About me

 

My path to ceramics seemed like it would never begin.

As a child, I grew up surrounded by balls of yarn and colorful scraps. My mother and I sewed, wove, knitted, and embroidered. My dolls were the best dressed in the whole yard, and my favorite lesson at children's art school was textiles. When I grew up, I dreamed of becoming a costume designer.

Ceramics lessons passed without much enthusiasm. The clay seemed either too hard or too soft, it stained my clothes and got under my nails. It was clear: I would quit and go back to yarn and needles.

But I didn't quit. I stayed.

Day after day, touching the clay, I gradually became friends with it. I learned to recognize its capricious nature – how soft and pliable it is when wet, and how fragile and delicate when drying. I also discovered one of its strangest properties – memory. When stretched or bent, it always tries to return to its original form.

Clay became my everyday life, my source of livelihood, and it seemed like I would get bored of it...
But then I discovered ancient pottery. And I fell in love again.

In 2010, I got into the Vilnius Potters' Guild, and soon after, into their Archaic Crafts Camp in the courtyard of Trakai Peninsula Castle.
It was as if I had returned to where I had long yearned to be.

For several years in a row, I attended camps, got to know ceramics from various cultures, and learned different modeling and firing techniques.
My heart was most captivated by the speckled raku ceramics, a bit wild, unpredictable – like a cuckoo.

The clay from our region is brown, porous, and slightly permeable to water. Therefore, the old masters came up with a trick: submerging a pot, glowing like an ember, into a liquid flour sourdough to close the pores.
This is a true ceremony of fire and courage: the master pulls a red-hot vessel with tongs and, as if baptizing a child, plunges it into the sourdough. The surface instantly becomes patterned, and if you're late, the pot turns black like a forgotten pan on the fire.

After some time, I obtained a National Heritage certificate and started creating independently.

Now my weekends are spent in the middle of the forest, in a small wooden workshop with a thatched roof. It is quiet, peaceful, and good here. A fire glows in the stove, the radio plays softly, and I sculpt.
First, traditional pots, then I "jazz it up": pots grow handles, baking dishes are adorned with foxes, lambs, sometimes they turn into ducks...

I've noticed one thing – a handmade object attracts like a magnet. It's good to touch it, hug it, stroke it – you don't want to let it go, as if it's not just a vessel, but a living creature.

Don't believe it?
Come and see for yourself.