From Stage to Page: On Translating Text into Image 

© by Diana Bychkova

18th April 2026

1. The Problem: What Is Being Translated?

What does it mean to translate a text into an image?

At first glance, the question appears technical. An illustrator reads, selects, composes, draws. Choices are made at every step: what to show, what to omit, how to shape a visual language that would correspond to a written one. Yet behind these decisions lies something far less stable than technique.

The process is not simply additive. It is selective, interpretive, and often uncertain. A passage that seems visually “obvious” may resist representation. Another, seemingly minor, may unfold into a complex visual structure. At times, the image follows the text closely; at others, it departs almost entirely, becoming an independent construction that only loosely echoes its source.

This raises a more fundamental question: is illustration a form of translation—or a form of transformation?

Not every text lends itself to visual interpretation in the same way. Some invite imagery; others resist it. There are works whose meaning depends precisely on what cannot be seen, only imagined. In such cases, the attempt to “translate” may result not in interpretation, but in substitution—a parallel image that accompanies the text without truly engaging it.

Even when translation seems possible, its degree varies. As Walter Benjamin suggests in his writing on translatability, a work contains within itself a certain potential to be carried across into another form—but this potential is never uniform. It exists in gradations, and it determines the range of possible correspondences between mediums.

If this is the case, then the central problem is not how to illustrate a text, but how to understand the conditions under which a translation—verbal into visual—can occur at all. This problem becomes even more complex when we consider the position of the artist. Is the artist meant to express a personal vision, applying a recognizable style across different works? Or to adapt, each time, to the internal logic of a given text? Should one remain consistent, or deliberately unstable? Should the work reflect the artist’s identity—or suspend it?

These questions are not merely aesthetic. They concern the structure of artistic thinking itself.

In practice, many forms of visual production rely on repetition: a developed manner, a recognizable language or style applied to different content. This ensures coherence, efficiency, and often market viability. But it also raises a quiet limitation. If the same visual logic is used regardless of the material, then the act of interpretation risks becoming secondary to the preservation of style.

And yet, if one abandons structure entirely in favor of intuition, another problem emerges. Pure spontaneity, untrained and unshaped, does not necessarily lead to meaningful results. It may produce variation, but not necessarily depth.

Between these two poles—fixed form and uncontrolled impulse—lies an unresolved tension:

• How can an artist remain open to the material, without dissolving into formlessness?

• How can one construct meaning, without reducing the process to a method of repetition?

It is within this tension that the question of method becomes unavoidable—not as a set of recipes, but as a way of organizing perception, attention, and creative action. 

2. From Expression to Construction

It is often assumed that artistic work begins with expression.

An image, in this view, emerges as the outward form of an inner state: emotion, intuition, atmosphere. The role of technique is to give shape to something already present — to make visible what is felt. Whether in drawing, acting, or writing, the emphasis falls on sincerity, immediacy, and the authenticity of experience.

This understanding is not without value. Yet, taken on its own, it leaves several questions unresolved.

If expression is primary, what determines its form? Why does one response to a text become an image, while another remains vague or inarticulate? Why do certain works, driven by strong emotion, fail to generate a convincing structure, while others — more restrained — achieve clarity and force?

At the same time, an opposite tendency can be observed.

In many forms of professional practice, particularly within applied or commercial contexts, the process becomes increasingly stabilized. A visual language is developed, refined, and then repeated across different projects. The artist acquires a recognizable “style”, and this consistency becomes both an asset and a constraint. The work is efficient, coherent, and often successful — yet its relation to the specific material it interprets grows weaker.

Between these two poles — unstructured expression and fixed method — the question of artistic thinking re-emerges.

Is it possible to remain open to the unpredictability of the creative process, while at the same time constructing it with precision? Can spontaneity be preserved without relinquishing control? And conversely, can control be exercised without suppressing the emergence of new and unforeseen forms?

These questions suggest a shift in perspective.

Rather than understanding artistic work as the expression of an inner state, it may be more productive to consider it as the construction of a process — one in which perception, attention, and response are actively organized. In this sense, the artist does not simply “have” an image or a feeling, but learns to work with them: to observe, to transform, to direct.

What appears as spontaneity, then, is not the absence of structure, but the result of a different kind of structure — one that operates in time, within the unfolding of the act itself.

