– I think they shaped each other. Motherhood brought a new depth to my experience of life, and painting gave me a way to process it all and translate it into something creative. One taught me how to care for others; the other reminds me to care of myself.

– The guilt hits the hardest, without a doubt. Every hour in the studio is an hour I’m not spending with my family… However, I believe that my daughters deserve to see their mother chasing a dream.

– I never actually planned to become a painter. I graduated from Biotechnology and Computer Programming. In terms of creativity, I always believed music was my artistic language (especially singing). I never considered myself someone with a natural talent for drawing. It all started by accident - I needed a logo, so I decided to try painting it digitally myself. It turned out much better than I expected, which made me curious to keep experimenting.

Eventually, I gathered the courage to try traditional painting. I was honestly afraid it would expose me - that maybe I was only capable of creating digitally, and that a real canvas would prove I wasn’t an artist at all. Instead, the opposite happened. The moment I picked up a brush, it felt so natural that I immediately wanted more. I became almost obsessive about improving, painting and learning whenever I had the chance, trying to make up for the years I hadn’t spent in front of a canvas.

– Definitely failing. Starting so late meant I constantly compared myself to artists who had been drawing since childhood. I often felt like I didn’t belong, as if everyone else had a head start I could never catch up with. That fear became one of my biggest motivations to work harder.

– Beauty has always been a visual language I have been instinctively drawn to. To me, it doesn’t mean perfection or something purely superficial. A beautiful face can carry pain, mystery, vulnerability, or even darkness. I’m not interested in using ugliness just to challenge the viewer - I’m more interested in finding the hidden emotions beneath what we perceive as beautiful.

– I think beauty often invites people to look closer. Once they stay with the painting, they start noticing emotions that aren’t immediately obvious. When I paint, I try to add another layer beneath the surface - depth, meaning, and symbolism.

For example, with ‘Selene’, I wanted her to be more than just a beautiful figure. She is the moon herself, surrounded by her own light, dancing in it and looking at her own reflection. It becomes a moment about self-recognition, connection, and embracing one’s own inner light. To me, beauty is a doorway, not the destination.

– I don’t consciously avoid painting anger, but I’m fascinated by quieter emotions. I think they leave more room for the viewer. An angry expression tells you exactly what to feel, while a calm one invites you to wonder what’s happening beneath the surface. Moreover, I want my figures to feel timeless. A calm expression leaves space for different interpretations, whereas anger often anchors a painting to a single moment or emotion.

– I don’t think it is a rejection of chaos as much as an attraction to order. I’ve always been fascinated by the way classical artists could create harmony while still showing human complexity. For me, a painting can be calm on the surface and still contain tension, questions, and emotion underneath.

– I'm a perfectionist by nature. It can be exhausting, but it’s also what pushes me to keep improving. I wouldn’t want to lose it completely - I’d just like to learn how to carry it a little more lightly.

– I think both are valuable. I’m probably harder on myself than anyone else could be - by the time a painting leaves my studio, I’ve already criticized it a hundred times. Genuine criticism helps me grow, and genuine praise reminds me I’m moving in the right direction.

That said, every comment means a lot to me. The fact that someone took a moment out of their day to look at my work and share their thoughts is something I never take for granted. That’s why I try to reply to every single comment I receive. 

– Yes, absolutely. I always choose the projects that truly speak to me - the ones where I see a deeper meaning or story from the very first sketches. That’s what keeps me motivated through the long hours of painting.

When I first started sharing my work online, almost nobody was watching. I didn’t have an audience, but it didn’t change the way I painted or how much I wanted to improve. I kept learning, experimenting, and creating the subjects that excited me.

Of course, I’m incredibly grateful that people connect with my work today, but the motivation has always come from the painting itself, not from the number of likes.

– I don’t think I ever set out to copy reality. Even when I work from references, they’re only a starting point. The painting becomes its own world, where composition, light, symbolism, and emotion matter more than reproducing exactly what the camera captured.

– Yes, and I love those moments. Children look at art without any expectations - they don’t think about symbolism, mythology, or artistic intention. They simply see what fascinates them.

For example, my oldest daughter absolutely loves insects, snakes, and all kinds of creatures that most people would run away from, so when she first saw my ‘Medusa’, she wasn’t thinking about Greek mythology at all. To her, it was simply ‘the cool lady with snakes on her head.’ She was completely fascinated by the idea that someone can own so many pets!

– Absolutely. After my first labour, my understanding of beauty became much broader. I started seeing women not only as beautiful, but also as warriors in their own way. The marks left on their bodies became reminders of strength and everything they have experienced. To me, there is something particularly striking about a beauty that carries a story of resilience, rather than being only about the beauty we notice at first glance.

– Honestly, it’s probably the other way around. I paint and oftentimes feel guilty about it. Of course, like any mother, there are moments when I dream of having time completely to myself. On the other hand, I’m very aware of how quickly childhood passes. I know that one day my daughters will naturally become more focused on their own lives, and I won’t be the center of their world in the same way. That makes me want to be present for as much of this time as I can. Painting is immensely important to me, but so is this chapter of my life with them - and finding a balance between the two is something I’m still learning.

