A reflection on how I rediscovered painting not as technique, but as a form of inner listening. From classical roots to war-torn cities, this story traces the moment I stopped painting what I saw — and began painting what moved inside me.
The beginning of my freedom
I came to painting naturally, as if nothing else had ever made more sense. As a child, my parents enrolled me in music school, but I only lasted one day. The moment I picked up a brush, though, I felt like I could do anything. It was as if painting were a continuation of my breath, my body. There was no doubt about it. So i can say i was really lucky to have this feeling that i found my thing so early.
I was obsessed with the classical Russian school of art — realistic landscapes, detailed shadows and half-tones, deeply balanced colors, carefully constructed brushwork and layering. I started studying art formally at the age of eight, and for a while, that gave me some direction. But eventually, I burned out. The discipline and rigidity stole the joy from the process. So I let it go and shifted to physics where this strict frames and laws did make sense to me.
Then came the long search. I explored dance, physics, mathematics, crafts, teaching, analytics, yoga, spiritual practices. Each of them gave something, but none of them felt like a direct contact with myself.
I only returned to painting while traveling — though in truth, it wasn’t a return but a new beginning. I forgot everything I had learned. I was no longer interested in drawing “correctly” or capturing visible beauty. I wanted to explore the inner world, the subconscious, the unspoken space beyond language.
I remember one of the earliest moments of this new phase clearly. I was in Armenia, in the midst of war. I had ended up in Stepanakert, the former capital of Nagorno-Karabakh — a region torn apart by conflict between Armenia and Azerbaijan. The entire city felt drenched in grief and despair. I absorbed it without resistance, and for several days, I couldn’t move. I just lay on a bed, heavy with something that had no name.
From that stillness, one of my first works in this new visual language was born — a melted, liquid self-portrait. Viscous, warped forms, inspired by the dreamlike distortions of Salvador Dalí and some of the animated films I loved as a child. That texture — the softness, the collapse of structure — was something I had seen in my dreams for years. It was always part of my subconscious, but I had never allowed myself to paint it.
I was afraid. I had spent my life painting grand classical oil landscapes, copying Semiradsky with hints of Van Gogh. Everything unknown or unlearned felt terrifying. That fear cast a huge blind spot across my imagination. But when I finally let go of the need to “do it right,” something shifted. Piece by piece, I started pulling images from memory, not from observation. And the ever-changing landscapes outside — new cultures, new languages — didn’t let me fall back into the familiar.
Not long ago, I read something from Lacan — the idea that the subject is born at the ruptures in structure. That stayed with me. I think that’s what my wild, often uncomfortable journey did to me: it forced me to balance on the edges between my expectations and the chaos of reality. It shattered my projections. It continually pulled me out of the illusion of knowing who I was, and in that rupture, new images were born.
These days, I’m not looking for a “style” or a “theme.” I just try to let what needs to be seen emerge. This blog is my attempt to share that process. Not as a guide, not as a lesson — but as a living journal. And maybe, just maybe, someone reading this will recognize something of their own in it. If that happens, then this path is no longer mine alone.