ARTIST STATEMENT

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I’m a single mother and an artist — two titles this world loves to patronize and punish.

I’m raising two kids — six and nine — on a planet wired to devour them. A planet that teaches them to brand themselves before they even know who they are. To perform instead of feel. To compete, consume, comply.

Fuck that.

I grew up in the USSR. We didn’t have iPads or prescriptions — but we had each other. We played in dirt, scraped knees, invented stories, built bonds in the ruins.

Now I watch a generation sedated by tablets and school shootings, fed to screens and sold back as data.

This isn’t progress. It’s programmed decay.

My art is a siren. A slap. A middle finger to every machine that grinds children into silence.

Capitalism. War. Organized religion. Academic obedience. Psychiatric branding. These aren’t “systems.”

They’re factories. And the product is obedience.

I’ve seen what happens when children are told to smile through trauma, medicate their grief, and pledge allegiance to the very flags that burn their futures.

I’ve seen innocence sold in glittery wrapping, turned to profit, then blamed for breaking.

I’m not here to decorate.

I’m here to scream.

As a mother, I’ve been the vessel.

As an artist, I’m the detonator.

Art isn’t a gallery show.

It’s a fucking riot.

It remembers what they want us to forget.

It refuses the erasure.

I create for the lost child — the one silenced, sidelined, sold off.

The one who still listens, even when no one believes she’s watching.

This isn’t a career.

It’s survival.

And I’m not asking permission.