This series explores the process of identity formation through an engagement with ethnic roots, religious traditions, social norms, and familial values.
The artistic statement is built upon the metaphor of assembling the "self" from fragments of one’s heritage—much like a mosaic, where each piece is unique and influences the whole, yet does not entirely define it.
Rough papier-mâché and steel wire serve as the language of this inquiry.
With its layers, papier-mâché acts as a metaphor for memory, experience, and the substance of identity—at once fragile and resilient. Its coarse texture bears the imprints of time, while the embedded elements hold fragments of personal histories.
The wire functions as a framework of belief—the skeleton of one’s personal convictions—yet it also acts as a constraint that restricts our movement. Though the metal is pliable, it can prick; it provides structure, but it can also impose limitations.
Through this series of assemblage works, the artist does more than present the outcome of a search; she invites the viewer to join in the process of collectively "feeling out" the truth. It is a tactile experience that evokes family roots and prompts reflection on the strength of one’s own convictions, laying bare the hidden layers of the self.
Nostalgia for childhood often evokes an idyllic vision: carefree summers, a vibrant city courtyard, and a sense of safety and purity. The piece "Vulnerability 1" engages with this theme, offering an insider’s perspective—recollections stripped of the protective, polished veneer that often coats later nostalgia.
At the heart of this nostalgia lies a child’s dress—a universal symbol of innocence and lightheartedness. Yet, it is presented not as a seamless garment, but as a skeletal frame constructed from wire and fragments of papier-mâché. This serves as a metaphor for the very act of remembering: we do not reconstruct the past in its entirety; rather, we assemble it from fragile, scattered remnants, held together by the "wire" of our present-day perception.
The faded blue paint evokes the washed-out sky seen in old photographs—a backdrop for memories that can no longer be restored to their original, vivid intensity.
The playful polka-dot pattern, typical of children’s clothing, is transformed here into a symbol of unease. The red dots are not mere decoration, but "uncontained spots" that disrupt the tranquility of the blue background. Their blurred edges visualize how moments of fear, shame, or inexplicable anxiety—inexplicable to a child—seep into an otherwise clear picture of childhood. They are traces of a "vulnerability" stitched into the very fabric of experience.
The work does not reject nostalgia; instead, it adds layers of complexity. It suggests that our childhood, as remembered, is an intricate collage—comprising both "sunlight" and "shadow." It is a space where one first encounters the world, and that encounter leaves behind imprints that are as painful as they are vivid. To “assemble the whole” of one’s childhood means to accept this fragile construct, where tenderness exists alongside anxiety, and the purity of the color blue always harbors the ominous imprints of red.
The mixed-media sculpture "Vulnerability 2," from the series "Assemble the Whole," is not about school—it’s about one’s earliest self. I still remember the tactile sensation of a school uniform collar: scratchy, stiff, and such a tedious chore to sew on. I crafted it from wire and papier-mâché—not to make a statement about fashion, but to capture that feeling of being cinched into a uniform when all you want to do is breathe.
The paper here is fragile, just as we were in childhood, while the wire serves as a framework—it provides structure, but offers no warmth. This is not nostalgia viewed through rose-colored glasses; it is memory, unvarnished. It speaks to a sense of awkwardness and the attempt to be compliant: "Don't stand out, and you'll be a good girl."
What I remember isn’t the celebration itself, but the way the collar dug into my neck while I stood there smiling. It’s not about the festivity; it’s about the tension—everything coiled tight inside, while on the outside, there is only an impeccable, stark-white, pointed edge.
It is a memento of a daily, quiet existence a life spent simply doing as one is told, and enduring. No rebellion. Just the persistent, chafing sensation of a collar rubbing the skin raw, yet you never take it off. And this is not about school days; it is about the habit of submission.
That very same white apron with the little winged shoulders worn for the one and only school photograph, the one that everyone would eventually see: the person who sat at your desk, a friend’s mother, your future boss.
