Four years and a single May

More than four years have passed since my last letter to you.

In these years, spaces and inspirations have changed, yet one all-encompassing form of the sun and the belly remained in my subconscious—a constant reminder of a profound desire to share.

I return because I missed this very simple, thought-clearing habit: stopping each month to tell what the past thirty days have been about. From now on, this will be like a monthly ritual, filled with the living noise of the studio—sketches, creative routines, mistakes, and discoveries.

Of course, those who read these letters will always be the first to know about my newest works and receive gifts and discounts for prints.

This May, for me, was about the Earth.
About the Earth that awakened.

Right after the exhibition, I flew to Brazil. I departed completely empty –  drained by six months of an intense creative pace.

From Brazil I expected nothing but rest, but this teeming land brought me some kind of primal liberation—an ancestral blessing of sorts. In Brazil, I saw the greenest of greens, which was not a color but a scent: thick, humid, dripping embrace of the jungle. An entire galaxy of butterfly and bird wings flickering like tiny miracles. A profound encounter with the Iguazu Falls—with thousands of tons of falling water—and the ocean simply washed me away, shattered me, and opened me anew.

Everything that happened during the journey is now transferring onto the canvases. I documented, sketched, photographed, and wrote a lot. In the upcoming series, the density of the jungle, the viscosity of red clay, and the depth of fur as black as tar are emerging.

One May day on the verdant island of Ilhabela, I wrote:

2026.05.12

Once in the jungle, I met a beast, black and viscous as tar. It was so massive that its curved ears reached the ocean floor, and its hind paws cradled half the world. I had never seen a creature of such darkness and depth anywhere—except in the place where my soul came from, translucent and clear, like another tiny drop of water in the animal’s fur after a swim in a mountain river. Like a tear.

I surrendered to that blackness, letting it blanket me, and allowed the palm branches to stroke my hair. With my eyes closed, I saw shimmering morphos—butterflies whose wings hold no color but carry a blue light breaking through the tree canopy. This blue light guarded the local Amazonian tribes: to some, this butterfly was a fulfiller of wishes, carrying prayers to the heavens; to others, a shamanic tool capable of blinding with its brilliance.

The teacher–beast wrapped me in its heavy coat — where blue butterflies bustled like minuscule wonders — and carried me together with all the wisdom of the jungle. My spiritual travel guides showing the way rhythmically flashed in the darkness, but in order to follow them I had to relinquish any sense of direction.

To shed my old skin, to let the ocean wash me away, shatter me into tiny seashells and pebbles, and then cast me onto the shore completely clean and open. To let the tropical downpour blind my path so intensely that nothing recognizable or understandable remained. Only then does that endless depth of the night and the density of the jungle begin to breathe right into your face—breathing beside you, protecting you, and showing the true direction. Everything is constantly changing and turning into vitality.

I am grateful that after all this time, we are still together. What has recently awakened you, stopped you, or made you take a deeper breath?