WHERE IS MY HOME about the project

This is only my second art book, and I can say with confidence: I definitely enjoy working in this format.Creating a project feels both exciting and full of responsibility.The importance of it all and my own expectations make my head spin. Sometimes fear paralyzes my body.I take all forms of relationships too seriously — with people, with objects, with drawings, with myself. I can’t help it.

The book came into being on its own.I’m not even sure it can be called a “book” in the usual sense — it’s more of a space where I try to hold onto questions.

It all started with collages. That format felt close to me: it allowed me to escape the pressure of the blank page.At first, there were abstractions, stains, paint bleeding on paper.But at some point, images with meaning began to appear.I looked at them for days, trying to catch the feelings and understand what exactly was pulling me in.I felt like I had captured “nostalgia” — not the romantic kind, but the sharp, aching kind.

I’m not someone who feels nostalgic with warmth.For me, nostalgia often feels like trauma: the smallest event breaks through with pain, disappointment, betrayal.In those moments, I withdraw and disappear.

I’ve always had a strange feeling — as soon as someone touches my belongings, they somehow stop being mine.I immediately try to sever the connection.It’s radical, uncomfortable — but honest.

While working on the collages, I wandered through the house of my memory:entered abandoned rooms, touched their walls, looked at objects that remembered people —and cried, feeling the loss.

The house inside me is in ruins.The process of creating this art book changed form several times over the course of six months.It was a journey: emptiness, despair, disconnection from myself — and the attempt to piece myself together again, brick by brick.

It’s hard to put into words the feeling of emptiness I live with,and which gave birth to every image in this book.

This book is another desperate — and in some ways utopian — attempt to find myself.To rebuild myself piece by piece.

I always forget to document my work process.It feels like it’s not worth the attention.So much of this has already been done.And it’s hard to feel unique in your emotions — especially now,when everyone in the world seems to be searching for a home,and the world itself keeps shaking out whatever is left of something whole and meaningful inside you.

I wanted to find something of my own.Something new — but still mine.What it is, and what “mine” even means — I have no idea.

I struggle with structure and systems.By nature, I’m chaotic, spontaneous, unstable.So the idea of building a narrative — even a visual one — was quickly abandoned.Just a week into trying (and failing), I gave up. My work doesn’t live in series.It happens by accident.And I’m learning to accept that.

I live through emotion — in the moment.Because I know it might change the next second,and I’ll lose the taste for it. That’s why focus is so hard for me. I thought — maybe I could allow myself to make a book based on this chaos. The only argument in its favor became my mantra:an art book has the right to be whatever it wants.

There are not many texts in the book itself.A more academic or structured version of the project is presented on the page — WHERE IS MY HOME

All my reflections only lead to more questions.During my research, I came across some incredible ideas and literature —and I felt deeply ashamed that I had never knownhow many important things had already been said about the world.

For some reason, it seemed to methat people from the past knew a bit more about the universe.And that was fascinating.It made me realize I’ve been reading the wrong kind of literatureand just how ignorant I really am.So much time — wasted.

My search for voices took many directions.Anything too bright, too family-oriented, too sweetened with happinesstriggered a bodily rejection in me.I ran every word through my body, like through a filter. And I felt so much.

It was so interesting to observe how people who carry the same social anchor,despite having different cultural, religious, or other backgrounds,can, at some point, feel exactly the same things.

It was both amazing and terrifying to realizethat human beings experience the same emotionsthroughout different periods in time.There was this eerie feelingthat we don’t really evolve emotionally —that our reactions repeat themselves endlessly. It’s almost funny. As if we’re moving in circles,rewriting the same mistakes again and again from one another.

This is a space of silence and emptiness.I wish it could be something bigger, something meaningful for everyone. But in the end, I simply found kindred spirits.