And then I took off again. It always happens like this: what once thrilled me suddenly isn’t enough anymore. At first I resist, I try to regain balance, I tell myself it’s just a passing mood. But then that unease grows until I surrender. Letting go of control — that’s something an artist can’t escape.

Hold on too tightly and you’ll give birth to rigid, lifeless works; each time you look at them, you’ll feel a deep sense of discomfort. Lose yourself instead, let an invisible hand guide what you do, and you’ll create something alive, something that mirrors whoever looks at it. It shifts, it suggests, it reveals, and you won’t come to despise it.

As I reached the threshold of fifty, I felt it was finally time to give myself what I had always wanted—what I was born for, what I had always longed for, and what had always been denied to me. First by the ones I trusted more than anyone else, and then by myself—or rather, by the version of me that kept repeating the old patterns I had absorbed.

In the restless, glowing first fifty years of my life, I painted, photographed, shaped clay and wire, and above all I drew. Yet everything I created left me more tense, more hollow, until I stumbled upon embroidery art almost by accident. From there, the leap to my first awkward, self-taught attempts — stitching strange things onto anything that came within reach — was quick and unstoppable.

In this blog, I’ll share the path I take, how I face it, and why. I’ll write through embroidery and through fragments of dystopian stories. Art in all its shades—especially as it reveals itself through daily life, old objects, abandoned houses, words, plants, and everything that sits quietly before our eyes each day.

Maybe someone with the same nature as mine will feel a little less alone than I did. For too long I was surrounded by pragmatism, by disillusionment, by the wise advice of those who might have done it but never dared, because being an artist “isn’t a real job, it’s just a hobby.” And they stayed unhappy all their lives.