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I grew up by the sea.
Sand was one of the first materials I learned to understand.
In summer it is dry, fine, almost weightless,
yet it holds warmth long after the sun has set.
Where the wave has just withdrawn,
it becomes soft and receptive — it remembers the step,
and then it is erased by water.
Nothing remains forever.
Only memory does.
This vessel knows sand
and my conversation with it.
The form is shaped by hand from paper clay, natural clay,… and sand-bearing compound within the mass.
The spheres are settled among the ridges and hollows,
following the logic of the shoreline:
shift, accumulation, erosion.
The color does not depict sand.
It is sand —
warmed, cooled, weathered.
Elysian Sand is like dunes,
and the memory of them.
I was born in a city that no longer exists as it was. Mariupol — once sea and sand, now ash and absence. Yet even what disappears leaves its trace. That trace is what I follow. I live now in Zurich, but my hands still carry the earth of elsewhere. I grind straw, soil, bark, ash into matter that resists beauty. These are not materials chosen—they are what remains. I am close to Arte Povera, because in the poverty of matter lies genius: the truth that nothing is too small to hold memory. I am close to wabi-sabi, because time itself writes through imperfection, through cracks, through silence. My vessels and wall pieces are not objects. They are witnesses. Companions of dust and silence. Fragile, yet enduring. They stay when all else is gone.