Prior to the 20th century, apartment buildings and row houses were often built with shared walls between adjoining properties. Intrigued by these aging structures, Vienna-based artist Asya Marakulina began cataloging examples she first noticed on walks around her former home in St. Petersburg, Russia.

“Since houses in the 19th century were built without gaps between them, when one house is torn down, the neighboring house often bears traces of the demolished one,” Marakulina tells Colossal. These remnants of decor, plumbing, and other signs of human habitation form the basis of her ongoing ceramic series, There Was a Home.

When Marakulina moved to Vienna, she noticed a similar phenomenon in the remains of older buildings that had been demolished there, too. Fragments of floor still clung to the walls and the outlines of painted or papered rooms were suddenly—somewhat uncomfortably—external. The ease of a warm interior and its associated domesticity was upended.

“What touches and affects me the most in images of ruined houses are the traces of wallpaper, tiles, and children’s rooms, which suddenly become visible to the entire street,” the artist says, sharing that the sight evokes a deep sadness. “These spaces were never meant to be seen in such a way.”

Marakulina likens houses to the bodies of living organisms, imbued with emotions, memories, and layered histories. The ceramic cross-sections take on a portrait-like quality, capturing straightforward views of multistory edifices that are simultaneously immediate and intimate. “Maybe that’s why these images captivate me so much because a part of someone’s inner, domestic life is suddenly turned inside-out and put on public display,” she says.

The houses in There Was a Home are typically drawn from real buildings, photographs of which she captures herself or finds on the internet. Marakulina also considers the impacts of war and is profoundly moved by the current conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East, where thousands of homes have been destroyed and their inhabitants killed or displaced. The half-standing homes simultaneously represent lives lost and the hope of one day being able to rebuild.

Rather than straightforward copies of the buildings she encounters, Marakulina takes liberties with wall colors, sometimes adding graffiti or words she sees on the streets or derives from the news. She scores the clay to create the textures of tile and concrete or delineate lintels and former doorways. The resulting reliefs become collage-like, merging locations and motifs.

If you’re in Belgium, you can see the artist’s work in Ceramic Brussels, which opens today and continues through January 26. In London, Marakulina created a site-specific installation for a solo show at The Smallest Gallery in Soho, which continues through mid-February, and later that month, she will exhibit with Vienna Collectors Club. Find more on the artist’s website and Instagram.