Conversation with Daria Fedorova: "It's Important Not to Think You're More Than You Actually Are"

— When did your passion for art first emerge?

I've always had a passion for art. To me, nothing beats the experience of visiting a museum, watching a great film, or simply drawing.

I vividly recall a moment when I was about five years old, alone at home with just my dog for company. There was this box nearby, you know, the typical candy box that Soviet kids always had — a deceptive one, filled not with sweets but with threads and pencils. I was sitting there drawing away. My hair was tied back in a messy way, and a stubborn strand kept falling onto my face. After trying to tuck it away behind my ear a few times, I became so engrossed in my drawing that I was completely absorbed in it. When the strand fell again for the fifth or sixth time, I reached my breaking point. I grabbed the scissors and impulsively snipped off all the hair that was bothering me. I went back to my drawing, completely forgetting about it. When my parents returned, I excitedly showed them my artwork, saying, "Mom, look!" But all she could say was, "What did you do to your hair?!" That moment stuck with me — it seemed so trivial to me to cut off the hair that was getting in the way of my drawing. It's one of my earliest memories associated with that creative spark.

— Did you immediately realize that drawing was more than just a hobby?

Not at all. I avoided it for a long time, denied it. I thought I could pursue architecture, advertising, dive into a safe niche. But, as practice showed, I always encountered situations where my creative approach went against the rules. That's how I came to art. Through trial and error. Well, mostly error.

I simply had no choice! I mean, I couldn't do anything else, as desperate as that sounds. In any state, at any time of the day, art is what I do with a light heart. It's not like I wake up and decide to paint! No. There's, for example, gestalt therapy, where they cut first and then sew up the psyche. My creativity is the same. It's always a process of inner struggle. I often get angry when I paint, feel this inexplicable anger, dissatisfaction, aggression, nervousness. It's hard for my friends to communicate with me when I'm working at home. It's not like I have problems with my friends, but there's some unresolved conflict that persists until I finish my work.

— Do you paint when you're feeling calm?

I've tried. Currently, for instance, I'm working on a painting and doing it in a relaxed manner because I'm redoing something already done. But I still don't know how I'll finish it. There's this nervous tremor. At times, I get stuck, start getting irritated, but it's all part of the process. If there's a cohesive idea for the series, there's no fear of the unknown.

— Were you born and raised in Moscow? How did you end up in Italy?

I was always sketching at school. Then I experienced heartbreak, and I put down the pencil. It felt like drifting along with the crowd — uncertain of where to go, so I landed at the Higher School of Economics. I barely lasted two months there before winding up in the hospital.

I was eighteen, lying there, pondering: what's the point of it all? I wasn't into drinking, smoking, or partying; sports were more my thing.

Getting out of bed was a challenge. I felt somewhat detached from reality, lost in my own world. My parents weren't around. The hospital had strict rules. I recall going for an ultrasound, and there was a form to sign: "I accept responsibility in case I leave my bed and it results in a fatal outcome." The odds were 99.9%, and I was the only one held responsible. So, I signed, and it wasn't until years later that I realized a switch had flipped in my mind at that moment.

Then Italy happened. It wasn't a deliberate plan to pursue an academic education or delve into drawing. I'd always sought a more liberating means of self-expression. I thought I'd found it in advertising, then considered architecture, followed by industrial design, and later fashion. Throughout all this, save for two years, I kept drawing.

My trip to Italy wasn't about conquering new territory; it was more of an escape from my comfort zone. Everything was fine — good relationships with family and friends — but something was amiss. My dad always urged me to explore abroad; where there are fewer rules, more to learn, and valuable experiences to bring back home. My parents didn't travel much when they were young. But when they had the chance to offer us freedom in education and travel, they seized it. I resisted for a while, but when I finally shared my decision with them, my dad was thrilled.

Funny enough, my dad detests Milan. They only visited three times during my studies — twice for my birthday and once for shopping. It was an eye-opener. You leave, and no one visits you. Initially, I was anxious, wondering what's next? But my parents always stood by me, never pushing. Even when I switched courses, they didn't insist I see it through to the end. Maybe it was because of my knack for offering explanations. (laughs) Actually, I believe they sensed my discontent and guided me toward finding my path.

— Why Italy?

Honestly, I didn't weigh all the pros and cons before going there. After the hospital, I was in a heightened state — kind of knew what I wanted, but didn't understand how to get there. One day, I just sent out my portfolio. They invited me for an interview. I thought, I'll go, study for a month or two, and see where it goes from there. There was no concept of how long I'd be gone; it was all driven by genuine curiosity.

In the end, I stayed there for four years. But it feels much longer in memory. You arrive in a foreign country — no one, nothing, no friends, and you have to learn everything anew. Italy is a wonderful country for tourism but questionable for immigration. All those bureaucratic hurdles, a trillion papers, documents. It was definitely a disciplining experience. I had to figure things out on my own and abide by the rules. Yet, alongside all that — complete freedom, you can do whatever you want! It took a couple of years, I think, just to learn how to balance it all properly. There's so much culture in the city, and you wouldn't just lounge around in a café, would you? You go to galleries, museums, cinemas. And before you know it, you've stumbled upon a place that inspires you. Doing nothing in the right place always leads to something.

— What are your impressions of life there?

Italians have an incredible sense of style and beauty in their DNA. Let's say someone comes into a store, picks up a pen, and the way they try it out is already beautiful. I even have one piece where I went to stationery stores and collected test papers people use to try out pens. I collected them, scanned them, and now I have this panel of group works.

Whether you want to or not, you'll definitely learn style from these guys. You don't need to go to Pinterest; you just step out onto the street and see insane color combinations. These things stick in your head, and over time, you repeat them on yourself.

