Kinderseele speaks of art as refuge something constant, protective, and strangely sacred. Creation is described not as luxury, but as shelter: a force that feels both real and unexplainable, rooted in the oldest instincts of human existence. With a practice shaped by discipline and academic training, but driven by the need to break beyond rules, the work moves through research, digital sketching, and material translation with precision and intensity. Yet behind the structure lives uncertainty, self-doubt, and the difficult task of accepting imperfection as strength. This conversation unfolds under the shadow of war, where staying in Ukraine is not only home but creative pulse, and where making art becomes an act of endurance. Through ceramics and sculpture, the work begins to expand beyond the flat surface, reaching toward space, objecthood, and new dimensions of expression.

✧✧✧
Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally, or seen it impact others?

Absolutely, yes. For me, art is like a shelter, a refuge, an activity that is always there for me no matter what happens. It feels like a shield that protects my soul. Art is the only thing that feels both real and magical at once, thing whose origin we do not fully understand, yet we deeply feel it. We feel the actual essence of it. It has always been at the foundation of human existence. People sense this truth in it, perhaps the only truth we still have left. Yes, without a doubt, this process is therapeutic.

Do academic institutions still play a vital role in shaping artists today, or has self-taught creativity disrupted this tradition?

I’m one of those people who believe that, yes, an academic foundation is important. But there are nuances. At my alma mater, they used to say that once you graduate, you should “forget” everything you’ve learned and begin your own personal creative path. I agree with that. All the knowledge you’ve gained has already become part of your DNA. You know how to “do it” even if someone wakes you up in the middle of the night. You will use that knowledge automatically, almost instinctively. I think what matters more is the ability to maintain a balance between academic training and that unique vision that belongs only to you. Of course, self-taught artists exist, and you can often recognize them, they are sometimes marked by a certain boldness. But still, I believe true boldness lies in breaking the “rules” you have at least taken the time to learn.

Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?

Absolutely. I think many artists would agree with me that creating is much more enjoyable in a clean, organized space. Before and after working, I make sure to tidy up the area and “prepare” it. Otherwise, everything would be incredibly distracting and disruptive. I also enjoy working while watching series, listening to podcasts, or similar but not to music. I rarely pay attention to what exactly is playing; the series or film just creates a steady, comfortable background noise. Music, on the other hand, tends to draw a person too much into its own world and rhythms. This is if you’re at the point where the work already exists in your mind and just needs to be put into the real world.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

Of course, it all starts like it does for everyone else: with research. This research happens constantly, subconsciously, no matter what I’m doing. Even somewhere on the street, I might see an image or a patch that sparks an idea. Or I can consciously look for an idea and possible ways to realize it once I already have an image in my mind. This might be a little unexpected, almost everyone is surprised by it, but I do all my sketches in Photoshop. That’s where all the meticulous work on the visual part happens: patches, rhythms, colors. This is actually the most challenging stage of the process. And the last, final part should be the easiest - reproducing everything drawn in Photoshop in the material. At this point, the brain is almost not searching anymore, it’s mostly mechanical work and it’s actually my favorite stage.

Has there ever been a time when the creative process felt more like a burden than a joy? How did you navigate that?

I think I’m at this stage right now. All my life, I’ve believed that when this happens, when you can’t create, you need to allow yourself not to create. That’s the only option. If you try to force it, nothing will come out anyway. It shows in the work, “it” becomes visible, and it only delays the time when you can rest and start surprising yourself and others again. For example, lately I’ve been struggling with ease in my work. I’ve started trying, almost obsessively, to make everything perfect. I redo drawings three or four times, and it only makes things worse. Unfortunately, this can go on for months. The only way to fight this kind of self-sabotage is to allow yourself to be imperfect. It’s very, very difficult. But if you take a step back and distance yourself from the situation, I see that it’s actually my imperfections that are my strengths. Maybe it’s worth writing yourself a reminder, a little guidance before starting work, to keep in mind all the mental traps you’ve fallen into more than once.