You aren’t posing for yourself; you’re posing for them for those who, years later, will flip through the album and discuss what you were like, how you’ve changed, and what became of you.
Papier-mâché holds the shape; wire keeps your back straight. There is no warmth here only the starch-stiffened whiteness and the piercing gaze of others, a gaze you can feel against your skin. You aren’t looking for yourself in the album; you are looking for yourself in their memories.
This work isn’t about school; it’s about how, once upon a time, you were placed into a frame and you are still standing there to this day.
The work "Expectations" serves as a materialized metaphor for internal conflict and the process of identity crystallization under the pressure of external societal prescriptions. It is a hybrid form that explores an intermediate, "raw" state of the individual—one that no longer fits into simple categories, yet has not yet attained wholeness.
The hybridity of the form represents a conflict—a dialogue—between the social constructs of femininity and masculinity. Their fusion within a single object visualizes an internal dialogue, or struggle, against the gendered expectations imposed by social norms.While the object itself is static, its meaning lies in the process. It captures an "in-between" moment—a state of incompleteness—which is the very essence of the search for identity.
The mixed-media sculpture "Minankari" is an exploration of the archetypal journey toward wholeness, achieved through the collision and synthesis of cultural codes. The work gives physical form to an individual’s internal dialogue torn between various layers of ancestral memory and captures the very moment of "assembling" an identity from disparate fragments.
The object serves as a meditative conduit, inviting the viewer to physically sense the tension between their roots and their present self, between a clearly defined code and a blurred recollection. It asserts that, in the modern world, cultural identity is not a given, but an act of creation one in which you are the artist, and the materials are the accumulated layers of inherited myths and personal roots.
This series of works, taking the form of masks, serves as a narrative of recovery following traumatic events—moments when one’s familiar world collapses and the need arises to rediscover an internal foundation. These are not mere stages or steps, but rather a succession of pauses taken on the journey back to oneself—a catalog of potential states. One day it might be this, the next day something else; no state is better or worse than another—simply different.
These masks offer no protection, nor do they serve as costumes for a role. Instead, they inhabit the space, inviting the viewer to reflect: in which "pause" do you currently find yourself? Is your sense of self ready to take on a definitive form? There may be many such pauses—exactly as many as are required for one’s identity to regain its inner substance and stability.
Each mask is unique, for there is no single "correct" way to exist in the aftermath of a crisis. Some are nearly empty—mere outlines through which the wall behind remains visible. Others are defined by delicate touches of papier-mâché and paint that has bled beyond its intended bounds. Still others appear dense and solid, yet bear fissures in the material—a reminder that trauma leaves its mark.
This is a series about piecing yourself back together when it feels as though everything has been lost.After devastating events, you cannot return to your former shape not because you are broken, but because you have become someone else. The original core crumbles, and in its place, something new begins to grow. It is not a monolith, but a living structure multifaceted, imperfect, and breathing.
Much like a polyphony, where many voices sound simultaneously without drowning one another out, this new identity does not seek a simple, singular unity; instead, it learns to exist in different ways across the various dimensions of life. Internally, it grows through the pain; externally, it navigates a constant flow of roles and expressions, all while remaining true to itself.
This is not a story about destruction. It is a story about how an ecosystem of the self emerges where a rigid core once stood an ecosystem shaped by losses, distortions, and an honest confrontation with one’s own reality. It suggests that, today, wholeness is not a fixed, unyielding form, but the capacity to hold a multitude of voices within a single breath.
At the core of the sculpture lies a deconstructed wooden beam. Once a solid, unified whole—an embodiment of internal logic and stability—it has been fractured by external circumstances into three cubes. They can no longer be reassembled into their original form; therein lies their honesty.
Each cube is imbued with its own color and meaning: black represents depth, beige signifies corporeality, and red embodies creativity. Yet, these colors are not isolated they flow into one another, blurring all boundaries. Similarly, within a human being, it is impossible to discern where pain ends and strength begins, where the physical transitions into the spiritual, or how creativity might emerge from one’s wounds.
