Everything breaks eventually—ideas, illusions, people. But breaking isn’t the end. It’s just another shape, another way of seeing. Fractured lives in that space between what was and what’s becoming, where pieces don’t quite fit the way they used to, where magic and memory blur, where stories rewrite themselves mid-sentence.
There’s no neat resolution here. Just shifting forms, unfinished incantations, fleeting glimpses of something almost graspable. The hands that build are the same ones that undo, the lines between reality and imagination twist and splinter. It’s a collection of rituals and contradictions, of moments caught mid-transformation.
A spell half-cast, a story half-told. A kiss that lingers between past and future. The familiar made strange, the strange made intimate. The magician’s hands moving too fast to follow, revealing nothing and everything at once. This is not about clarity; it’s about the beauty of distortion, the poetry of something just out of reach.
Maybe nothing was ever whole to begin with. Maybe that’s the point.
Eternal Kiss, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Eternal Kiss is about connection – a connection that transcends time, place, and the boundaries of the physical world. We are all shaped by time, worn out by experience, but it is these imperfections that define our beauty. I wanted to include references that would refer to well-known works and I invite you to discover them.
When I created this piece, I imagined a relationship without direction or limits, where there is no “up” or “down”, there is no “left” or “right”. The work can be exhibited in any position, there is no “right” way to look at it. Depending on how you flip the piece, the story changes. I wanted the figures to float in that ambiguity, inviting the viewer to choose their own perspective, to see the moment through their own lens.
That’s why Eternal Kiss is not just a drawing. It’s a reminder that our relationships, like art, don’t have to be fixed or perfect in order to be beautiful. They can change, evolve, and even fracture—but the energy that binds us remains eternal.
Chasing Le Fleur Perdu, 2025
(40x30cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
When I started working on Chasing Le Fleur Perdu, the idea was a surreal mix of nature, history and a touch of mystery. I wanted to create something that seemed timeless, yet enigmatic, almost like a visual riddle. I wanted to capture the sense of searching for meaning in the layers of history and art, the connections we make between past and present, real and imaginary.
I hope that when you look at this drawing, you feel drawn into that chase – questioning, imagining, and maybe even discovering your own version of the lost flower.
Doing Magic With My Hands, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Art has always been a process of transformation – a way to take the ordinary and bring it out of anonymity into the spotlight. With “Doing Magic with My Hands”, I wanted to explore this idea, combining the act of creation with the subject itself.
I hope it makes you wonder. Is it magic about the hands you see or the ones you don’t see? Is it irises, which bloom thanks to care, or about the work itself, created thanks to the imagination? Because, in the end, aren’t we all touched by a bit of magic?
Triple Threat, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I consider myself more of a storyteller, so let me take you on a journey into my drawing, Triple Threat, a world where nothing is quite what it seems. Does the machine control the game? Does it play it or does it just feed on chaos? What does the mouse represent and what role does it play? What is the statue thinking about? Is it planning the next move, stuck in a silent duel with the machine? Or is it already trapped by its own creation, powerless to stop it?
For me, Triple Threat is a story about duality and the fragile balance between them – man and machine, chaos and order, survival and destruction. It’s not just about who wins or loses; It is about the tension between the forces that are constantly reshaping the world.
So, I invite you to take a closer look, to find your own meaning in models, pieces, connections. Because in this world of endless possibilities, the next move is always yours.
The Microscope Circus, 2025
(50x65cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
The circus is that place where everything seems exaggerated, intense, where every moment is a combination of magic, risk and balance. At the same time, the circus is a beautiful chaos: the clowns laugh, the acrobats risk everything, and the backstage hides much more than what is seen on stage. And that’s life, right? A permanent juggling between what we show to the world and what we keep behind the scenes.
Why “Microscope”? Because the work invites you to look closely, to look for details that, at first glance, may go unnoticed. Everything is there: the small events, the lost gestures, the lines that intersect to tell a larger story than it seems at first glance.
In Microscope Circus I try to capture this tension: between the visible spectacle and the hidden complexity, between what we choose to see and what happens behind the curtain. It’s a visual game that challenges you to stop, take a closer look and ask yourself: “What did I miss? What does all this mean to me?”