This shift becomes particularly visible in practices where the artist must engage directly with transformation: where one state must become another, where meaning is not given but generated through action. Theatre offers a clear example of such a practice. But its implications extend far beyond the stage.

It is at this point that the method developed by Oleksandr Tokarchuk — and the broader framework of the School of Imagery — becomes relevant.

Rather than opposing control and spontaneity, it proposes a way of holding them together. 

3. The School of Imagery: Conducting the Self

At the center of Tokarchuk’s method lies a formulation that appears, at first, paradoxical: the actor must learn to “conduct the self”.

The phrase suggests a division. It means carrying your self, as you distance your behaviour from a given situation in order not to stick to your own emotions but rather to lead them in a specific direction in a controlled manner. The purpose is to identify yourself with altered types of behaviour (prescribed by the play), which are different from your own, and to separate two domains consciously: this is me on the one hand, and this is my behaviour or role in the present moment of acting on the other hand. So, a complex role with emotive dialogue is "conducted" or led in its entirety by the actor so that he controls and creates it simultaneously without being captured by any emotional/ uncontrolled involvement.

In everyday life, these two — behavior in different circumstances and a set of one’s emotional patterns — tend to merge. One reacts “naturally”, without distinguishing between what is felt and what is done.

Tokarchuk’s method begins precisely by separating them.

To act, in this framework, is not to express one’s own emotional state, but to construct a behavioral process that may or may not coincide with it. The actor does not wait for emotion to arise; instead, they work with attention, intention, and structure, allowing emotion to appear as a consequence rather than a starting point.

This does not mean suppressing feeling. On the contrary, it requires a heightened sensitivity to it. But this sensitivity is not passive. It is organized.

The actor learns to observe internal states without being absorbed by them, to shift between different modes of behavior, and to sustain a role not through identification, but through continuous construction. In this sense, the role is not something one “becomes”, but something one conducts — much like a musical line that must be carried, adjusted, and shaped over time.

A key aspect of this approach is the notion of multiplicity.

Instead of seeking a single, authentic expression, the actor develops the ability to move between different “masks” — not as false surfaces, but as distinct configurations of behavior. Each mask is internally coherent, grounded in recognizable human patterns, yet none is identical to the actor’s habitual self. The work, therefore, is not to reveal an inner truth, but to generate a range of possible truths, each realized through action.

This multiplicity does not lead to fragmentation. On the contrary, it demands a high degree of control.

Without control, the shift between states becomes arbitrary; with excessive control, it becomes rigid. The method operates precisely in this unstable zone, where responsiveness and structure must coexist. The actor must remain open to what emerges in the moment, while at the same time guiding the process toward a coherent form.

Improvisation, in this context, is not the absence of preparation. It is a trained capacity — the ability to respond without hesitation, while maintaining orientation within the overall structure of the role.

What appears spontaneous is, in fact, supported by a complex internal organization.

This understanding challenges a common opposition between technique and creativity.

Technique, here, is not a set of external tools applied to a pre-existing idea. It is the very condition that makes creative variation possible. Without it, the actor is limited to repetition — of gestures, of intonations, of emotional patterns already familiar. With it, they gain the ability to transform, to shift, to construct new configurations in real time.

In this sense, self-control is not opposed to freedom; it is its prerequisite.

Tokarchuk’s method does not aim at producing a particular style of acting. It does not prescribe how a role should look. Instead, it develops a way of working — a disciplined flexibility — through which different forms can emerge, each adapted to the specific demands of the material.

Although formulated within the context of theatre, this approach points toward a more general principle.

It suggests that creativity is not located in the expression of a fixed inner identity, nor in the application of a stable external method, but in the capacity to construct and transform states — to move, deliberately and attentively, from one configuration to another.

It is this principle that allows the method to extend beyond acting, and to enter other forms of artistic practice.

4. Between Control and Chance: A Productive Conflict

If Tokarchuk’s method insists on control, it does not eliminate uncertainty.

On the contrary, it makes uncertainty visible.

At any given moment in the creative process, multiple forces are at work. There is intention — the effort to shape, to direct, to construct. There is also emergence — the unexpected appearance of associations, impulses, images that were not consciously planned. These two movements do not follow one another; they coexist.

The difficulty lies in their relation.

If control becomes dominant, the process tends toward rigidity. The work may be coherent, but it risks becoming predictable — governed by decisions made in advance and imposed upon the material. The result is often technically accomplished, yet closed, resistant to transformation.

