“I create, therefore I am!”. Born in Zagreb in 1976, finished some schools, the life one I am still hacking.
I make dolls and small dresses for them, paint paintings and picture books, tell stories and fairy tales, and in one of them, I wash pots.
I am a member of several flocks of independent artists and free almost just as a bird!
Stories become alive only if someone tells them to someone or reads them, so then characters, colors, scents, events just appear in front of us. Stories are made of words and words from letters. There are word masters and there are masters of letters. These are the people who paint by writing. There are also those who talk with painting, and those who paint a new space with their dance. Sometimes some people who cook lunch with love do it, and those who rake the leaves so neatly and devotedly that they themselves are imprinted into the autumn image.
There are those skinny ones with dotted butterflies, with their heads in the clouds, round, spherical, slow, around which the time itself slows down… and the virtuoso fruit carriers, on Fridays on the Tresnjevka market and the man with fish-always fresh for me!
There is also a girl, gentle, playful as a morning swallow, in a pink dress, by the sea and with the sea in her eyes-offering questions, delighting dolphins with her smiles.
There are, there are also hunchbacks and those grateful old oldsters who in their eyes have only warmth with understanding. And men like roosters, cat-women, various silly creatures, people-foxes, wolves, bubbly children, showered with brightness.
All of them (such, some kind of) pass through me, enter their gestures, expressions, hyperbolas, parabolas, leave commas and three dots. They come near before my sleep while they knit the blanket made of stories. I spread my ears wide, listen and keep quiet. I do not blink, I almost do not breathe. To not chase the story away! And so I have been heard, serene, until the story overwhelms me. Sometimes it makes me yellow, red, green, and sometimes it just straightens me, lulls me to sleep.
Then even more quietly, in my house stockings, I sit at the table (wrapped with that blanket), choose a color by heart and I draw and I breathe. Anew (again), by drawing I breathe! And in silence I talk in lines and dashes, with these hat sellers, the gatherers of rainy butterflies, sleepwalkers, sun walkers who wait impatiently in line to appear on the paper and be colored by the friendly hand of the artist.
This is me at the age of five. At that time, I collected multicolored stones and streaked them into powder on the pavement. In great happiness, I would become a joy of life and I would invite passers-by to my feast of colors. Some of them would fondle my hair, some waved, some offered a smile, but hurried as they were, they would not stay long. Except one. The wind! He played with my precious powder, scattered and blew it away. He pressed it into my hair and left me the most beautiful gift, the ability to see letters, words and stories in colors ….