I live and create in a frontline zone — yes, where life itself trembles, and yet, somehow, color still blooms. Being an artist here is probably the greatest madness of all: to take your easel outside, to stand in the wind with brushes trembling in your hands, to breathe in the silence that sometimes follows explosions — it’s both terrifying and sacred.
I paint outdoors — en plein air — in my hometown, surrounded by nature that refuses to give up. Each moment spent outside feels like a fragile window of peace. When there are no blasts, life suddenly seems eternal. And this feeling — of infinity brushing against fear — seeps into every stroke of my paintings.
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My emotions shift constantly, from emotional burnout to the celebration of endlessness. It feels almost divine — a reminder that life continues not just for people but for the entire universe. Hours, days, centuries — all blend into one eternal rhythm.
When I look back at my works, it sometimes feels like I’m painting “portraits of trees.” But in truth, it’s much more than that. It’s about the rhythm of existence — the way color, light, and composition dance together like fragments of time.
I see myself as both a witness and a personal emotional biographer. My paintings are the visual melody of my inner life — a diary written in color. Each piece captures a feeling of presence, vulnerability, and interaction with the world.
Maybe you’ll see peace there. Maybe chaos. Maybe my fears and quiet hopes.
What do you see?
What do you see?
Owning one of these paintings is not just about collecting art; it’s about holding a piece of this fragile balance — the heartbeat of a world that continues to breathe, even on the edge.
