Light & Childhood

This painting started during a particularly difficult week when, feeling exhausted, I took a walk by the sea. It was early spring — the air was cold, and all the summer amenities had been cleared away, waiting for their season to return.

I happened upon an old, defunct hotel with cracked walls and empty pools. There, I found an outdoor shower that had weathered countless storms and rains, yet had once seen sunny days and happy people washing away the sea salt. The tiles were deeply cracked and the showerhead was rusted, but beneath the wear, I could still see a gentle shade of sea-foam green. I had to look closely, but it was there.

In this work, I wanted to capture all those elements together: the marks of time, the lingering sun, and the way water washes away both hardships and sea salt, all held within that delicate, resilient shade of green.

In my art, I quite often refer to childhood memories and perceptions. "The Sandcastle" was the first piece where I began to explore this theme. It was important for me to capture a very low angle of view — as if you are small again, having just finished building a castle with your parents.

You have carefully selected little sticks and other treasures found on the beach to build a bridge. To a child, it is a mighty fortress protecting its tiny inhabitants. In this moment, the world is a huge and safe place.

But if you look closely, you can see the sea is coming — it has already begun to wash away the back of the castle. This work is an invitation to enjoy these moments of peace and happiness, even if they are fleeting and short-lived.

This painting was supposed to be a "quick win": a seascape — simple, relaxing, a one-day project. I planned to hang it in my bedroom and enjoy the calm view every morning. It started exactly that way; I finished a peaceful scene and was already cleaning my brushes when I asked my husband, "What do you think?"

He looked at it and said, "It’s great, but I was expecting a turtle. Are you going to add one?" In that moment, everything changed. I realized he was right — she had to be there. Suddenly, a much deeper meaning began to shine through. It wasn't just a seascape anymore; it was the story of a tiny creature about to begin its journey, with a massive wave seconds away from embracing it in a beautiful, chaotic start to life.

And so, the "quick win" turned into a marathon. I repainted the sea seven times. Seven. It felt wrong again and again. I moved the turtle three times, searching for the perfect angle and the exact right moment. Finally, while scrolling through dozens of videos I’ve taken during our sea walks, I found it: the precise second before a wave hits the shore, forming a wall of water poised to fall.

From that moment on, everything fell into place. Welcome to life, little brave soul!

I would love to share a complex, poetic story behind this piece, as it is one of my favorite paintings. But the truth is much simpler: one day, I woke up with a burning desire to paint a huge dinosaur. I couldn’t explain it, but I clearly saw him standing there, right in my children’s room. I began to paint, not entirely sure where the process would lead — I just wanted him to exist.

As the work progressed, I stepped back and realized the composition needed a conflict, a focal point. The idea came naturally: my little daughter. She is a true daredevil with golden locks. However, I didn’t want any drama or fear in this story. I have always loved the peace of watching children sleep — especially this particular little daredevil — so I decided to place her right on the dinosaur’s back.

To complete the atmosphere, I added the soft glow of a street light peeking through the curtain. It serves as a reminder that even the "monster under the bed" can become your best friend, provided you are brave enough to embrace it.

In this painting, my primary focus was exploring the rich textures of moss and wood — contrasting them against a soft, glowing background — to create a sense of warmth, happiness, and recovery. The mushrooms represent my family, and the ants are a nod to my cats. Using these personal symbols helps me build a deep emotional connection to the piece and brings more heart to my expression.

With this work, I continue my exploration of contradictions and expectations. My starting point was one of my most cherished childhood memories: sitting on the roof of my grandmother’s house, high above everything, with my best friend, looking out at the world. From that height, the world seemed tiny, yet I had this overwhelming sense that something big was coming.

In this piece, I transformed that feeling into the image of a massive cloud hanging above. When you stand before it, you feel small, yet somehow, its presence tells you that all the beauty and power of the world belong to everyone — and to you, too.

It is a reminder that you can source so much inspiration and strength from this magnitude. What once felt like an intimidating "big something" on the horizon is actually an endless well of energy.

During an evening walk, I happened to capture a beautiful moment by pure chance — the last rays of the setting sun catching the flowers along a narrow road. I wanted to play with the colors, because art is all about play, don’t you think? After several sketches, I landed on this slightly surreal, vibrant palette.

Capturing such a strong light source was a joy. To make light truly glow, it isn’t enough to just use yellow and white — after all, no one considers an empty canvas to be "glowing." Instead, you have to surround the light with cool, dark tones and remember to add those tiny highlights to the shadows. Light is created through contrast and those small, intentional touches.