My grandfather attended church every day. But to the little girl he took along, his prayers were endless. To amuse myself, I looked at the paintings, at the frescoes, struggling not to squiggle, until I had memorized everything I could see from my seat. Much later, when my grandmother passed at the age of 97, I found the letters I wrote to her, many illustrated with drawings. They were surprisingly accomplished for a child who hardly knew how to write. Those were my beginnings as a young artist, until my father, an engineer, showed me with a few strokes how to paint a still life with watercolors. I still admire it.
Art is in my blood, a habit for someone born in the heart of Europe. Old masters speak to me. I imitate them, painting for the sheer pleasure and learning from the experience. I may even combine their style because I’ve been carrying an idea in my head for years and it’s a challenge. And then there is the practical aspect of painting old masterpieces: to own one that isn’t for sale or is too expensive for mortals like myself.
I paint in my own manner, from abstract to realistic, feeling driven to paint a floral piece with whimsical brush strokes but then replicate it with the precision of a fine camera. I have no preferences—in any art form the reward is in the creation—just like in my garden—creating something from nothing, touching the brushes, mixing the paints, smelling the turpentine. It’s all about the moment-to-moment experience, the blurring of subject and object. It’s about being lost in a different dimension of shapes and colors.