Bedtime Stories, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
This is an exploration of the interplay between mysticism, human desire, and the eternal act of storytelling. In addition, it touches on themes of addiction, both desire and the act of creation itself. I wanted to create an image that feels like you’re stepping into a dream – a dream in which ancient traditions and modern interpretations of longing and fulfillment coexist.
For me, this drawing is a bedtime story – every element a word, every texture a phrase and the whole composition a chapter. I wanted it to feel intimate yet vast, as if it could contain endless stories within it. I encourage you to create your own story. What do you see in the drawing? What desires or dreams are poured out and where could they flow?
In the end, whether it is titled “Bedtime Stories” or “The Alchemy of Desire”, this drawing is an invitation – to dream, to interpret and to discover the magic hidden in the ordinary and extraordinary alike.
Incantation, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
“Incantation” is a manifestation of contrasts, an invitation. I ask you to face your own fractures, embrace the broken pieces and see how they contribute to the larger mosaic of your identity. I challenge you to find the magic in imperfection, to weave transformative spells out of shards of vulnerability.
It is a starting point, a spell cast to draw viewers into a realm where geometry meets humanity, where shards tell stories, and where the fractured becomes whole. I hope that this piece and the collection it is part of will inspire reflection, conversation and maybe even a touch of magic in those who meet it.
The Storyteller, 2025
(55x65cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
For this work I was undecided between two titles: The Storyteller and The Rock-solid Philosophy. Both matched, each in his own way, but, in the end, it was the storyteller in the work who made himself heard louder.
I like the tension created: the figures of the statues, so stoic, face to face with the living energy of the rabbit. It’s as if the rabbit is telling a story that makes even the most philosophical among us stop and rethink everything they thought they knew. Philosophies may seem unshakable, like stone, but often it is the playfulness, the unexpected, that breathes life and makes them evolve.
I want to believe that my drawing inspires the people who bring fresh perspectives and about the magic that is born when the deep meets the unexpected.
L’Aquariste, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
There are people who collect souvenirs, people who collect views, and then there are people like me, who collect entire cities—piece by piece, like little fish swimming in a glass aquarium. L’Aquariste is not just a drawing; it is a jar of memories, a travel diary, this page a Paris captured and suspended in an aquarium, like an artifact in a museum of personal experiences.
I’m L’Aquariste, the curator of my own collection of sunken dreams. And this is one of them.
The Quest, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
A journey begins, but whose own? Is the adventure of fairytale characters full of trials and deceptions? Or is it yours, the viewer, drawn into a world of shifting symbols and enigmatic figures, trying to decipher their purpose and destiny? Did you recognize it? I know it could be challenging for non-Balkan people.
Look carefully. The characters—grotesque, mechanical, vigilant—stand on the edges, pointing, observing, plotting. A roulette wheel spins —luck or destiny? Who holds the power? Who plays the game?
Nothing here is accidental, but nothing is fully revealed. This is The Journey: a story waiting to be discovered, an invitation to step beyond what is seen, to look with different eyes. Are you ready?
eVolutio, 2025
(50x34cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Once upon a time it was just man. Then he created wheels, drew routes, built engines. And, slowly, it became intertwined with them, became part of the mechanism and the wheels began to carry it. To what? Maybe towards a discovery. Maybe to himself.
Invisible threads pull him in all directions—who holds them? Destiny? Development? Or himself, without realizing it?
So I’ll leave it to you to draw the conclusion. Who is he? Where does it go? And, above all, how much of it is left… man?
In The Mirror, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
It is said that mirrors not only reflect what you see, but also who you are. But what happens when you don’t know who’s looking back?
A hand touches the strings, and the sound vibrates like a thread stretched between worlds. Somewhere, beyond the veil, someone else is listening. Maybe it’s nobody. Maybe she is herself, looking at herself from the other side of the mirror, in another form, in another time.
Who dreams of whom? Who creates whom?
Some answers don’t come in words. They come as music. In the shadows. In the eyes of a cat that does not blink.
Portals, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Time, space, and memory—they all flow in ways we barely understand. And yet, we build machines, clocks, and maps, desperately trying to grasp something that always slips away.