The asymmetrical arrangement of the cubes is no accident; it is an acknowledgment that any new configuration can never be perfect.
This fragile structure is held together by thick wire. It arrests the disintegration preventing total collapse yet it also acts as a constraint. It is a state of stasis: a survival mechanism that offers salvation at the cost of movement.
And yet, from this unstable foundation from the very heart of the collapse a thin, flexible wire reaches upward. Its tendrils stretch in various directions, seeking the light, growing, yearning. It is a lifeline a drive to break free from stasis and continue the journey. In spite of everything. Because of everything.
Thus, a polyphony emerges a complex unity of opposites that resonate simultaneously, without drowning one another out. Destruction and reconstruction. Stability and fluidity. Constraint and freedom.
This work presents a living architecture of identity. In today’s world, we cannot remain confined to a single role; instead, we exist as if in a state of continuous, live-streamed self-broadcast across multiple "channels."
Deconstructing the "identity cube" serves as a way to isolate these roles an ability to be everywhere at once, functioning as a survival strategy within the modern-day "flow".
The deformations and the bleeding of colors across the cubes lend an honesty to this model. It acknowledges that this "flow" inevitably entails losses, distortions, and mutual influences. Identity is not a sterile ideal, but rather a hybrid subjectivity one that lacks a definitive form and exists in a state of constant oscillation between autonomy and unity.
Through a series "Not so childish blocks" i am sharing an experience of internal conflict—a recollection of how childhood play and natural spontaneity gradually give way to an awareness of rules and obligations, and the stifling sensation that arises when love and acceptance become conditional, tethered to one’s ability to meet certain expectations.
In this context, "home" is not merely a place of protection; it is also a system that molds an individual according to a predetermined template.
Each piece serves as a sculptural cast of an internal state. A rigid wooden framework represents the structural scaffolding of social and familial mandates—"be slim," "you’ll understand when you’re older," "act like a girl"… Meanwhile, a paper crane, fashioned from fragile pulp—reminiscent of pages torn from a childhood diary—embodies the malleable, authentic "self" of a child.
The pressure to "conform" is expressed here through the choice of materials. Wire pulls the crane toward a wooden block, visualizing control, prohibitions, and emotional manipulation. This transforms a simple, childlike form into something complex and fraught with tension.
The series illustrates how societal norms are transmitted through the most intimate of institutions: the family. These "blocks" are the fundamental bricks from which the fabric of society is built; any internal deformation within them compromises the integrity of the entire structure.
The assemblage piece "Set me free" serves as a visual metaphor for the female experience. The contours of a face symbolize the metamorphosis of the self, while a grid represents a cage of internal constraints and social conventions.
Darkened hearts signify the burden of unfulfilled dreams and the monotony of daily routine, whereas paper cranes embody fragile, childlike dreams that yearn to be set free. Through these symbols, the work explores the journey toward self-acceptance, the interpretation of everyday life, and the attainment of personal freedom.
(Sold)
This series was born from a question that everyone has asked themselves at least once in their life: where can one find a foundation when the world around becomes unstable? In such moments, many seek support in faith—turning toward the visages in which generations before us sought solace and hope.
"The Requested" is an attempt to examine how our quiet encounter with the sacred comes into being. The artist offers no ready-made answers, nor does he paint icons in the traditional sense. Like an archaeologist of his own emotions, he uses the rough stroke of a palette knife to scrape away the top layer of paint, revealing memory, pain, and hope.
These works are neither portraits nor depictions of saints; they are projections of our own feelings. In this series, the sacred is not a static, fixed entity to be worshipped.
This is not a general discourse on faith, but rather an exploration of how faith—or the search for it—is refracted within each of us. The artist merely creates space and depth; the "glimmer" that emerges from this depth is something you yourself evoke—through your own attention, your vulnerability, and your hope of finding a foundation.
