I make sculptures in polymer clay, paper, and digital 3D modeling. For me, sculpture is not a goal but a tool — a medium through which I tell stories, provoke thought, and ask questions. Each piece is a layered conversation, shaped as much by curiosity as by intention.

Polymer clay is my closest companion. It preserves imperfections — the true nature and charisma of the work. In an age where digital technology can generate flawless, polished surfaces, I find it essential to stay close to raw expression. Wrinkles, scratches, bumps: these are not defects, they are the breath, tone, and rhythm of sculpture. They are like the faint touch of a guitar pick on strings, the inhale of a musician before playing, or the soft knock of fingers on piano keys — subtle traces of presence that make an artwork alive.

Paper, by contrast, is a challenge at its core. It transforms something plain and two-dimensional into a three- or even four-dimensional experience while maintaining its inherent clarity. It resists permanence yet carries surprising strength, forcing me to balance fragility and structure.

Digital 3D modeling is my assistant, a bridge between imagination and matter. It allows me to work with complex compositions before manifesting them in the physical world. It is a tool of rehearsal and possibility, not perfection.

My art is charged with symbolism — personal, cultural, and often archetypal, only fully revealed later. Fractals appear frequently, echoing the structure of the universe. Psychedelic states and visions are central, not as decoration but as sources of insight. My work thrives on contrasts: fear and laughter, silliness and seriousness, the philosophical and the profane. These tensions mirror my own journey — from trauma to addiction, struggle to healing. Sculpture becomes the bridge by which I manifest the ethereal and spiritual through the physical.

Sculpture has been my language since childhood. Plasticine was my favorite toy, a way to create worlds and live stories. Looking back, I realize it was also a refuge, a meditation before I knew the word. Even now, sculpting calms my mind, steadies my body, and protects my inner balance. It has always been both therapy and prevention. Through four decades, it has been a quiet companion — and at times, even an asset in my interior design career.

In the studio I almost never sketch. I begin with a blurred idea, leaving space for curiosity. What will it become when finished? I love how something born in my mind or soul takes form, then enters another person’s inner world, only to return through their reflections. This cycle — idea, material, interpretation — is as important as the object itself. Sometimes I grow impatient, eager to see the outcome, like a child unable to wait. In many ways, sculpture remains my window to that inner child.

I want the viewer to leave their comfort zone on all three levels: physical, emotional, and cognitive. My life has been a fascinating journey, and through sculpture I share its questions, struggles, and discoveries in forms that can be touched, seen, and felt.