– I hope they understand that everything worth building takes patience. I started with no formal art background, no certainty, and a lot to learn. I hope they see that their mother was someone who was willing to be uncomfortable, keep improving, and trust the process. More than anything, I hope they carry that same perseverance into their own lives.

– I’m actually quite an impatient person, so choosing oil painting was probably an unexpected choice. It’s a medium that requires exactly the thing I have to keep learning - patience. Because I use classical techniques and build my paintings through many layers, there is a lot of time spent waiting for paint to dry. Luckily, that waiting time is not wasted: it gives me room to think, plan, and let new ideas grow. By the time one painting is finished, I usually already have a few more waiting in the background.

– Yes. Since I work in many layers, I always have another opportunity to refine something, which is both a blessing and a curse. I spend a lot of time working through every detail before I feel comfortable calling a painting finished. That said, I occasionally leave certain passages with visible brushwork. It’s a deliberate choice - it preserves the painterly quality of the work and prevents the realism from becoming too literal.

– I don’t think I’ve ever finished a painting without seeing its flaws. Even when people respond warmly to my work, I can still point to things I would approach differently today. I suppose that’s the price of always trying to grow.

Still, I feel a truly deep connection to every painting I create, probably because I spend so much time with each one. While I’m working, I experiment constantly. I change my mind, try different solutions, repaint entire sections, and allow the painting to evolve. If I repaint a hand, it is never the same hand - it becomes a completely new one.

To me, each painting is the sum of all those decisions, revisions, and brushstrokes that happened along the way. That’s what makes the process so magical. I never know exactly what the finished painting will look like when I begin. Every unexpected turn becomes part of its story, and I think that’s why each piece feels so personal to me.

– No, although I’ve completely repainted parts of a painting many times. If something isn’t working, I try to understand what it needs instead of abandoning it. I become very attached to my paintings, and I feel that every stage of the process contributes something to the final work.

– It wasn’t really about trying to impress anyone. I’d always felt that Medusa deserved more empathy than she is usually given. After completing my first mythological portrait, ‘Gala’, I gained the confidence to take on a much more ambitious project. Medusa became one of my greatest technical challenges, but what really drew me to painting her was the chance to tell a familiar story from a different perspective.

– Snakes were never the starting point - they were simply inseparable from Medusa. Instead of treating them as something frightening, I wanted them to reflect a softer side of her. In my interpretation, they aren’t just a curse; they’ve become part of who she is, almost like companions that have always stayed with her when everyone else turned away.

I was actually a little anxious about whether I could capture them convincingly on canvas, but they turned out to be much friendlier subjects than I expected. After painting the first snake, I realized I didn’t want them to look identical. I started giving each one its own character and expression. Watching them come to life on canvas became one of the most enjoyable parts of the process. I even found myself giving them names in my head.

– Beauty may attract the eye, but it is personality, history, and individuality that make someone unforgettable. I have always been interested in what exists beyond appearance - the unseen qualities that make someone unique. Beauty is one way of approaching that complexity, but the deeper subject has always been the human being behind it.

– I think influence becomes imitation when you stop questioning and simply repeat. The old masters are a source of knowledge - their understanding of light, composition, and storytelling is something I deeply admire. Although, the goal is not to recreate what they did; it’s to understand why it worked and use that knowledge to express my own ideas.

– I think it’s the way my own experiences enter the painting. The techniques I admire come from centuries of artists before me, but the emotions, stories, and meanings I attach to my subjects come from my own life. I’m not trying to recreate the past - I’m responding to it from my own time and my own perspective.

– I would be truly happy if people appreciated both. The technical side represents the discipline and dedication behind every painting, but the ideas are what make each piece personal and meaningful. My hope is that people see not only how much time went into creating the work, but also why I felt it was worth creating.

– I don’t think I would expect that from myself yet. I’m still relatively early in my painting journey, and I’m learning so much with every piece. At this stage, I’m more interested in exploring and growing than trying to fit myself into a very specific visual identity.

– I would not separate the two. To me, becoming a great painter means first committing myself fully to learning the craft. Studying classical aesthetics and techniques feels almost like a form of devotion - it is my way of showing respect for the artists who shaped the history of painting. It feels like preserving and continuing a language that I deeply admire. The challenge is to learn that language well enough to eventually say something that is truly my own.

– I think the only true betrayal would be to stop being curious. The artists I admire never stopped learning, so I’d rather follow that example and let it shape my work in ways I can’t predict yet.

– I’d encourage them to take craftsmanship seriously, whatever medium they choose. Beyond that, I’d try not to influence them too much.

I think discovering your own artistic language is something every artist deserves to do without someone else drawing the map for them. More than anything, whether it is art or another pursuit, I hope they experience the same sense of purpose and fulfilment that painting has brought into my life.