A print from a tree cross-section, resembling a vinyl record on a gramophone. The tree’s growth rings—uneven, black and white, and sometimes golden—symbolize my life. Postcards and letters, addressed to me and sent by me to my friends, children, parents, and lovers.

In autumn, when the momiji maples turn crimson, or in spring, when the cherry blossoms bloom, Kamakura is especially crowded. But I love Kamakura in early winter. The gray paths, the houses, and against this backdrop of quiet grayness, the persimmons glow in bright orange on the trees.
On rainy days, there are no tourists; the locals stay indoors. Only the umbrellas of the occasional passerby drift above the pathways like floating petals. In the Buddhist and Shinto temples, the smoke from burning incense refuses to rise to the gods in the heavens. Instead, it lingers low, and in the end, the raindrops press it gently down onto the stone-paved paths.
Kamakura is the only place in Japan where I switch my camera to black-and-white mode. It is so beautiful, so self-sufficient in the simplicity of its forms, that I leave all the bright colors to the tourist camera flashes.

When a painting is finished, the artist feels joy and satisfaction and stamps the work with the seal. This is the sweetest moment. But here, a cold autumn rain falls, and all the seals lie in a sugar bowl like candies.

A print from Manchurian walnut leaves, which grow in Siberia. One leaf, in dark tones, represents the feminine aspect, with an excerpt from a description of a spring Shinto ritual in the background.

A print from Manchurian walnut leaves, which grow in Siberia.
The other, a bright “yang” leaf, is placed over the text of a male Shinto purification ritual.

This work is a result of my reflection on ghost cities in China. The city of Kangbashi, in particular, completely stunned me. Built for one and a half million people with full infrastructure, it stands completely empty—no one lives there. Along with me, the lotuses on the lake gaze with their round eyes, blinking in bewilderment. The dissonance between the square forms of the metropolis and the round, organic shapes of nature, combined with a warm - cold color palette, enhances the impression.

The idea for the peacock came after visiting India, where they roam like
chickens and simply live in the wild. After watching them—seeing them
take off like elephants and land on thatched roofs, begging for food in
the mornings, and whistling at night—I simply had to paint one.

ink, mineral pigments, rice paper on interlining
58*34 см

Happiness loves silence. The symbols in this painting are wishes for
prosperity, well-being, and a happy family life.

The first part of the diptych captures a battle between the living and the
inanimate. Among them, we see different qualities that might give one
side an advantage. But who truly has the upper hand? That is the
question.

The second part of the diptych removes this question from the
agenda entirely. The outcome is clear: the fish is sizzling with a
delicious crust on the plate, the beer is already on the table, and at last, it
becomes evident that this battle was just a game—where a third force
has claimed the true victory.

My husband archetypically reveres fishing, that is his religion. The fishermen (in the background) fill Russia’s vast, frozen waters in winter in all parts of the country. This motif is not random—it reflects the reality of my life. The fish prints in the foreground are made using the gyotaku technique.

My reflection on contemporary art course study. A dorado fish was the
model. Discussions about contemporary art. If composition, color
choices, and craftsmanship are no longer standards, and what surprises
or shocks is now considered the benchmark of the modern art, then isn’t
oceanic trash the same for these sea creatures? “What is this?” one asks.
“Is it dangerous or edible?” Another suggests that it might be
contemporary art that has drifted into their world.

終わりなき足音
止まれ、走れ、止まれ、走れ——
誰かの声が響いていた。
止まれ、走れ、止まれ、走れ——
季節が巡り、また繰り返す。
命じる者はもういないのに、
この足は止まれない。
夢の中でも駆け続け、
朝には疲れた影が残る。
この終わらぬ足音を、
いつか静寂に変えられるのだろうか？
ただ水面を揺らす波のように、
魚の泳ぐ姿を見つめながら——

Stop, run, stop, run—
Someone's voice echoed.
Stop, run, stop, run—
The seasons turn, and repeat again.
Though no one gives the command anymore,
These feet cannot stop.
Even in dreams, they keep running,
And by morning, only a tired shadow remains.
Will these endless footsteps
Ever turn into silence?
Like ripples stirring the water’s surface,
I watch the fish swim by—

Sitting down to meditate and reciting mantras, my thoughts slowly drift toward him, the mantras begin to lose their meaning, some of the characters fade away, my thoughts blur. And although the yellow ginkgo leaves symbolize resilience and wisdom, that’s not about me today.

The title of this painting can be interpreted in two ways: as a reference to the autumn season or as a nod to the idea that this is the time of money. The work was conceived as a metaphor: autumn leaves, especially ginkgo, symbolize change and the relentless passage of time in Eastern culture. Their falling reminds us of the transience of life and the natural cycles of nature.
Similarly, modern technological development and the popularity of cryptocurrencies reflect the dual nature of value — on the one hand, its ephemerality, and on the other, its equivalence to tangible material goods. These reflections formed the basis for the creation of the painting, which emphasizes that money has become one of the key factors in modern human life.

This work is inspired by Yukio Mishima’s novel The Temple of the Golden Pavilion. In 1950, a young monk could no longer bear the contrast between his own low self-esteem and the divine splendor of the famous Kinkaku-ji temple, whose walls were covered in pure gold. The Goddess of Mercy, Kannon (whose statue stood on the third level of the temple), watches. Her name consists of two characters — 観 meaning "to see" and 音 meaning "to hear."
The temple bursts into flames in silence; only on the surface of the pond do characters appear — a response from the temple and the Goddess Kannon: “Ignorance and a sense of one’s own insignificance destroy worlds.”
Seagulls — in Buddhism and Japanese culture — are almost like guides, leading the soul through the fog of existence. Here, however, they evoke a feeling of anxiety and chaos, perhaps because they too have lost their way along with the monk’s soul.

This Russian fishman chants as written in famous Russian Fairy Tale (when the Fox taught the Wolf to fish in winter). Surrounding the figure and printed at the bottom are Japanese texts that repeat a mantra-like phrase:
「吸って：大きな魚、来い　吐いて：小さな魚、来い」,
translated as:
“Inhale — big fish, come. Exhale — small fish, come.”
This poetic incantation suggests a ritual of mindfulness and intention, where breath becomes a tool for attracting fish — a symbolic merging of nature, breath, and human will.

The season of red maples in Japan is a time of great beauty — and great crowds of tourists.
Crowded paths turn into endless streams of people, dissolving into rhythms, lines, and brushstrokes.
Even in this whirl of movement, there is harmony — as if the wind itself is painting their path, turning the bustle into part of the autumn landscape.

This self-portrait is a meditation on identity and inner search. The empty silhouette signifies the absence of a defined self — a rejection of conventional notions of "I". On rice paper, a handwritten question reads: “Where is my true self? I am not this body, and I am not this mind.” Beside it lie a brush and ink — the tools used to express this doubt. The work breathes with silence and fragility, echoing Eastern philosophy, where emptiness is not a lack but a space for truth to emerge.