 
If you could live anywhere in the world to further inspire your creativity, where would it be?

Only and exclusively where I am now, at home, in Ukraine. Ukraine is not only where I live, it is the source of my creative pulse. After russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine, many artists left and began working abroad. I didn’t. I truly cannot see myself anywhere but Ukraine. I see other countries only as places to visit, not to live. I also think it would be too painful to watch people in countries not at war living peacefully, going about their days without the constant awareness that the space around you might try to kill you. Not the space itself, of course but a deranged neighbor. I don’t feel envy. I just believe that after everything we Ukrainians have been forced to endure because of the war, for some of us it would already be too difficult to exist in a society shaped by a completely different experience. Yes, this winter in Ukraine was cold because of russian attacks, there were power outages, interruptions of basic needs. And yet, it is so warm here inside, among our own people. Here, every day is precious. Every touch, every phone call matters.

How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?

All my life, I have worked with images on a flat surface. Drawing and painting were always about composition, about building a world within defined borders. Since I became interested in ceramics, I have finally begun to move beyond that plane. Sculpture has opened up a completely new dimension for me and I would like to continue stepping outside the surface in the coming years to explore more spatial forms, to allow my work to exist not only as an image, but as an object that occupies and transforms space. Beyond that, it is unfortunately difficult to predict. War keeps you in a constant state of disorientation, the emotional background is depressive, and working right now is very challenging. Despite this, all of my recent works are connected to the circumstances in which we are living. At the moment, I don’t see a clear path ahead. I only know this: I need to keep making, not to stop, to keep moving forward, to continue searching.

Do you think art should have a political or ideological agenda?

Oh yes, now I am certain of it. Just as I am certain that all art is political, even if the artist does not consciously realize it. I believe that any political upheaval, especially something as extreme as war, tends to cause paralysis rather than productivity. It freezes you. It numbs you. Personally, I didn’t create anything for almost a year. I also understand now that my decision to stay at home, to refuse emigration, is a choice that inevitably shapes what I create. If I had chosen to leave and distance myself from this place, that too would have been a political choice. What I mean is that the political always affects the private. If you try to deny your right to choose, someone else will attempt to impose that “choice” on you. Ukrainians understand this very clearly now and we also understand that an externally imposed choice is almost 99% likely to be a threat.  At the same time, I have also realized how naïve it once was to believe that art holds enough power to directly influence events in the world. Unfortunately, no matter how beautiful or powerful a work of art may be, it cannot stop tanks or make a rabid horde suddenly regain their humanity. Art, sadly, remains a space entered mostly by those who are already looking for it.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

Honestly? It’s not very important to me. The key to almost every one of my works is in the title, for those who might be completely lost. But generally, I’m one of those viewers who never reads the descriptions. I experience visual art visually. I enjoy the thrill of being struck by what I see, feeling its impact on me: the scale, the color, the rhythm, the light, the image. I read a work through its images. That’s why I don’t seek clarity in my own work, nor in the work of other artists. I also dislike being asked for explanations, descriptions, or “decodings” of my pieces. If I could put my idea into words, I would simply take a sheet of paper and write down this wonderful truth. Why then make the artwork, if it were that simple? A work of art is not an illustration of an idea, it is something much greater, something inexpressible, something that can only be felt.

✦✦✦
Across this interview, Kinderseele returns again and again to one truth: creation is survival. Art cannot stop tanks, but it can hold what language cannot carry. It becomes a space for feeling, for rhythm, for image, for the inexpressible. In a world shaped by violence and imposed choices, the practice refuses distance, insisting on presence and on the emotional reality of place. Titles offer hints, but clarity is never the goal—only impact. The work remains rooted in research and craft, yet constantly pulled toward freedom, toward imperfection, toward form that lives beyond the page. Even through disorientation and exhaustion, the direction stays clear: continue searching, continue making, continue moving forward.