Here I want to share with you my deepest experiences—how I walked through difficult times, and the thoughts, wisdom, and outcomes that emerged along the way, all reflected in my art.
These paintings were created intuitively, open-heartedly, with curiosity, fearlessly. They came from dreams in the night, from visions of snakes turning into flowers during sound meditations. They came from a masterclass on a gray winter day when my energy was almost at zero. They came from a resource retreat where I learned to paint myself in colors and wash it all off in a magical forest lake.
Here you will find Woman-Summer, free and alive. Woman-Autumn, falling asleep under a blanket of fallen leaves. Woman-Winter, the Queen who does not care what anyone thinks. Girl-Spring, my daughter Marta, with her dandelions, lilac, and nightingale laughter. And Woman-Spring, who weaves life itself.
Here you will find the girl and the goose—who began as a vision in the night and the way they transformed. Here you will find the Birth of Aphrodite—the lotus emerging from darkness, golden hands lifting a woman so she may shine. And the flowers blooming from a mouth as a reminder to resonate.
Here you will find the dragon—not as an enemy, but as a shadow to befriend. To meet its gaze and say: "I love you. I am with you. I will not leave you."
What these paintings taught me, I want to share here, on this page. They taught me that inside us there are flowers waiting to be admired. That we must resonate, speak, sing, and show up in this world. That we do not need to squeeze into boxes. That we can be everything—engineer, artist, mother, dancer, dreamer.
This is my path. This is my re-discovery of myself through art.

This painting is about Autumn. About the woman-autumn. About the woman-earth. About the earth that falls asleep in autumn, to rest, to replenish, and to bloom again in spring.
But for now—falling leaves. Beautiful, falling leaves.
I came up with the idea last autumn. I started painting the picture in spring :) Continued in autumn. And for me, it felt unfinished. As if something was still left unsaid.
But I decided to put a period. Let her fall asleep. Even unfinished. And she will always be unfinished. Because she is magical.
I thank the earth for the gifts of autumn.
Sweet dreams!

Winter is sleeping. She feels so good, so sweet. She is the Queen, and no one can harm her sweet sleep.
She dreams of something joyful, and a blizzard rises. People can barely walk through it. Some are happy about the blizzard; others are angry and swear at her.
But Winter doesn't care. After all, she is the Queen. It is not royal business to worry that she and her magical dream—having caused a blizzard—might not be to someone's taste.

The second work is an embroidery. The image of a woman weaving Life itself: everything we see, our entire world—green trees, flowers. She is the Earth. She is the creative feminine energy that blossoms and unfolds in spring.
She creates all this life: all that beauty that will inspire us in summer, whose fruits we will be nourished by in autumn, and whose warmth we will bask in during winter. She is the creative force that continues the cycle of life—creating the living from the non-living, one material from another, and so on and so on.
Her skirt is fields, forests, and meadows that connect with the sea. And the sun gives energy so that the cycle never ends. Her hair flows in the wind, because the fresh spring wind brings inevitable changes—without which life would stop.
She is Woman-Spring. She embodies the pleasure of creation.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that she appeared in the form of an embroidery, rather than a painting like the other seasons. Initially, there was a sketch that was meant to become a canvas, but something stopped me. I wanted to embroider her on fabric. I didn't know exactly what she would become—I simply embroidered.
And here she is—Woman-Spring.

Girl-Spring is my wonderful, beloved daughter Marta, for whom I painted this portrait for her 7th birthday. Marta was born in May, and for me she embodies spring: young, sweet, lively, full of energy and life.
In this portrait, I wanted to capture the attributes of spring that I associate with Martusia. The yellow dandelions—her brightness and uniqueness. The lilac—fragrant, with its unique and bold scent—the scent of love and youth. The nightingale—this is about how my daughter is a little songbird, with her tender voice and bubbling laughter. When I first heard that laughter, it filled me with an incredible feeling of joy and complete happiness. Just for that laughter, it was worth living.
The ladybug—small, but so tender and sweet—I see Martusia in her too. The apple blossom—about youth, the birth of life, innocent beauty in its purest form. The tulips—an undeniable symbol of spring and the celebration of life. Among other things, they always remind me of the Netherlands, where Martusia was born in the small and very beautiful city of Delft.
The butterflies, in my opinion, need no explanation. They continue the cycle of life, pollinating flowers. They decorate life with their presence, lightness, brightness—I also associate them with Martusia—or rather, she with them. Like a little butterfly, Martusia is just as light, active, beautiful, tender. She decorates life simply by her presence, simply by being here.
Lullaby Poem (For Martusia)
As a continuation of this painting, a poem emerged, which I dedicated to Martusia on her 8th birthday. In it is all my love and tenderness. It began to take shape when she was little, when I made up fairy tales for her and sang lullabies before sleep. Those first lines were born then, and later gave rise to this lullaby poem. I want to leave this poem here, on these pages, because for me it also symbolizes spring, love, light, purity, and faith in life.