This piece is about that longing, that search. About dreams without limits and imagination powerful enough to bring anything to life. The lines between reality and possibility blur, and the past, present, and future intertwine.
Is this a moment of rest or the start of a journey? Perhaps both. Because in a world of shifting doorways, every pause is a threshold, and every threshold leads somewhere new.
Athos, 2025 (SOLD)
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I like classic stories and The Three Musketeers is one example. They have that timeless pull, characters so vivid they feel real. Athos, for example, is the quiet force of the group—reserved, noble, with a past that weighs on him but never breaks him. I was trying to reflects that restraint, the way he carries himself with a dignified strength.
The wings? A paradox. Strength and freedom in impossible harmony. There is no cage for Athos—only the silent echo of his steps and the wind stirred by his flight.
Porthos, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Moving The Three Musketeers story forward, I made Porthos. Larger than life, always ready to indulge in the best food, the best wine, the best adventures. He is pure energy, a spirit who takes up space and enjoys every second of it.
That’s what I wanted to capture in my drawing – bold, dynamic, full of movement, just like him.
Aramis, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
… and the last of The Three Musketeers. Aramis, polished, calculated, a man of both faith and ambition. He moves through the world with intention, always thinking a step ahead.
I hope my drawing reflects that contrast – elegance with an edge, devotion with a hint of strategy. I choose the cat as there’s always something stirring beneath the surface.
D’Artagnan, 2025 (SOLD)
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
D’Artagnan was never one to stay still, I knew he was born for adventure. The energy surrounding him seems to break apart into splashes of color, as if he’s passed through a hidden gateway left ajar for those brave enough to follow. But who could ever keep up with him? Before you even blink, he’s gone, leaving behind only the whisper of his light steps and a trace of magic that never truly fades.
No one knows exactly where he comes from—maybe a forest where the leaves never fall or a corner of the world where reality and dreams intertwine.
Richelieu, 2025 (SOLD)
(65x50cm, watercolor on paper)
I finally decided how to represent Richelieu to align him with the other drawings in the musketeers series, but also to spot his dangerous character.
He’s made only in watercolor — no ink this time — to keep the contours fluid and uncertain, just like him. At first, he seems joyful, maybe even kind. He looks like someone who gets along with everyone.
But that’s just the surface.
There’s a quiet authority in him. A hidden plan, maybe. And while his colors are vibrant and warm, they’re also a mask. Richelieu is still a bear — charming, calculated, and mortal.
That’s the balance I wanted: beauty, ambiguity, and power.
Catwalk, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
A drawing is not always about cute animals and vivid colors. What matters most to me is the message—the emotion a piece can carry, the thoughts it can stir in someone who stands before it.
This one is about magic, but not the kind you find in fairy tales. It’s about the kind that unfolds in front of us, right under our noses, yet remains unseen by most. A show is never just lights and movement; it’s an entire world of reactions, expectations, and unseen forces at play.
To me, this is the real essence of a show. The clash between the seen and the unseen. The quiet energy that shifts when the lights go on. The way something as simple as a step forward can feel like a battle, a declaration, or a dream taking shape.
Because in the end, a show isn’t just what happens under the lights. It’s everything that stirs beneath them.
Viola, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I was tempted initially to make it part of The Three Musketeers story, but this drawing has its own story, so enjoy it as it is.
A Cubist Cat, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Which one do you see as the cubist cat?
Is it the one gazing, the art lover, or the one reflected? Perception shapes our reality—what we see, what we believe, and how we interpret the world around us. In “A Cubist Cat”, the reflection is not a perfect mirror but a transformation, breaking the familiar into fragments of color and form.
Like the cat, we stand before art, before life, seeing versions of ourselves and the world, sometimes clear, sometimes abstract. And in that duality, in that question of what is real and what is reimagined, the story unfolds.
Somewhere, Sometime …, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
With “Somewhere, Sometime …” I wanted to transport you beyond the present, beyond the tangible, into a realm of nostalgia, longing, and timeless wonder. It is an open door to the imagination, an invitation to step into a scene that exists both in memory and in dreams.
Is it a real place? Perhaps. Or maybe it is a fusion of many places—seaside villages glimpsed in passing or imagined in wistful reveries. The reflections in the water add a poetic dimension, where reality and memory intertwine in a delicate dance.
