In the June/July 2025 issue of L’Officiel Baltics, I had the chance to share a part of my story. We spoke about Carrara, but also about much more — the way I see space, form, silence, memory, and the cyclical nature of transformation. It’s a personal reflection on how art can become a way of being — tactile, symbolic, slow, and deeply honest.
Full text from the magazine:
CARRARA — A MEDITATIVE PRACTICE THROUGH MATTER.
Tactile thinking, form as silence, and the home as an extension of the inner self
I came into the world of art from interior design, but to be honest, I never sought to categorize beauty. I’ve always felt the need to create it. It wasn’t a hobby or just a career choice — it was my way of being. It all began in childhood: long walks through the forest with my father, collecting stones, feeling the rough bark of trees, the smell of damp earth. We engaged in simple, almost utilitarian activities — creating from whatever was at hand, without rush. That’s when I first felt the true power of creation. Since then, matter ceased to be just a “thing” for me. It became a tool for feeling, a way to speak without words.
Every object we choose for our space reflects not only our taste but also our emotional needs. The interior as a whole, as well as each specific item, becomes a language through which we primarily communicate with ourselves. That’s why it’s so important to pause and observe. That’s why tactility matters. The body recognizes what is real much faster than the mind — especially in a world so full of visual noise.
Over the years, I’ve come to value imperfection more and more. Texture, traces of time, simple forms. My interest shifted toward the tangible — to materials and rhythms that you don’t just see but feel. This became the foundation of my artistic practice.
Purity in the interior doesn’t mean minimalism to me. It’s a feeling of internal clarity. The freedom to be yourself — without decorations, overload, or pretenses. I don’t seek emptiness — I look for a form you can breathe in.
I’ve always been drawn to the idea of duality — how seemingly incompatible things can coexist. Beauty and anxiety. Attachment and the desire to leave. Warmth and a sense of air in the space. This inner split isn’t a conflict, but a deep resource. Something primal, instinctive, pre-verbal. I don’t see contradiction in it — I see authenticity. It is in this tension that movement and the sense of life are born. This duality becomes the ground for transformation. Change is impossible without loss; a cycle cannot exist without completion. And every object I create, in one way or another, absorbs this: lightness and weight, roughness and smoothness, slowness and tension. I’m fascinated by how all of this manifests in matter. How a form can be strict and alive at the same time. How imperfection becomes the essence.
Space is not a backdrop. It’s a continuation of ourselves.
I don’t believe in an “object for the sake of the object.” It’s important to me that each item in a space carries some kind of meaning — even if it’s not immediately obvious. Sometimes it’s a memory. Sometimes — an emotional state. Sometimes — an invitation to slow down.
An object is not just a thing — it is an expression of choice, memory, and intention.
I see interiors and objects as tools of dialogue — between body and space, between the present and the memory of something meaningful. It’s not just aesthetics, but a way to attune perception.
Today, Carrara is a creative duet between my husband and me, based in Riga. I create minimalist sculptural art objects and paintings — pieces that don’t just decorate interiors but become their conceptual foundation. Carrara was never born as a business. It is a continuation of inner work — on ourselves, on how we live, what we choose, what we keep close. It’s not about trends. It’s about what is truly important.
The space we live in should support us, not distract us. Every item in it is an extension of our inner state, a reflection of our individuality, a living archive of our feelings and choices.
Today I feel with particular intensity how vital it is to slow down. The world offers an endless stream of “everything,” but so rarely — silence. I believe what we need is not expansion, but depth — in our homes and in ourselves. Letting go of the excess is not asceticism, but a return to essence, necessary to hear ourselves amid the surrounding noise and to distinguish our true desires from externally imposed ones. To preserve ourselves, we must strip down to the core, not pile on superficial layers.
Art, space, objects — for me, these are all part of one unified process. A journey back to the self. Not linear, not fast, but sincere. Without masks. Without decorations. With attention to the present.
Carrara is a language of touch, rhythm, and depth.
Photo credit: Vika Anisko / @vikaniska
