The motifs recurring across my canvases—landscapes, nudes, still lifes—are what I live in and what I look at. In a sense, there’s nothing extraordinary about them, because, like everyone, I exist within a certain environment of people and objects, within a landscape they create. In fact, I sometimes feel as though I don’t choose the motif at all. The motif chooses itself. It happens to me.

At the same time, I believe that translating these threads from our shared world onto canvas can create a ground for conversation with viewers—that it allows them to weave their own stories and associations around my work. I’m convinced that, regardless of the latitude under which we live, we all grapple with the same moral and spiritual dilemmas. Everywhere, we ask ourselves the same fundamental questions and harbor similar ambitions, whose existence has little to do with the appearance of our surroundings. Thus, the background that becomes a motif on the canvas is irrelevant to the essence of these reflections—or rather, any background is equally valid. More than that, inhabiting a familiar environment allows us to experience fleeting moments of resonance not on the level of surface appearances, but in deeper, invisible yet undeniably palpable layers.

When I turn to work on the canvas, I try to break free from commonplace illusions by layering paint and gestures, striving to articulate an invisible reality—the one whose gateway remains, always, nature and our senses exposed to it.