I see “Somewhere, Sometime …” as an experience—an invitation to wander through the landscapes of our own recollections and dreams. Perhaps, in gazing at this piece, we find ourselves remembering places we have never been, yet somehow have always known.
The Four Seasons: Spring, 2025
(75.5×57.5cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Spring is my favorite season. Because everything gets back to life, colors break free, and nature wakes up in that beautiful chaos of rebirth. I feel everything starts to sing suddenly in the way color returns, and there’s something about spring that makes me feel more connected with nature—textures, light, the way flowers bloom—rather than the imaginary realms I often explore in my surrealist drawings. That’s probably why The Four Seasons: Spring came out like this. A mix of structure and colors, just like the season itself. The vase—fractured, yet whole—carries the essence of renewal, of beauty coming together from scattered pieces. The flowers, wild and untamed, grow in all directions, defying order, because that’s what spring does. It doesn’t follow rules. It just happens.
This piece is about contrasts. Solidity versus fragility. Geometry versus nature. A structured world that still allows for spontaneity. And maybe, in a way, that’s what spring is all about—holding on while everything changes around you.
The Four Seasons: Summer, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
Within each of us lies a child’s soul that associates summer with the long-awaited vacation, with endless sunny days and the joy of discovery. This drawing is a reflection of that nostalgia, where I chose to add a touch of Naive art alongside the evident influences of Cubism and Fauvism, all elements being meant to convey that feeling of freedom, of time standing still, of an endless summer.
It’s an invitation to see the world through the eyes of childhood, without constraints, without limits, just with the simple joy of being there, in that magical moment.
The Four Seasons: Autumn, 2025
(65x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I felt autumn without even noticing.
It didn’t knock, didn’t say a word — it entered quietly, like a thought lingering at the edge of a memory. The colors softened, the sky stretched out like a smooth canvas, and the hills began to speak in warm, almost whispered tones.
There’s nothing dramatic here. Just stillness. And earth. And a house in no hurry to be anywhere.
Maybe I drew a waiting. Maybe I caught a moment of peace.
Or maybe it’s just the way autumn speaks to things that no longer need words.
A hill. A silence. A world at rest.
Rocinante, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I told you I like stories, here one about a horse. A horse like no other—stubborn yet gentle, steadfast yet sometimes lost in a dream. Just like his famous master, he carries both nobility and wear, shaped by time and adventure. I built him out of fragments, as if piecing together the stories he’s lived, the roads he’s wandered. Every shard of color, every delicate line holds something of his quiet determination.
A horse of dreams, of resilience—Rocinante.
(Kinder)Garden Tulips, 2025
(70x50cm, watercolor on paper)
I was just playing around with color, keeping it loose, almost childish, and somehow this bouquet came to life. It’s impressionistic in a way—built from spots of color, light, and movement—but it also leans into something more spontaneous, almost naïve.
The tulips burst forward, full of energy, while the glass jar and its shadows ground them, anchoring the chaos of petals and leaves. It’s an experiment, a moment of play—just letting the colors tell the story.
Carnival, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
This is what I love about drawing—how each new line or color can shift everything, how the initial idea can take a completely different turn. I started with a horse, thinking of Incitatus, bold, chaotic, a little absurd, full of presence. But as I added more, the madness of the colors, the rhythm, the energy pulled me elsewhere.
For a while, I thought to call it Kaleido, to capture that vibrant movement, the flicker of joy, like music caught in a blur of motion.
In the end, I settled on Carnival. Because beyond the playfulness and absurdity, there’s something to celebrate here, a mood, a feeling, a wild little dance between color and imagination.
On My Pink Fridge, 2025
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I always liked how a fridge becomes a little gallery—of places, moods, and days you don’t want to forget. That’s the feeling I chased here. These drawings started as separate moments, each one with its own story. A sleepy cat in the window. A walk by the sea. Sun-drenched laundry in a backstreet. And somehow they came together like postcards pinned on my fridge.
It reminds me of the time when people used to send postcards—real ones, handwritten, with stamps and all. We’d stick them on the wall or the fridge with magnets, and they’d stay there for weeks, even months. Not everything was stored in a phone or a computer. You could see a moment every day just by opening the fridge door.
