Kingfisher bird Print

My name Olga, and I loved drawing with pencils as a child, though at the time I never imagined that art would one day become such an essential part of my life. Like many childhood passions, it quietly faded into the background as I grew older. It did not become my profession, nor even a serious hobby. For years, creativity lived somewhere inside me — present, but silent. Everything changed after the birth of my son. Motherhood reshaped my world in ways I could never have anticipated. Alongside the tenderness, responsibility, and exhaustion, there was also an unexpected awakening. I felt a deep and urgent need to create — to bring brightness into my days, to paint something vivid, expressive, and alive. Color became a form of emotional release, a way to reconnect with myself while giving so much of myself to another human being. In 2017, I began drawing again — slowly, quietly, in fragments of time. I painted during naps, in the evenings, whenever a small window of stillness appeared. Free time was rare, but whenever it came, I returned to my easel with determination. Those early sessions were not about perfection; they were about rediscovery. With every brushstroke, I felt I was reclaiming a forgotten part of myself. Learning without a mentor was both challenging and empowering. I did not have formal training or academic guidance. Instead, I searched for inspiration independently — studying artists, observing different styles, analyzing techniques, and experimenting fearlessly. I allowed myself to make mistakes. I allowed myself to grow slowly. It was not a straight line; it was a path filled with uncertainty, discovery, and small victories. At that time, I was living in the United Kingdom. I began selling my early, naïve works on eBay for £20. They were simple, heartfelt pieces — imperfect but sincere. The first sale felt monumental. It was not about the money; it was about validation. It was proof that something created in the quiet corners of my home could resonate with someone else in the world. There were many moments of doubt. Times when exhaustion overshadowed inspiration. Moments when the blank canvas felt intimidating rather than inviting. I questioned whether I was good enough, whether I had started too late, whether I could truly grow without formal instruction. There were turning points when I almost stopped altogether. Over the past nine years, art has evolved from a fragile rediscovery into a committed pursuit.