The final piece in my cycle of works about the seasons, where I wanted to capture each season as I feel it. The earth as a woman. It is metaphorical.
And summer turned out to be perhaps the most difficult for me.
All the previous seasons created themselves, almost—I didn't overthink them as seasons. Images simply emerged that, by feeling, embodied a certain time of year for me. But summer? What is it like? Who is she—the woman-summer?
Last year, I went on the best trip of my life—to the Netherlands. Alone. Seven years had passed since I returned to Belarus, and I hadn't been back to the Netherlands—the country that had been my home for six years. It was the best journey. The best summer. Ten days I lived alone with myself, with summer, in that incredible, fairytale country.
And then I remembered: the wind kissing my cheeks, playing in my hair. The wind. The bridge. The sound of the North Sea. Dance. Freedom. Free-dom. Movement. A moment. A song of the wind. A song with the wind.
Yes. This is summer. This is my summer. The kind that embodies me. The way I love it. The way I want to feel. Freedom. Wind. Dance. Song...
Flowers...
Kraski—lilac-colored flowers. There were so many of them in the village, in the meadow. They grew along both sides of the road, on the way to the summer cottage. Basic flowers. Yellow dandelions. Not the ones that grow in spring, but the summer ones—small ones. Maybe they have another name. I don't know...
And here she is—Woman-Summer: free, moving. For me, she embodies pleasure. The pleasure of being alive in this moment.
Later will come autumn. Then winter. She will sleep, covered in a blanket of leaves, then to the sound of the blizzard.
But now—in summer—she dances. She blooms. She feels the wind and the sun with every cell of her skin.
Free. Light. Alive.

During one of my first sound meditations with singing bowls, an astonishing image appeared to me. It was not just an image—I felt it in my body. I felt a strong impulse to open my mouth, as if something wanted to break free from me.
My first thought was: what is this? Snakes?
But then, to my surprise, I saw and felt a beautiful bouquet of flowers blooming from my mouth.
Perhaps reading this feels unsettling. Perhaps it brings unpleasant associations. But in that moment, I actually felt joy—as if something had been released.
Then I heard a call:"Resonate!"
In that moment, I realized how much I have inside me that wants to come out, that wants to be seen and heard.
With respect for this image, I decided to illustrate it. I drew a sketch that same day, but the image appeared on canvas about six months later.
For me, this painting is a reminder of how important it is to resonate, to speak, to sing, and to express ourselves in this world. Because inside us, there are flowers that want to bloom and be admired.
Perhaps the snakes must come out first—to clear the way for the flowers...

How the Girl and the Goose Came to Be?
I don't even remember how it happened that I found a painting masterclass. It was really for my daughter. That period was very difficult for me. My energy was almost at zero. Only my great love for my daughter made me keep moving forward, searching for new ways to support myself and to give her love—to heal and pull both myself and her out of the swamp.
We came to an art studio with easels, tubes of oil and acrylic paint, and warm tea with candy.
There were reference paintings we could copy. I chose a woman with a large gold earring. Marta chose a rooster on the beach wearing shorts and sunglasses.
I was wrapped in a feeling of complete happiness as we carried all this treasure home on the tram and then the metro.
We admired our drawings for a long time, and my parents (we were living with them) were happy and impressed.
That masterclass became like a breath of fresh air on a gray winter day when my strength was running out.
That night, I woke up because an image appeared in my mind: a girl embracing a goose by the neck. I saw the exact composition and the exact colors. I saw a blue background and a red-orange moon. I saw the girl's dress, her puffy sleeves. I saw her figure and her foot extending beyond the frame.
It was so vivid and incredible that I couldn't fall back asleep. I kept turning the details of this image over in my mind. I couldn't resist—I got up, went to the kitchen, and started drawing. I didn't stop until I had transferred that image onto paper. As I drew, I became more and more surprised, as if the painting was creating itself and living its own life. I felt incredible happiness.
Later, during the day, I painted over an A4 sheet of paper with acrylic, intending to buy a canvas later and transfer the drawing onto it. But something stopped me from painting it on a large format.
Later, when Marta and I moved out of my parents' house into a rented apartment, I finally bought a canvas to paint the girl with the goose.
But as soon as I started painting, I felt that it was no longer the same girl or the same goose.
They began to change. They became more realistic. The girl developed eyes. Her figure straightened. Her hair became gathered in a bun. She had an independent expression on her face, looking into the distance. She was still embracing the goose by the neck, but now she did it more confidently, more freely—not leaning on him, but simply aware of his presence and his weight in her life.
The goose appeared quickly, but the woman was difficult. I repainted her face many times until I began to like her.
I began to like her. I wanted to braid her hair and take off her dress. So that she would be primordial—exactly as she is, nothing more, nothing less. She is confident in herself; otherwise, she wouldn't be naked.
Her figure straightened.
But I didn't like the color of her skin. She looked flat, pale, unnatural. Something was missing. I repainted her skin several times, but I felt it wasn't right.
So I decided to put the painting aside indefinitely. It stood on the easel, living its own life, illuminated by the red moon.
Later, in the summer, I was lucky enough to attend a resource retreat called "To Oneself with Care," where I met many wonderful women. We swam naked in the lake, went to the banya, danced with a drum under the moonlight, and sang songs. It was incredible—to finally feel the power of the women's circle!
One of the art therapy practices was painting ourselves in different colors. Each color gives different qualities and resources. We painted ourselves, then washed it all off in a magical forest lake. There was so much freedom in that ritual—so much life and joy!
When I returned home, my gaze fell on the painting of the goose and the naked girl. And I understood: I want to paint her. To make her visible—bright, independent, noticeable.
After I did that, I felt calm and understood: I like everything about her now. This is her. She has come alive. She exists. She has the right to live. She will live. She looks life straight in the eyes—without fear, without illusions, without hesitation, without expectation. Accepting everything that was, that is, and that will be. Just like that.
The goose is her companion. He is beside her. They look in completely opposite directions, yet they are together. He gives her grounding and support; she gives him significance, value, makes him special, exceptional.
The moon illuminates them, makes them bright, reveals their figures, fills them. Through the moon, life flows.
The girl's right foot and hand, as well as the goose's beak, extend beyond the frame—because they no longer fit into templates and rules.