The pink wasn’t random—it’s playful, warm, and a bit nostalgic. Maybe it’s the Pink Martini vibe I had in my head: jazzy, sunny, with a wink. The kind of feeling that makes you dance a little while making coffee.
While the World Slept, 2025
(65x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I gave myself an exercise:
to play with different lights,
with the soft spectrum of the moon
still in front of my eyes.
Because we often think
the way our mind is set.
And sometimes
we fight to see differently.
I started with the moon,
but the buildings spoke of a sun
that hadn’t yet risen,
or perhaps had never left.
The shadows were wrong.
The logic—off.
A world where physics blinked,
and everything paused to breathe.
Maybe it’s morning,
maybe it’s night,
or maybe it’s a place
where rules no longer matter.
That in-between moment
when light doesn’t yet know
what it wants to be.
True Story, 2025 (SOLD)
(65x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
We all know the story of the Town Musicians of Bremen — the donkey, the dog, the cat, and the rooster, tired of being rejected, setting off to find a new life, forming an unusual band. But what if… that wasn’t the only story?
What if there was another group? One that didn’t make it into the old books, but was just as real. Maybe even more magical.
That’s the idea that crossed my mind while I was working on this piece. What if the band looked different? What if, instead of the traditional characters, the musicians were a calm elephant, a thoughtful zebra, a self-important cat (of course), and a peacock that clearly knows how to steal the show?
This painting started as a simple idea: to imagine a different version of the fairy tale. It became a little exercise for myself — a way to question how easily we stick to familiar patterns and how hard it sometimes is to let new ones form. Why a donkey and not an elephant? Why a rooster and not a peacock?
In this version, the animals still leave something behind — a life that no longer serves them — and head somewhere new. Maybe they find their Bremen in a floating city where towers bend like dreams and the sky blushes in strange colors. Maybe they don’t even need to play music in the usual way — maybe their presence alone creates harmony.
This is not a parody. It’s just… a possibility.
Another version of the story.
Maybe the true one.
My Frida, 2025
(65x50cm, watercolor on paper)
From my collection exploring duality – that delicate balance between what we carry inside and what we show to the world – Frida Kahlo couldn’t be missing. She was perhaps the most fearless artist in revealing it all: her pain, her identity, her femininity, her spirit.
In many of her works, Frida appears alongside animals. That’s why I chose to represent her this way – as a rabbit, a creature both gentle and alert. A tribute, playful and sincere.
Maybe it’s a coincidence that I painted “My Frida” during Easter week. Or maybe not. Maybe someone up there loves us. Or maybe it’s Frida. Still whispering to us, still inspiring.
Whispers from Kanto, 2025
(65x50cm, watercolor on paper)
I found myself reading again Shogun a few months ago, and somewhere between the pages of the book and a bird landing freely on a branch, this drawing came to life.
I don’t quite know who the two are, Mariko and Anjin-san, Kiko and Toranaga, or just a spy bringing news to his master, or.
I felt I had to leave space between them—maybe it’s the space of uncertainty, maybe a kind of love, maybe death itself drifting, dignified and inevitable.
In Kanto, many things are said. In silence, in wind, in flight. I only caught a whisper. That’s all I managed to draw.
A man. A bird. A silence spoken in color.
Last Snow in April, 2025 (SOLD)
(65x50cm, watercolor on paper)
From my “Four Seasons” mini series, winter was missing. When I started this piece, I wanted to take it in that direction. Then nature, at that very moment, pushed back and winter refused to leave. That’s when I understood this was a standalone work. A moment of passage. A crossroad between seasons.
A trace of white, forgotten by the roadside.
The trees have blossomed, but still remember winter.
Only his footsteps, left in uncertain time, know it was cold.
Spring doesn’t come as an answer. It comes as a question.
A silence beginning to flow.
Samba Dancers, 2025
(75.5×57.5cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
It all started from a simple moment: “How would you draw her?” — an innocent photo of a friend’s daughter, in a ballerina costume, opened the door to a larger, more playful world. Because, although the inspiration came from the grace of childhood, my vision went in another direction, that of exuberant dance, tropical rhythm and the magic of costumes.
