When war arrives — I grow quiet and work. Twelfth Year of War I don’t believe in the heroism of the artist. I believe in survival. Not in loud art. Not in colors that demand attention. I believe in a hand clenched from the cold. In form shaped not by imagination, but by pain. And in white — the only color that hasn’t yet screamed. When the house collapses, you don’t build a new one — you gather the dust from the windowsill and wonder how to preserve it. Everything becomes memory. Even cracks in the wall are no longer just cracks — they’re the lines where tears once ran. I shape a vessel because form is something you can hold. And holding means living. It means something still yields. It means not everything has turned to chaos. I don’t create to heal. I create not to disappear. White is not peace. It’s silence. It’s clay that hasn’t yet touched blood. Sometimes I feel I create from remnants — of the world, of words, of myself. But it’s from remnants that strength is born. Silence holds shape better than gloss. Ash lays down softer than paint. I don’t make art about war. I make it during war. From what is left. From what still breathes. War remains the backdrop. Creation — the only way to speak. The war is in its twelfth year. — Natalia #ContemporarySculpture #ArtDuringWar #BiomorphicForm #OrganicSculpture #WabiSabiArt #SilentArt #SculptureAsSurvival #ConceptualSculpture #EarthInspiredArt #CollectibleContemporaryArt
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