Berlin-born floral artist and designer Lilo Klinkenberg creates large-scale botanical sculptures and installations that blur the boundaries between the natural and the surreal. With a background in fashion design, she founded Studio Lilo in 2018 and has since collaborated with renowned brands while exhibiting personal works that explore perception, craft, and tradition. Here, she speaks about her process, her sources of inspiration, and how she finds balance.
What does “home” mean to you, and how does your work play a role here, whether through your interior style, the presence of flowers, or the atmosphere you create?
For me, home is where my senses can finally rest, a space where I can be completely myself and find a deep sense of calm. I’ve realised that the way I work and the way I arrange my surroundings are closely intertwined. In the end, everything connects: the way I design, the way I get dressed, and the way I shape my home all stem from the same creative instinct. It’s always about balance, shape, colour, and texture - the continuous thread that runs through every part of my life.
You’ve also designed some of the furniture in your home, such as the couch and the custom shelf for your collected vases. What led you to start creating your own pieces, and what ideas or references shaped those designs?
I’m quite a perfectionist, and I often struggle to find pieces that feel truly right. That’s really how I began designing furniture and objects for my own home. One example is the shelf in my living room, it holds a collection of pieces I’ve gathered over the years from flea markets and thrift shops during my travels, mostly in Italy and France. I see these vases almost as small sculptures; I rarely use them for flowers, as I simply enjoy their forms. Each one carries a memory, a moment I feel connected to. Designing the shelf was about creating a space where all these pieces could coexist harmoniously, a quiet display of stories and sentiments that brings a subtle, gentle warmth to the room.
The couch has a similar story. I designed it myself - an aluminum base topped with soft, generous upholstery. I’ve always loved contrast and juxtaposition: hard and soft, structure and volume, something a little unexpected. The design process took quite some time; the aluminum base actually sat in my studio for nearly two years before the piece finally came together. Whether I’m designing furniture or installations, I’m continually drawn to this sense of unexpected balance, the subtle tension between textures, shapes, and colours. It’s the same thread that weaves through all of my work and my home.
Your work can be both physically demanding and conceptually intense. How do you find balance outside of the studio? Do you have a favourite spot in your home to unwind?
I think of my home as the place where I truly unwind. I spend so much time in the studio, surrounded by people, ideas, and materials, and the work can often be messy and intense. Coming back here allows everything to settle again. I actually treasure those quiet moments alone. This space is where I recharge, but also where new thoughts arrive naturally, without pressure.
The spot I’m sitting in now, on the couch, is my favorite place in the entire apartment. Before this became my home, I lived here as a subtenant, and this was my room; my bed used to sit right here. So, this view out the window has been with me for about eleven years. It holds countless memories and feels almost meditative. I know this view in every season and every kind of light; it’s grounding, a quiet constant amid everything that changes.
How would you describe your personal wardrobe at home? Do you approach dressing the way you compose your installations - through texture, tone, and form?
For me, materials and textures play a central role in how I dress. Dressing feels deeply personal; it always mirrors my mood. I’m almost a different person when I’m tired or low than when I’m energetic and happy, and my clothing naturally shifts with that. Quality is equally important; I simply feel better when the materials against my skin are well-made and thoughtfully crafted. I’m drawn to texture, how fabrics move, how they catch the light, how they feel.
My style also evolves with the seasons and with my work, there’s always movement. But one constant is my need for contrast. If I’m wearing something tailored, I’ll pair it with something soft; if my outfit feels relaxed, I’ll add structure. That interplay is what makes dressing interesting to me, it defines the silhouette, creates shape, and adds depth. Much like in art, without contrast, everything feels a little flat.
Berlin is your home base. Do you see the city as an anchor for your creativity, or does your inspiration come from a broader, more global perspective?
I’ve always drawn inspiration from a broad, global perspective and truly believe it can come from anything. Berlin has had a huge influence on me, especially in the beginning, and now, through my travels for work, I find inspiration everywhere: in new cities, exhibitions, sculptures, landscapes, even something as simple as a bike rack. Nothing is too small to spark an idea.
I grew up in Kreuzberg, which feels like a city within the city. Each neighborhood here has its own distinct world and atmosphere. Flea markets in Berlin are one of my favorite places to explore; that thrill of discovery never fades.
Your first solo exhibition, is this even real, played with perception and the boundary between reality and illusion. How do you usually begin a new work - does it start with the material, a feeling, or a concept you want to explore?
I usually start with shape; that’s always my beginning point. I might notice a form somewhere, a tree branch, the curve of a bicycle rack, something entirely ordinary and something about its line or silhouette stays with me. From there, I begin to imagine what could grow around it.
Once the shape takes form, the concept follows. I think about what it evokes, what feeling or memory it carries, and then explore materials, colours, and textures that can bring that idea to life. It’s usually shape first, then colour and texture.
Seasonality also plays a big part. I work with what’s available, especially when using natural materials, so the process constantly shifts. Everything influences everything else; the shape informs the concept; the season shapes the materials, and the materials guide the outcome. It’s all connected, always in conversation.
Every artist or designer eventually discovers a material that feels uniquely their own - what would you say is yours? For me, that material is moss. I discovered it quite naturally, and over time it’s become something I return to again and again. I love how versatile it is; you can shape it in almost any way, and it always carries this quiet, grounding energy. Even after working with it for years, I still feel there’s more to explore. Moss has a calming presence, and I find it fascinating how it can create illusions, I like leaving those questions open, letting curiosity become part of the experience.