That night, I woke up because an image appeared in my mind: a girl embracing a goose by the neck. I saw the exact composition and the exact colors. I saw a blue background and a red-orange moon. I saw the girl's dress, her puffy sleeves. I saw her figure and her foot extending beyond the frame.
It was so vivid and incredible that I couldn't fall back asleep. I kept turning the details of this image over in my mind. I couldn't resist—I got up, went to the kitchen, and started drawing. I didn't stop until I had transferred that image onto paper. As I drew, I became more and more surprised, as if the painting was creating itself and living its own life. I felt incredible happiness.
Later, during the day, I painted over an A4 sheet of paper with acrylic, intending to buy a canvas later and transfer the drawing onto it. But something stopped me from painting it on a large format.
Later, when Marta and I moved out of my parents' house into a rented apartment, I finally bought a canvas to paint the girl with the goose.
But as soon as I started painting, I felt that it was no longer the same girl or the same goose.
They began to change. They became more realistic. The girl developed eyes. Her figure straightened. Her hair became gathered in a bun. She had an independent expression on her face, looking into the distance. She was still embracing the goose by the neck, but now she did it more confidently, more freely—not leaning on him, but simply aware of his presence and his weight in her life.
The goose appeared quickly, but the woman was difficult. I repainted her face many times until I began to like her.
I wanted to braid her hair and take off her dress. So that she would be primordial—exactly as she is, nothing more, nothing less. She is confident in herself; otherwise, she wouldn't be naked.
Her figure straightened.
But I didn't like the color of her skin. She looked flat, pale, unnatural. Something was missing. I repainted her skin several times, but I felt it wasn't right.
So I decided to put the painting aside indefinitely. It stood on the easel, living its own life, illuminated by the red moon.
Later, in the summer, I was lucky enough to attend a resource retreat called "To Oneself with Care," where I met many wonderful women. We swam naked in the lake, went to the banya, danced with a drum under the moonlight, and sang songs. It was incredible—to finally feel the power of the women's circle!
One of the art therapy practices was painting ourselves in different colors. Each color gives different qualities and resources. We painted ourselves, then washed it all off in a magical forest lake. There was so much freedom in that ritual—so much life and joy!
When I returned home, my gaze fell on the painting of the goose and the naked girl. And I understood: I want to paint her. To make her visible—bright, independent, noticeable.
After I did that, I felt calm and understood: I like everything about her now. This is her. She has come alive. She exists. She has the right to live. She will live. She looks life straight in the eyes—without fear, without illusions, without hesitation, without expectation. Accepting everything that was, that is, and that will be. Just like that.
The goose is her companion. He is beside her. They look in completely opposite directions, yet they are together. He gives her grounding and support; she gives him significance, value, makes him special, exceptional.
The moon illuminates them, makes them bright, reveals their figures, fills them. Through the moon, life flows.
The girl's right foot and hand, as well as the goose's beak, extend beyond the frame—because they no longer fit into templates and rules.

