Since I remember, I loved to play with papers and crayons because the excitement of creating process had always tasted like infatuation. I saw colors as an entity with personality, taste and smell for me and vice versa, i.e. my mother was cool green and my father - dark brown. I even see myself in a shades of orange.
During the studies of architecture, I was inexpertly trying to hide my affection for colors.
After fifteen years of pure architecture practice, I felt that it would be OK, to go back (or forward?) to color and to experience the scale of power and responsibility that only a painter has over the canvas.
It makes me happy when it goes good and it makes me mad when I'm not getting the result I expect. Mortal combat.
I'm an architect.
When I was 6, I wanted to became an alchemist in order to fix my life, family, the world.
At the age of 17 I wanted to be a philosopher with the intention to explain the world.
Just a few weeks before high school graduation, my country fell apart and the civil war started. I passed on entrance examination both on philosophy and architecture, but graduated architecture. Why? Probably in order to try to arrange physical space if I was overpowered by metaphysical. Now, I am painting. Why? Well...