My journey as an artist began with a single gesture repeated over and over again — tracing a round tin can. For nearly a year, I drew circles in orange and pink on wooden boards, allowing rhythm and repetition to become my meditation. When that cycle was complete, I spent another year cutting out the same flower shape from sticky tape — over and over, day after day. The colors then were stripped down and radical: white, black, and neon pink.

That disciplined repetition — the act of doing one thing until it revealed something deeper — became the foundation of all my later work. From there, I moved into ink drawings and began experimenting with new tools, buying a cutter plotter to turn my flowers into precise, mechanical forms. These flowers evolved into large-scale printed works — my moveable wallpapers: modular panels measuring 90x120 cm and other formats inspired by the visual rhythm of Instagram posts.

Around this time, my work became more daring. I began to overlay my drawings with appropriated imagery from pornography — but always replaced the faces with my own, both for copyright reasons and as an act of reclamation. I covered these works with vibrant colors, transforming what was once objectifying into something deeply personal and defiant.

My exploration expanded into material experiments: printing hand-pulled silkscreens, creating porcelain objects and lamps at home, and even hand-printing leather for a custom Alfa Romeo car seat. Later, I collaborated with Absolut Vodka and the Rudolf Budja Gallery — projects that opened doors to new audiences and larger-scale installations.

One of the most meaningful moments of my career came when I painted a sailing boat together with Jona Cerwinske — a piece that symbolized freedom, endurance, and artistic risk. My work eventually found its way into museum collections, including the Alessi Museum (I believe) and the Museum of Applied Arts (MAK) in Vienna, which holds several of my pieces.

During that same period, I created a series of tableware boxes, printed fabrics, and a laser-cut tablecloth that was part of my wedding designs. The tablecloth was both beautiful and subversive — words like whore and fuck cut into its delicate surface. It reflected my fascination with the intersection of intimacy, domesticity, and rebellion.

My printed fabrics and cutlery designs remain some of my favorite works from that time — small objects that carried enormous emotional weight. They spoke about identity, control, and the search for beauty in contradiction. Each piece was a fragment of my life, turned into form and pattern — a diary written not in words, but in color, material, and repetition.