I have always admired people who choose one passion and devote themselves to it with unwavering discipline, honing their skills year after year until they reach a kind of quiet mastery. There is something enviable about that level of focus. Yet this has never been my path. My curiosity pulls me in many directions, urging me toward new disciplines, new experiences, new ways of expressing myself. For a long time, I wondered whether this restlessness was a flaw or simply part of who I am.

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And still, through all the shifting interests and experiments, one thing has remained constant: art. No matter what else I explore, I always return to it, as if it were my true north in a landscape of possibilities.

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I hold a degree in Architecture and Urban Planning, a field that taught me to read the rhythms of cities — their structures, migrations, needs, and hidden human stories. I loved shaping environments that were ergonomic, healthy, and beautiful. At the same time, hiking became my essential ritual for resetting, a way to step outside the intensity of urban life.

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The Revolution of Dignity marked a turning point. I left the computer screen behind and began working as a guide and translator for foreign journalists. Meeting new people, entering unfamiliar spaces, and searching for unexpected angles became my daily practice. During that time, I applied to an art open call in London — my first ever — and was selected to exhibit at the Passion for Freedom Art Festival. That moment pushed me deeper into the art world.

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My life unfolded across continents. In Taiwan, I immersed myself in calligraphy and traditional Mandarin. In Hong Kong, I studied fine art and worked as a photographer. It was there, at Art Basel, that I met Marina Abramović and discovered the power of contemporary art. I developed photo‑documentary projects on homelessness in Rome, on single mothers in Ukraine, and on the fragile edges of social inequality. People — their identities, their struggles, their resilience — have always been my greatest curiosity. Spain brought motorcycling; Dubai became the chapter of motherhood.

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Motherhood brought another revelation: if I didn’t start horse riding now, I never would. Horses became a lifelong love, a way to feel the wind and the pulse of freedom. Around the same time, I began exhibiting regularly at the Modern Art Research Institute of the National Academy of Fine Arts in Ukraine.

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Just before the pandemic, I opened Rymi, an experimental art space in the heart of Kyiv. The idea was simple and radical: place contemporary art directly into the chaos of the urban street. A ground‑floor window on a busy road became a gallery. Could passersby distinguish art from commercial noise? Could an artwork interrupt a rushing mind? Could such a fragile format survive? Rymi was my attempt to find out.

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During lockdown, I learned to sail — the perfect escape from crowds — and discovered yet another love: the open sea.

After the full‑scale invasion of Ukraine, my family relocated to Cyprus. The first years were dedicated to activism through visual art, supporting my country from afar. Later, I participated in the Larnaca Biennale and exhibited at the Apothikes Papadaki Municipal Art Center in Limassol. In this period of uncertainty, I kept doing what makes me feel alive. I sailed from Cyprus to Norway, around Great Britain, and back as a deckhand, sharing the journey with my son. I continued creating art and stayed close to horses.