In the fifth grade, I first tried watercolour painting—and it instantly became a source of immense joy. The way the pigments danced and blended on paper felt like magic. I discovered that watercolours have a mind of their own: their fluidity and unpredictability invite collaboration rather than control.
Over the years, this dialogue between brush, water, and pigment has stayed with me. Every time I pick up a watercolour brush, I’m reminded of that first spark of discovery in year 5—the joy of watching colours flow freely, forming something beautiful and unexpected.
My journey with art didn’t stop there. I’ve dedicated my entire life to studying and working with various materials—acrylics, oils, texture pastes, and more—each offering its own challenges and rewards.
Yet watercolour remains my first love, the medium that taught me to trust the process and embrace the beauty of imperfection.
Even today, that simple act of dipping the brush in water brings not only pigments to paper but also a flood of memories, a quiet sense of gratitude, and a profound satisfaction that has endured since those early school days.
Knowing your tools deeply — how they behave, how they age, how they respond to light and heat — changes the way you work and the confidence with which you make decisions. During my time at Azur Studio in Kyiv, we took part in a number of art trips across Europe, visiting paint and medium manufacturers directly. These experiences were invaluable. Being able to ask questions about materials from the people who created them — the chemists, designers, and technicians behind the products — gave us insights no manual or catalogue ever could. Who could know the materials better than those who developed them? Along the way, we also participated in workshops with local designers who introduced us to the full potential of different gels and pastes, transparent and opaque paints, and specialised products for textile decoration and pseudo stained glass. We explored techniques for creating patina, working with gilding, and layering surfaces in ways that expanded both technical knowledge and creative possibility. I often find myself missing those times — being surrounded by like-minded professionals, travelling, learning, experimenting, and talking endlessly about what we loved most: paint, surface, and decoration. Those journeys shaped not only my technical approach, but also my respect for materials as active partners in the creative process.
For me, as for many of my collectors, moving to Australia has been a blessed and life-changing experience. At the same time, it doesn’t erase the feeling of missing home. Memory travels with us — through seasons, colours, familiar landscapes, and small visual details that stay deeply rooted inside. Quite often, Ukrainian collectors commission artworks that reconnect them with home. These might be flowers remembered from a childhood garden, the softness of snow, the glow of golden autumn, or the unmistakable outlines of traditional Ukrainian architecture. These subjects carry emotional weight — they speak of belonging, memory, and personal history. I find great meaning in creating these works, because I share the same feelings. Painting nostalgic themes allows me to revisit places and atmospheres that shaped me, while offering others a visual connection to what they hold dear. The artwork becomes more than an image; it becomes a bridge between past and present, between where we come from and where we are now. Through these commissions, nostalgia turns into something tangible — a way to honour memory, identity, and the enduring connection to home, even when life unfolds far from it.