If, on the other hand, the process is left to spontaneity alone, another limitation appears. What emerges may feel immediate or authentic, but it often lacks structure. Without a framework that can hold and develop it, the initial impulse dissipates or repeats itself in slightly varied forms.

The opposition between control and spontaneity is therefore misleading. Neither pole, taken in isolation, is sufficient.

A more productive approach is to consider their interaction as a dynamic system.

In this system, control does not suppress emergence; it creates the conditions in which emergence can take place and be sustained. At the same time, what emerges is not merely accepted, but worked through — selected, transformed, integrated into a developing structure.

This requires a particular kind of attention.

One must be able to act and to observe simultaneously: to participate in the unfolding process while maintaining a degree of distance from it. This distance is not detachment in the sense of indifference; it is a functional separation that allows one to perceive what is happening and to intervene when necessary.

Without such distance, the artist becomes absorbed in the immediate flow of experience. With too much distance, the process becomes external and mechanical. The work depends on maintaining a shifting balance between these positions.

The question of “authenticity” appears here in a different light.

In everyday contexts, authenticity is often associated with the expression of what is genuinely felt. Yet in artistic practice, this notion becomes unstable. An emotion may be sincerely experienced and yet remain inarticulate. Conversely, something constructed — deliberately shaped — may produce a strong sense of truth.

This suggests that authenticity in art is not a property of the initial state, but of the process through which it is formed.

What matters is not whether the impulse is “real”, but whether it can be developed into a coherent and responsive structure.

Chance, in this context, is not randomness.

It is the name we give to what exceeds our initial intention — to the elements that enter the process without being planned. These elements are essential, as they introduce variation and prevent the work from collapsing into repetition. But they do not organize themselves.

Without an active principle of selection and transformation, chance remains inert.

Thus, the role of the artist is neither to control everything, nor to surrender to what happens, but to work within this tension: to allow the unexpected to appear, and to shape it without neutralizing its force.

This tension is not a problem to be resolved. It is the very condition of creative work.

Tokarchuk’s method can be understood as a way of stabilizing this condition — not by eliminating conflict, but by making it operable. Through the practice of “conducting the self”, the actor develops the capacity to navigate between intention and emergence, between structure and variability, without collapsing into either.

The implications of this approach extend beyond theatre.

They point toward a broader understanding of artistic practice as a field in which meaning is not given in advance, but produced through the continuous negotiation between what is controlled and what is allowed to happen.

5. From Stage to Page: Toward Visual Interpretation

If we return to the initial question — what does it mean to translate a text into an image — the relevance of Tokarchuk’s method becomes more apparent. The illustrator, like the actor, is confronted with a given material that must be transformed. A literary text, however rich, does not contain images in any direct sense. It contains structures, rhythms, relations, absences — elements that can give rise to visual form, but do not prescribe it.

To work with such material is not to reproduce it, but to enter into a process of interpretation.

This process is often described in terms of “finding the right image”, as if the image already existed in a latent form within the text, waiting to be revealed. Yet in practice, the situation is more complex. What emerges is not a single solution, but a field of possibilities — many of which remain unrealized.

The task, then, is not to extract an image, but to construct one.

Here the parallel with acting becomes precise.

Just as the actor does not simply express an internal state, but constructs a role through controlled variation of behavior, the illustrator must learn to construct visual meaning through a sequence of decisions that unfold in time. Each mark, each compositional choice, participates in a process that is both responsive and directed.

This implies a shift in how visual language is understood.

Rather than being treated as a stable “style” — something applied uniformly across different works — it becomes a variable system, capable of transformation. The demands of one text may require a radically different visual logic than another: a different rhythm, density, degree of abstraction, relation between figure and space.

To remain within a single, recognizable manner is, in this sense, analogous to an actor repeating the same role under different names.

The challenge is not to abandon one’s artistic identity, but to make it sufficiently flexible — to develop what might be called a range of behavioral forms within visual practice. Each project then becomes an occasion not for repetition, but for reconfiguration.

This is where the question of translatability returns in a new form.

If a text possesses a certain potential to be carried into another medium, this potential does not determine a single outcome. It defines a space within which different interpretations can emerge, each establishing its own relation to the source. Some remain close, others diverge significantly; some operate through analogy, others through contrast.

What unites them is not fidelity to content, but coherence of structure.

To construct such coherence requires more than intuition. It requires a method — not in the sense of a fixed procedure, but as an organized way of working with perception, attention, and transformation.

