Visions Emerging from Beyond
I am one of those rare people who remember their life almost from the very first moments. But there is one moment I do not remember—my birth. A few days after I came into this world, my heart stopped. No one knows exactly how long it lasted. What followed was a coma. My body hung between two worlds until it was finally pulled back into this one. I survived, but I spent my first days in an incubator, connected to machines that kept me breathing until I was strong enough to exist on my own.
From childhood, I felt that something within me was different. I was not special, nor was I extraordinary—I simply did not belong anywhere. I had no friends in the neighborhood, but I never felt lonely. My world was filled with beings that no one else could see. When I first held modeling clay in my hands, I realized it was an extension of me. I sculpted strange figures with such precision that adults were astonished at how detailed they were. But to me, this was natural. These creatures were born in my mind, often appearing suddenly, and I transferred them into matter. Now, when I look back, I wonder—were they really just imagination?
Before school, I never attended kindergarten. My body was too fragile, too weak, and my mother feared something might happen to me. But when I stepped through the doors of the school, I realized that even here, I did not belong. I was neither remarkable nor unusual, yet children instinctively felt that something about me was different. They could not explain it, but they kept their distance. And those who sensed that I had something they did not, turned me into their target.
By the time I was 12 or 13, I began to feel something much stronger. When I was among people, I felt as if I were drowning—my body was present, but my consciousness was elsewhere. I absorbed their energy so intensely that I could barely stand near them. Every emotion, every unspoken thought passed through me, and I had no idea how to stop it. I sought medical help, visited doctors, but they found nothing. They did not understand what was happening to me. So I simply started avoiding people.
And then, art came into my life.
I began drawing when I was 18. At that time, it was the only thing that helped me collect the chaos of my thoughts into something tangible. At 21, I moved on to painting and tattooing—another form of expression that allowed me to channel the visions that entered my consciousness. After 12 years of tattooing, I left that path behind and dedicated myself entirely to drawing and painting.
Over the years, I noticed one thing—my paintings are not just images. They are messages. They work like tarot cards, often revealing the future. Their symbolism repeats across different works, forming a narrative that even I sometimes only fully understand later. They frequently act as warnings—not just for others, but for myself as well.
My ideas come suddenly. They remain in my mind for no longer than a minute—like someone throws them into my consciousness and immediately takes them away. In that moment, I must write them down in words, or they vanish completely. The sketching process comes later—it is long and meticulous. Sometimes, it takes me six months to realize that a sketch I have struggled to finalize is missing just a few small details—perhaps a tiny symbol or a couple of dots. And the moment I make that change, it’s as if a gate opens, allowing me to begin painting or drawing.
That is when strange things start happening.
I have observed that the more complex a painting is in terms of technique, the greater the event—or chain of events—that unfolds in reality. Sometimes, it begins while I am still painting, sometimes only once the work is complete. Each of my paintings is like a ritual, connected to something far beyond just paint and canvas.
One of my collections is marked with a signature in blood. It was not something I planned—it was something that had to happen. Every time I finished a painting, my nose would start bleeding, or I would accidentally cut my finger—always on the vein from which blood is drawn. And in that moment, I felt an overwhelming pull to leave my mark—as if something was flowing through me, demanding to be preserved. I do not know what it means. I do not know why it happens. But I do not resist it.
I trust my intuition. And I trust whatever stands behind me.
