Q: You’ve described silk as a “magical fabric” that helps each painting acquire its own character. What first drew you to silk, and how has working with it shaped your artistic voice?

A: For me, silk has always felt like something whispered rather than spoken—a fabric with secrets. My first encounter with it was not technical but emotional. The moment I touched pure silk, I knew: this was not just material, it was a living presence. Warm against the skin, luminous in the light, it seemed to breathe on its own. I could never imagine painting on anything else. Silk is magical because it refuses to be ordinary. Unlike canvas, which can be dominated, silk demands dialogue. It shimmers, resists, surprises. One cannot force an image onto it—you must court it, almost like a dance, allowing the fabric to reveal its rhythm. In that delicate exchange, a painting acquires its character.

This relationship shaped my artistic voice. I created my own technique without gesso or primer, so silk would remain soft, vibrant, and touchable. I wanted it to hold onto its sensuality, because art should not be locked behind glass; it should be alive, something you feel with all your senses. Each of my works carries its own personality, like every creature in nature. Some emerge with quiet tenderness, others with contemplative strength. Yet all share a lightness, a kindness, and a touch of fairy-tale magic I never stopped believing in since childhood.

When someone stands before my work, the reaction is never uncertain—silk captivates instantly. Its living glow and delicate detail create a beauty no photograph can capture, leaving viewers astonished. Collectors who acquire one piece inevitably return for another, unable to resist the enchantment. This is not hope but reality: once touched by silk’s magic, people long to live with it again and again.

Q: Nature and wildlife are at the heart of your work. How do you choose which animals to depict, and do certain creatures hold personal meaning for you?

A: Nature has always been my first language. Long before I ever thought of myself as an artist, I was a child enchanted by the quiet poetry of the natural world—birds in the morning light, the soft strength of animals, the mystery in their eyes. When I began painting on silk, it felt only natural that wildlife would become the central theme of my work. I do not select animals in a calculated way. Rather, they seem to choose me. Often, it begins with a fleeting encounter—a hawk spotted in the branches, a tiger cub in a dream, or a bee resting on a flower. These moments stay with me, and silk becomes the place where they are reborn.

Each creature carries its own story, its own rhythm, and my role is simply to listen and translate it into luminous form. Certain animals do hold personal meaning. Tigers, for example, are central to my work. I never depict them as fierce or violent; instead, they appear thoughtful, soft, almost philosophical. For me, the tiger represents strength with grace, power wrapped in dignity. Birds, on the other hand, speak of freedom and transcendence. Bees embody resilience and the quiet heroism of nature. Every choice reflects not just the creature itself, but the values and emotions it awakens within me. What fascinates me most is that animals, like humans, each possess an inner character. When I paint them, I never know in advance what expression will emerge. Sometimes their gaze becomes tender, sometimes curious, sometimes serene. It feels almost as if silk itself reveals their true nature in the process of painting.

By giving these creatures a kind and luminous presence, I hope to remind people of their own bond with the natural world. We live in an age of distance from nature, yet animals still carry that timeless wisdom we have forgotten. In painting them on silk—a fabric that itself comes from nature—I want to create not just an image, but a moment of recognition. A pause, a breath, a reminder that beauty and kindness still live all around us.

Q: Because you don’t produce prints, each painting is truly unique. How do you approach pricing and accessibility so your art reaches an audience while maintaining exclusivity?

A: For me, the question of pricing begins with the nature of the work itself. Silk does not allow for repetition. Just as there are no identical creatures in the wild, I do not create two identical paintings. Once a piece is finished, I destroy the sketch, ensuring that the artwork exists as a singular expression—one moment of beauty captured forever. Because of this, every painting carries the aura of exclusivity; it is not just an artwork but a one-of-a-kind presence in someone’s life. When it comes to value, I see my paintings as heirlooms—works meant to be cherished across generations.

The technique I developed, painting without gesso or primer, allows the silk to remain vibrant and soft for a lifetime. This permanence, combined with the rarity of the art form itself, naturally shapes the price. Collectors are not only acquiring a painting, but also something that cannot be replicated, something that will never exist again in quite the same way. At the same time, I believe deeply that art should be lived with, not locked away.

While exclusivity is essential, accessibility matters too. This is why my works vary in scale and complexity, from intimate pieces that invite daily closeness to larger works that command a space. It allows a wider circle of people to bring silk’s magic into their lives, while still preserving the integrity of exclusivity. Collectors often tell me that once they acquire one piece, they cannot stop—they return again and again, drawn by the singular experience that silk offers. That, for me, is the balance between accessibility and exclusivity: not in reproductions or prints, but in the way each unique piece creates a lifelong dialogue with its owner, and then leads them back for more.

Q: Your paintings have a luminous quality, as if each animal is emerging from the silk. When you paint, do you aim for a particular mood or narrative, beyond the faithful depiction of the animal itself?

A: When I paint, I never think of the animal as just a subject to be faithfully depicted. For me, it is a presence, almost a soul, stepping out of the silk. The luminous quality you mention is born from my technique of layering color so thinly that the silk itself breathes through—light becomes part of the painting, as though the animal were glowing from within. But beyond likeness, I am always chasing atmosphere. I want my tigers to look contemplative rather than fierce, my birds to seem watchful rather than fleeting.

I do not paint aggression or violence; I paint tenderness, silence, the quiet majesty of a living being simply existing. In that sense, each work holds a mood—sometimes introspective, sometimes serene, sometimes touched by nostalgia. It is never just about what the animal is, but about what it evokes. A tiger can be strength, yes, but also solitude. A hawk can be sharp vision, but also stillness. These dualities intrigue me, because they echo human emotions. When a collector stands before a piece, I want them to feel not only the beauty of the creature but also a reflection of their own inner world—something unspoken but deeply familiar.

In that way, my paintings are less narratives in the traditional sense and more emotional landscapes. They invite the viewer into a dialogue with nature, but also with themselves. That is why many who acquire one of my works find themselves drawn back: the painting does not merely decorate a room; it continues to whisper, to reveal new moods in changing light, almost like a living companion.

Q: Looking back at your journey, from your early exhibitions to recent recognition in international competitions - what advice would you give to other artists who are trying to balance craft, passion, and perseverance?

A: If I’ve learned anything, it is that art is not a sprint but a long, intricate dance. Craft, passion, and perseverance are not separate forces to be balanced—they are threads of the same fabric. At times, one pulls tighter than the others. There are years when technique consumes you, when you refine every gesture until it becomes second nature. Other years belong to passion—those moments when you forget rules entirely and create with pure instinct. And then, of course, there are the seasons of perseverance, when neither inspiration nor recognition is present, and yet you must continue, brush in hand, trusting that the work itself will lead you through.

My advice to artists is to embrace those shifts without fear. Do not expect harmony at every moment; it comes in cycles, much like nature itself. Allow yourself to lean into discipline when passion fades, and to ride the fire of passion when it suddenly burns bright. Both are equally valuable. Another truth I’ve discovered is that recognition comes when you least expect it—and often long after you have questioned whether it ever will. That is why perseverance is not simply endurance; it is faith. Faith that your voice matters, even if the world takes time to hear it. And finally, protect your joy.

The art world can seduce with competition and comparison, but your real power lies in intimacy with your craft. If you can wake up and still marvel at a single brushstroke, a shimmer of color, or the silence that exists between you and your work, then you have already succeeded. Everything else—the exhibitions, the prizes, the collectors—will follow in their own time.