This is how “Samba Dancers” was born, an explosion of color, feathers, movement and emotion. Some say that their style is familiar, that they find echoes of the great modernists, maybe there is something in the broken lines or in the intense chromatics, maybe in the broken silhouettes or distorted planes. Maybe because, instinctively, the costumes became carnival armor, as if from a chaotic and bright dream.
But beyond the influences, Samba Dancers is my way of saying that dance is not painted linearly. It is painted in leaps, in forms that fall apart and reconstruct themselves, in gestures suspended in the air, like a shining memory.
And yes, it’s part of the Fractured series.
Over the Rainbow, 2025
(75.5×57.5cm, watercolor on paper)
I want us to imagine “Over the Rainbow” as a confession in colors and shadows.
The silhouettes with undefined faces are adult-children or child-adults, wearing on their heads signs of limitation — shapes that seem to prevent them from seeing clearly, from fully being. They are trapped in a dull world, in a heavy present, where identity fades and hope seems to drain away into grey.
And yet… they are not defeated.
They stand tall, together, looking toward a “beyond” that does not yet belong to them, but in which they choose to believe. The rainbow, painted in layers, is a promise — of hope, of peace, of childhood, of something better. It doesn’t scatter the clouds, but cuts through them like a colored bridge, showing them that something more might exist.
Their shadows are long, heavy, anchoring them in reality, but their gaze is lifted toward the light. Toward that place where, maybe one day, there will be no need for anything on your head just to survive in the dark.
Sunday, 2025
(50x65cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I was listening to Alphaville and, as sometimes happens, “turn our golden faces into the sun” produced a click. Although in the song the meaning of the verse is much deeper, in my mind it ignited the image of a calm and bright morning, on a quiet beach, a pure moment of carpe diem.
This is how this work was born: sunny, warm, almost translucent figures, lost in a timeless Sunday. A day when you do nothing, but you experience everything. I wanted the image to be like a warm breeze, a little nostalgic, a little dreamy, but very present.
To induce that suspended moment in which we turn, even if for a moment, our face to the sun and allow ourselves to be.
Forever.
Friendship, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
The zebra, the horse, and the cat are constant figures in my drawings — perhaps because I see in them symbols of universal values.
Here, I drew a man and a horse, paused along the way, resting. Tired, maybe. But at peace.
It’s a moment frozen in time, the same one repeated for thousands of years.
There’s no action, no story with a beginning and an end. Just that rare moment when nothing needs explaining.
The colors are fractured, cracked in places, as if time had passed over them both, but something remains untouched: the bond between them.
This is a piece about friendship, in its quiet form, unspoken, unconditional.
About trust.
Il Mondo, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
I hadn’t painted abstract work in a long time, and last night I felt the urge to experiment. Quick, fluid strokes, blurred contours — a release from form and structure. I let the color flow, the lines dissolve, and instinct take over.
As I worked with circles and spontaneous gestures, a kind of circular map began to take shape — like a pulse. I named the piece Il Mondo, because within it I feel the whole world — the body, thoughts, nature, the city, the dream — coming together in the same inner space, like an axis mundi.
It’s a work about balance, about connection, and about what happens when you let go of control.
9 Lives, 2025 (SOLD)
(50x70cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
They say cats have nine lives. Unlike them, people rarely get a second chance.
This piece is about one of those rare chances.
For me, this drawing is a thank-you to a dear friend who, along with others, helped me return, rise, and move forward. Some people don’t let you lose your life — even when you no longer know what to do with it.
It’s about gratitude. And about friendship.
Which, if it’s sincere, can truly give you a new life.
Creator, 2025 (SOLD)
(70x50cm, ink on paper)
Let me tell you how things work, at least for me. Never from perfect sketches, but from a chaos of instinctively drawn lines, sometimes wrong, but always sincere. That’s how I like to draw. First I leave my hand free, then I understand what I have done.
This figure — the man without a clear face, but with intention — is about the artistic gesture in its most direct form. When you touch the paper and a world appears. When nothing seems right, but that’s where the energy comes from. The shadows are not fair. Proportions do not obey either. But that’s not what matters.