Working with something as fleeting as plants and flowers doesn’t feel like a limitation; it’s a reminder to embrace impermanence and see beauty in every stage, even in decay. Moss dries, revives, and transforms. It’s living, changing, and endlessly expressive.
Flowers are so fleeting in nature. How do you approach the challenge of working with something ephemeral while creating pieces that feel timeless in memory?
I don’t really see the fleeting nature of flowers as a challenge; it’s actually what makes them so beautiful. Their impermanence invites you to be present, to appreciate them more deeply while they last, and to recognise the quiet poetry in their transformation. Even a wilted flower can hold a kind of beauty; it just tells a different story.
Of course, there are practical challenges. I can’t use every flower for every installation, I have to understand how each one behaves, how it reacts to light, temperature, or humidity. Every new material requires experimentation and care. Different environments change everything; for instance, in shops with air conditioning, the air is so dry that moss can lose its softness within an hour. But that’s also the wonderful thing about moss, you can revive it with a bit of water, and it feels alive again.
In a way, working with such ephemeral materials teaches me to let go of control. It’s about embracing change, finding balance within it, and creating something that feels timeless not because it lasts forever, but because it lingers in memory.
You often move between different contexts - fashion shows, exhibitions, and large-scale events. Do you approach work differently when it’s for an international brand versus a gallery setting?
Yes, I think the main difference between working with larger international brands and creating for smaller gallery settings lies in the framework you’re given. With a brand, especially fashion houses, there’s usually already a concept or collection in place. That naturally brings certain boundaries: a defined color palette, an existing campaign, or a specific mood they want to extend visually. There’s a clear direction to follow, which can be both limiting and inspiring in its own way.
When I work independently, I have to create that direction myself. There are no predefined themes or guidelines, it’s much more open, more intuitive. That freedom allows me to explore ideas on a deeper level, but it also requires me to build the concept entirely from scratch. So, the two processes are quite different: client work is about translating someone else’s vision through my lens, while my own projects are about discovering what that vision is in the first place.
You recently created an installation for Tiger of Sweden at the Esquire Townhouse. What guided your creative vision for this collaboration, and how did your choice of materials reflect the brand’s modern approach to design and craftsmanship?
The installation I created for Tiger of Sweden at Esquire Townhouse was very much inspired by their Fall Winter campaign, which was shot in a forest. I was fascinated by the natural setting of the campaign and wanted to translate that environment into something more abstract and artistic, while still reflecting Tiger of Sweden’s minimalist aesthetic.
The main challenge was finding a balance between the organic, natural forms of the forest and the brand’s sharp, tailored lines. I wanted the installation to evoke a sense of nature without overwhelming the space or distracting from the garments themselves. It was important that the environment complemented the pieces rather than compete with them.
In the end, the contrast between the structured silhouettes of the clothing and the more fluid, sculptural elements of the installation created a dialogue between craftsmanship and nature, something that really embodies Tiger of Sweden’s modern yet timeless approach to design.
Nature is at the heart of your work. Are there particular environments - coastal, forested, or urban that have shaped your sense of form and colour?
Nature is at the heart of everything I do. One of my greatest sources of inspiration is Helgoland, a small island in the North Sea where my grandmother is from. My family spent every summer there when I was growing up, and I still return whenever I can. It’s where I truly slow down, a place that feels like a second home.
The island is tiny and completely car-free; you can walk around it in an hour, surrounded by red cliffs, green hills, and the deep, dark blue of the sea. Its colours, shapes, and stillness have influenced me profoundly. Even though I know every inch of it, each visit reveals something new. It’s so different from Berlin, the quiet, the scale, the openness and that contrast keeps it special to me.
I also love Lanzarote, which carries similar energy. Its black volcanic landscape set against the vivid blue sea feels raw, minimal, and untamed. The wind, the emptiness, the rough beauty of it all, it’s deeply restorative, the kind of place where I can reset. Even the light is different. On Helgoland, in summer, the sun reflects so brightly off the sea that the air itself feels warm and glowing. With no trees to hide beneath, you’re completely exposed to the landscape. That openness, the rawness of coastal spaces, has profoundly shaped my sense of form, colour, and balance.
Are there outdoor rituals or moments that allow you to reconnect with your creative flow in your daily life?
I wouldn’t say I have outdoor rituals in the traditional sense; I’m very much a city person. I don’t need to escape into the forest to find calm. My grounding happens in quieter corners of the city, at home, with my family, or simply surrounded by the gentle rhythm of everyday life.
Growing up in Kreuzberg, we had a shared garden, which is rare in Berlin. So, nature was always present but seamlessly woven into city living rather than apart from it. I think that shaped me. I feel most at ease when there’s a little noise, a bit of life around me, distant footsteps, passing conversations, the soft pulse of the street.
How do the places you visit, including local treasures, shape your creative process?
When I’m in Berlin, the places that inspire me most are the museums and the market. I rarely go to flower shops; instead, I buy flowers from a vendor at the weekly market who sells only what’s seasonal and locally grown. It’s incredibly grounding to see the seasons shift week by week, reflected in the changing colours and shapes.
With the seasonal seller, winter can feel like a challenge because there’s so little to choose from. But I love that restraint; it becomes a practice of resourcefulness and attention. You learn to create beauty from almost nothing, dried branches, evergreen cuttings, subtle tones, and quiet forms. It’s about noticing what’s already there and finding the spark within it.
A huge thanks to Lilo Klinkenberg for taking part in the Into the Fold series. You can follow her creative journey on Instagram @studiolilo_
