the next. In the end, my aunt Ivana has the sculpture.