It matters how, from an imperfect line, something alive appears. What matters is that a rigid city can take on color from a simple human touch. Perhaps this is, in fact, the meaning of art: not to explain the world, but to touch it until it begins to breathe.
Man is still the “Creator,” even outdated and primitive compared to today’s electronic computing power.
The Butterfly Effect, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
In the 1960s, Edward Lorenz formally introduced the concept of “The Butterfly Effect” — an idea that had already taken shape almost a decade earlier in Ray Bradbury’s literature. A small decision, a seemingly trivial gesture, can completely change everything that follows. “Does the flap of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?”
Sometimes I draw without knowing what’s next. I put a small shape on the paper — like this butterfly — and suddenly everything starts growing around it. Lines, colors, forms are born without a clear plan. The butterfly seems caught in a world of broken mirrors. It’s everywhere — fragmented, multiplied. Every corner of the page reflects another version of it. A whole world emerges from it, one that moves to a strange, unique rhythm. It has no order, but it’s alive.
To me, that’s the closest thing to the truth of art: you don’t build the world through control, but through a sincere gesture that takes on a life of its own. The effect of a single choice, a thought, a color thrown onto the paper.
Who knows what my butterfly will set in motion?
HoloGra(nd)Ma’, 2025
(70x50cm, ink on paper)
Memories are built visually — images imprinted on the retina and later stored, sometimes in distorted forms, in our emotional memory. They can be disparate scenes, accidentally layered or not. Or perhaps the same scene, returning now and then, faded, stratified, adding new details over the old ones, like an inner palimpsest.
Like a director who sculpts characters in the chiaroscuro of a stage, using nothing but light and shadow. Like an old photo of a grandmother, yellowed by time and sunlight, brought back to life through digital restoration software. Or like a magician enchanting us with a hologram – strange, unsettling, familiar.
I called it HoloGra(nd)Ma’ precisely because it’s a blend of all these things. It is written with the ND struck through, to evoke the idea of fading memory — something half-erased, half-remembered. A slip between “grandma” and “hologram”, between the personal and the technological, between warmth and distance.
It’s a play of old symbols told through a contemporary language. It’s time shaping identity. A feminine memory – maternal or archetypal – caught between the real and the symbolic, between what was and what we’ve managed to hold on to.
Atlantis, 2025
(65x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
At first, I called it “Yellow” — a warm, wide image, with soft light and fragile contours. A typical village, frozen
between clouds and lines that flow downward. I was drawn to that quiet tension between what seems stable and
what begins to slip, between stillness and flow.
Then my cousin said: “To me, it feels like Atlantis.” An island caught in a whirlpool, suspended between sky and
disappearance. And I liked that.
Because, in truth, that’s what it is: “Atlantis” is a possible world, but an uncertain one. The dream of a settlement
floating between stillness and loss.
A story about something on the verge of vanishing — or perhaps just beginning to appear.
Inventing Troy, 2025
(70x50cm, mixed media on paper)
BREAKING NEWS:
A researcher from Ostratu has discovered today the original sketches of the Trojan Horse. The prototype, built over 10 years, traveled 3 meters and changed history.
It was declared “almost functional,” but that was enough.
For handy boys looking to rebuild it with whatever they have lying around the yard, the researcher will auction the original sketch on bazart.ro under the pseudonym Eugen Șerbănescu.
Noodle & Bubble, 2025
(50x70cm, watercolor on paper)
Noodle, playful and full of hidden thoughts, floats inside a soap bubble. Somewhere between “what if” and “let’s
see what happens,” her little paw hesitates — should she pop the bubble, or float just a moment longer?
I wanted to blend the naive spontaneity of a childlike drawing with a touch of tenderness. To capture the simple
joy — that moment suspended between action and dreaming.
“Noodle and Bubble” is about cats, and about
Infinite Lovers, 2025
(70x50cm, ink & watercolor on paper)
There are bonds that remain alive despite all the trials we go through. In the same way, in my drawing, their petrified bodies — marked by cracks and organic hues — speak of fragility, but also of the strength that flows through imperfection.
In this suspended embrace, there is no beginning and no end, only a circular, fluid moment that reinvents itself with every gaze. For me, Infinite Lovers becomes a meditation on love that transforms and, despite all changes, continues to endure.