Later, when Marta and I moved out of my parents' house into a rented apartment, I finally bought a canvas to paint the girl with the goose.
But as soon as I started painting, I felt that it was no longer the same girl or the same goose.
They began to change. They became more realistic. The girl developed eyes. Her figure straightened. Her hair became gathered in a bun. She had an independent expression on her face, looking into the distance. She was still embracing the goose by the neck, but now she did it more confidently, more freely—not leaning on him, but simply aware of his presence and his weight in her life.
The goose appeared quickly, but the woman was difficult. I repainted her face many times until I began to like her.
I began to like her. I wanted to braid her hair and take off her dress. So that she would be primordial—exactly as she is, nothing more, nothing less. She is confident in herself; otherwise, she wouldn't be naked.
Her figure straightened.
But I didn't like the color of her skin. She looked flat, pale, unnatural. Something was missing. I repainted her skin several times, but I felt it wasn't right.
So I decided to put the painting aside indefinitely. It stood on the easel, living its own life, illuminated by the red moon.
Later, in the summer, I was lucky enough to attend a resource retreat called "To Oneself with Care," where I met many wonderful women. We swam naked in the lake, went to the sauna, danced with a drum under the moonlight, and sang songs. It was incredible—to finally feel the power of the women's circle!
One of the art therapy practices was painting ourselves in different colors. Each color gives different qualities and resources. We painted ourselves, then washed it all off in a magical forest lake. There was so much freedom in that ritual—so much life and joy!
When I returned home, my gaze fell on the painting of the goose and the naked girl. And I understood: I want to paint her. To make her visible—bright, independent, noticeable.
After I did that, I felt calm and understood: I like everything about her now. This is her. She has come alive. She exists. She has the right to live. She will live. She looks life straight in the eyes—without fear, without illusions, without hesitation, without expectation. Accepting everything that was, that is, and that will be. Just like that.
The goose is her companion. He is beside her. They look in completely opposite directions, yet they are together. He gives her grounding and support; she gives him significance, value, makes him special, exceptional.
The moon illuminates them, makes them bright, reveals their figures, fills them. Through the moon, life flows.
The girl's right foot and hand, as well as the goose's beak, extend beyond the frame—because they no longer fit into templates and rules.

For me, this painting is about the Feminine principle and what a Woman brings to the world.
The lotus is a flower that emerges from darkness. It blossoms, and from within it, divine, gentle, loving hands lift a Woman upward—so that she may shine, illuminate the world around her, and light the way.
Interestingly, the original composition was dark. The Woman was illuminating the space inside the hands. But it felt wrong—some kind of disharmony, as if there was too much tightness. So I began repainting the background, and quite by accident, I arrived at this yellow color. "She must illuminate the world around her," I thought.
But the hands were also very difficult. I couldn't decide on their color for a long time. They were pink, purple—but nothing felt right. Now I understand: they were drawing too much attention. But this painting is about the Woman—about her birth from darkness and how she illuminates the world. The hands turned out gold, as if by accident.
To me, the hands feel like masculine support, protection, and grounding. They do not hide her, shield her, or close her in—they lift her upward, out of darkness, so that she may shine.

But that is not all. There is one more surprise in this painting—also created by accident.
A pearlescent glow surrounds HER. Like an invisible train, it flows from the source of light above her head. It only becomes visible in darkness, when light falls upon it. In daylight, this train is almost invisible.
For me, this is also deeply symbolic: this glow, this magic, will only be noticed by someone who takes the time to shine a light on her, to look closely, to feel.

This is not about the superiority of Woman. It is about the harmony of the masculine and feminine—like Yin and Yang.
The hands lift the Woman. Without that impulse, without the protection of those gentle hands, she could not stand so calmly and simply shine. They seem to envelop her, creating a cocoon of invisible protection.
Like someone gently holding their most precious treasure—a tiny bird, a diamond, or something else very fragile and dear to the Heart—these hands hold the Woman. With love. With care. With tenderness.
For me, this is also about how important it is for a Woman not only to give but also to receive love. To shine, while accepting the gentle caress of these hands—and to understand that HER radiance, the Light she carries, is the very thing that is most precious and important. The reason SHE came here.

"A wild roar echoed through the cave and woke her. She leapt to her feet, her heart pounding. She grabbed matches, lit a torch, and suddenly... she was face to face with the enormous head of a dragon. Steam billowed from his nostrils. The Princess and the Dragon gazed at each other without blinking...
Then a ray of light fell upon the Dragon's face. And the Princess felt all his longing. She saw deep sorrow in his eyes. Slowly, she raised her hand and touched his cheek. He cast his eyes down and pressed his enormous forehead to hers. And so they stood. The Princess and the Dragon..."
The passage above is from my fairy tale "Once Upon a Time There Was a Princess" — the story that inspired this painting.
This painting is about making peace with your shadow—the part of yourself you would rather not see or feel. Meet its gaze and say:"I love you. I am with you. I will not leave you."