In this respect, the principle of “conducting the self” acquires a new meaning.

The illustrator, too, must be able to separate and coordinate different layers of activity: to observe the emerging image without becoming absorbed in it, to redirect the process when it becomes repetitive, to introduce variation without losing orientation. The work develops through a continuous adjustment between what is intended and what appears.

Improvisation plays a central role here.

Not as a moment of uncontrolled invention, but as a mode of thinking in action — a way of generating visual propositions that can be tested, modified, or discarded. Through this process, meaning is not imposed upon the text, but constructed in relation to it.

At the same time, the notion of a predetermined final image becomes problematic.

An idealized vision of the outcome, fixed in advance, tends to limit the process. As the work unfolds, new possibilities emerge that may not correspond to this initial projection. To adhere to it rigidly is to resist the very transformations that make the process productive.

The ability to suspend such fixation — to allow the work to evolve — becomes a crucial skill.

In this sense, the act of illustration can be understood not as the execution of a concept, but as the development of a temporal structure, in which meaning takes shape through successive transformations. The final image is not the starting point, but the residue of a process that has been conducted, adjusted, and brought to coherence.

It is within this framework that a more specific method of word–image translation can be articulated — one that draws on these principles and organizes them into a set of practical operations.

The details of such a method cannot be reduced to a general description. They belong to the domain of practice, where they can be experienced and tested.

What can be outlined, however, is the orientation that underlies them: a way of working in which interpretation is not given, but produced — through the deliberate construction and transformation of visual form.

6. Toward a Method: Structure Without Prescription

If the act of interpretation is understood as a process — one that unfolds through attention, transformation, and selection — then the question of method becomes unavoidable. Not as a set of rules to be applied, but as a way of making this process repeatable without becoming repetitive.

In practice, the difficulty is not only to arrive at a convincing result, but to understand how such a result can be reached again, under different conditions, with different material. Without this understanding, each project begins from zero, dependent on intuition, mood, or circumstance. With it, the work acquires continuity — not through the repetition of form, but through the consistency of approach.

The method that gradually emerged in my own work developed from this necessity.

Working over a number of years within the field of book arts, and later in the context of research, I was confronted repeatedly with the same problem: how to translate verbal structures into visual ones without reducing them to illustration in the conventional sense, and without relying on a fixed stylistic language.

The influence of Tokarchuk’s approach became decisive at this point. What his method offered was not a model to imitate, but a principle that could be transposed: the idea that creative work can be organized through the deliberate construction and transformation of states. In the context of visual practice, these states are not behavioral in a literal sense, but perceptual and formal — ways of seeing, structuring, and articulating an image.

To work methodically, then, is not to follow a predetermined sequence of steps, but to establish a framework within which such transformations can occur. This framework includes moments of analysis and moments of action; phases of openness, where possibilities are generated, and phases of selection, where they are evaluated and refined. It requires the ability to suspend premature decisions, as well as the capacity to recognize when a direction has become coherent enough to be developed further.

In this sense, the method does not eliminate uncertainty. It distributes it.

Rather than being concentrated at the beginning — in the form of a vague search for an idea — uncertainty becomes part of a structured progression, where each stage introduces its own form of indeterminacy and its own criteria of resolution. The process remains open, but not unbounded.

The relation to the text is only one of these aspects. Equally important are the internal relations within the image: between elements, between figure and background, between density and emptiness, between continuity and rupture. These relations are not given; they are constructed and adjusted over time.

To develop sensitivity to such relations is part of the method.

Another aspect concerns the role of constraint.

Far from limiting creativity, constraints provide the conditions in which variation becomes meaningful. By introducing specific parameters — whether conceptual, formal, or technical — the process acquires direction. Within this direction, improvisation can operate more precisely, generating differences that are not arbitrary, but responsive.

In this respect, the method can be understood as a structured field of operations.

It defines neither the outcome nor the form it should take. Instead, it establishes a set of conditions under which different outcomes can emerge, each grounded in the material it interprets, yet not determined by it.

Such a method can be described, to a certain extent. Its principles can be articulated, its stages outlined. But its functioning cannot be fully conveyed through description alone.

It belongs to practice.

For this reason, it can also be taught — not as a doctrine, but as a shared process in which these operations are enacted, observed, and refined. 

7. Beyond Theatre: Toward an Interdisciplinary Practice

Although the method discussed here originates in theatre, its implications are not limited to the stage.

At its core lies a way of working with transformation: the ability to move between states, to construct relations, and to generate form through a process that remains both open and directed. These concerns are not specific to acting. They appear, in different configurations, across a wide range of practices — in visual arts, design, writing, and research.

In each of these fields, one encounters a similar tension. On the one hand, there is the pressure toward stabilization: the development of a recognizable language, a consistent method, a repeatable outcome. On the other, there is the necessity of responding to specific material — to texts, contexts, questions — that resist such standardization.

To work effectively within this tension requires more than technical proficiency.

It requires a capacity to reconfigure one’s own mode of operation: to shift perspective, to suspend habitual solutions, to construct new relations appropriate to each situation. In this sense, the method is not tied to a discipline, but to a form of thinking in action.

This has particular relevance in educational and research contexts.

Students and practitioners are often trained either to master a technique or to develop an individual voice. Less attention is given to the processes through which these can be transformed — to the question of how one moves from one configuration to another, and how such movement can be made conscious, repeatable, and precise.

A methodology grounded in transformation addresses this gap.

It does not replace existing approaches, but introduces an additional layer: a way of organizing the process itself. It allows one to approach a given material — whether textual, visual, or conceptual — not as something to be expressed or illustrated, but as something to be worked through, restructured, and rearticulated.

In practice, this can take different forms. It may appear as a structured sequence of exercises, as a guided exploration of a specific text, or as a framework for developing individual projects. The emphasis is not on producing a particular type of result, but on cultivating a set of capacities: attention, responsiveness, and the ability to construct coherence within a changing field of possibilities.

Such an approach is inherently interdisciplinary.

It operates at the level where different practices intersect — where a text becomes an image, an image becomes a sequence, a sequence becomes a conceptual structure. It is precisely in these transitions that new forms of understanding can emerge.

For this reason, the method lends itself to formats that bring together participants from different backgrounds.

Rather than assuming a shared discipline, it establishes a shared process.

What has been outlined here is only a partial view — an attempt to articulate the principles that underlie this approach and to trace their movement from theatre into visual practice. The full scope of the method unfolds in application. It is in the act of working — of constructing, adjusting, and observing the process as it develops — that these principles become operative, and that their potential can be tested.

This framework can be developed into a series of seminar formats for institutions interested in interdisciplinary approaches to interpretation, visual thinking, and artistic methodology.

Seminar Description

From Text to Image: A Method of Visual Interpretation

This series of seminars introduces a structured method of translating textual material into visual form. Developed at the intersection of book arts, theatre, and research practice, the approach is based on the principles of transformation, controlled improvisation, and the construction of visual meaning over time.

Rather than focusing on style or technique alone, the seminar addresses the process of interpretation itself: how to move from a written source toward a coherent visual structure without relying on fixed formulas or habitual solutions.

The methodology draws, in part, on the acting system developed by Tokarchuk and the School of Imagery, adapting its principles to visual and interdisciplinary practices.

What the seminars offer

Participants are guided through a step-by-step process of working with text as material for visual interpretation. The structure combines analytical and practical stages, including:

- identifying structural, conceptual and stylistic elements within a text

- generating visual propositions through controlled improvisation

- developing relationships between image, rhythm, and narrative

- constructing a coherent visual language adapted to a specific literary work

- working with variation and transformation rather than fixed style

The emphasis is placed on process, not on producing a predefined type of image.

Who it is for

The workshop is open to practitioners and researchers working across disciplines, including:

- illustration and book arts

- animation and film

- graphic design and visual communication

- fine arts and printmaking

- literary and interdisciplinary research

No specific stylistic background is required. The method is designed to be adaptable to different practices and levels of experience.

Format

The workshop can be offered in different formats:

introductory session (lecture + demonstration)

short intensive workshop (1–2 days)

extended seminar series (multi-session format with guided development of individual projects)

Each format can be adapted to institutional, academic, or independent contexts.

Outcome

Participants gain:

- a structured approach to text-based visual work

- tools for developing original visual interpretations

- methods for working beyond habitual stylistic solutions

- a framework applicable across different artistic and research practices

The methodology presented in this workshop is part of an ongoing research and artistic practice focused on the processes of interpretation, transformation, and visual thinking. It can be further developed through a series of seminars tailored to specific disciplines, projects, or institutional contexts.