The city is small. It's kind of a cultural hub. You can meet anyone, anywhere. You're walking down the street, and John Galliano rides by on a bike. Boom, you're having lunch at the table next to Issey Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto, or, for example, Donatella Versace. One of the professors at the university is the famous Cappellini, who built an entire furniture empire, and you can just go up to him and introduce yourself. He'll remember you, and then he'll say hi to you on the street. People are down to earth in this regard, so you inadvertently stop being tense and learn to be relaxed.

There are tons of nationalities around, which makes you appreciate your own culture even more and understand that people are very similar. Everyone has the same qualities, regardless of skin color.

The main things I learned in Italy are how to communicate, feel like myself, feel style, beauty, and freedom of interpretation. [I remember, I used to constantly buy wigs. In Italy, you can go out in a wig, and no one cares. I think sooner or later, we'll come to such an attitude.]

— You mentioned that your parents were happy with your decision to study abroad. How does your family generally feel about your artwork?

Many think my parents helped with the exhibitions, but that's not the case. They struggled to digest what I was doing. At the exhibition itself, they felt a bit awkward because they didn't fully understand what their child had created.

There was never a moment when my parents truly realized I was an artist. Yes, during quarantine, I sat outside the city, painting pictures, they would come by and look. But you know, too much active interest in my work can even irritate me. Art is my own independent world. No one else can do this but me, and accordingly, no one can help me with it — it's both a blessing and a curse. So, I'm glad my family accepted me. Dad may not understand my work, but he's happy I can do what none of them can. And my mom, in general, prefers traveling to art. If everyone in my family were artists, I'd go crazy. Our differences are the best thing. Everyone complements each other.

Some people need support. I'm not used to seeking approval. It's more important to me that the paintings pave their own way.

— How do you handle criticism? Is it something you face often?

I dislike ignorance. Constructive criticism is valuable, but I can't stand it when someone lacks psychological balance and criticizes out of their own insecurities.

I appreciate comments that are relevant. Feedback sometimes matters more to me than actually selling a painting. But I'm not great at taking advice! I used to paint in the presence of others, but not anymore. The process of creating is like entering a different world, it’s a non-verbal ecstasy, when you’re in an altered state, and if someone interrupts that with a question like, "What color comes next?" it disrupts the flow.

There's one piece, though, I created when I had two friends in the studio. We were chatting, and I had the idea: "Why don't I bring a canvas, and you guys can guide me, tell me what to do, what colors to use." Surprisingly, it turned out to be a great piece. It was an interesting experiment to see if I could create something beautiful without relying solely on my own instincts.

— Which painting has left a lasting impression on you?

The lion. This painting is like a childhood headline of my adult life.

There's this game where you have to draw two animals: on the left, who you are, and on the right, who you want to become. Once, I played it without knowing the rules, so I drew a lion and a whale. So, the lion represents my self-portrait, my totem animal.

— Is it available for sale?

Yeah, a few people wanted to buy it, and they've offered a lot of money, but I'm not ready yet. I painted it about six years ago, and now it's in Dubai. Even though it's far away, I still feel like it's mine. But you know, you always need to outgrow something. I reckon one day I'll be able to let it go. Maybe when I paint some copies (laughing).

— Aren't you intimidated by large canvases?

With a larger canvas, it's easier to sense the composition and achieve visual balance. You sort of inhabit the space, feel the scale. But when it's just the size of your chest, it's not always obvious what to do with it.

— Could you describe your creative process? How do you usually go about creating a piece? What helps you concentrate?

Sometimes, I find myself not managing my time well. For instance, I might end up chatting too much with people and lose focus. Even if it's just texting. I wouldn't be able to work peacefully if I kept hearing endless notifications on my phone. That's precisely why I decided to have no Internet connection in my new studio!

Sometimes, amidst internal disharmony, you feel ideas brewing for a creative flow. But paintings come to life when you've already embraced a certain emotion. Never at its peak. At the peak of emotions, you might as well go and break something or just end up with a messy draft. Only when you've gone through the phase of internal processing of emotions, can you use it as fuel. A good painting is never, in my case, created in agony: too many mixed feelings, it's impossible to properly distribute colors and emotions. There will always be imbalance. But sometimes, it happens the other way around; you're in an anxious state, you start painting, and it fades away. It depends

— Do you always prepare a draft?

Absolutely, I recently came to this approach. It can be challenging at times. For instance, how do you draft an abstraction? But if the emotion is clear, so is how to depict it.

Lately, I've been pondering poses and ideas for a long time before executing them. For me, it's not difficult at all; it's like coloring. Maybe, by the way, I should start making large coloring pages for adults? That's a good business idea.

— What themes do you adhere to in your art? Are there any narratives you wouldn't want to convey on canvas?

In my life, events seem to deliberately lead to conflicting, serious themes. Harsh emotional realizations or horrors you learn about our world. Perhaps I paint because that's how I digest it all, giving life to something new.

— Do you write annotations for your paintings?

No. I believe paintings should communicate with people on their own. It's important not to try to understand the painting but rather to "plug" your brain while looking at it. It's a meditative state, allowing the painting to hear your emotions — like a mirror where you can see yourself.

— How do you choose titles for your works?

For example, there's a piece titled "3-4-5." I remember explaining it to someone, unfolded the canvas, and said, "You can cut this painting into 3, 4, 5 parts, it would be cool." That's how it got its name. There's always a story behind the title, but it's usually short and somewhat satirical.

— How often do you paint commissioned works?

They offer, but I refuse. I don't feel I'm experienced enough as an artist to take on that level of responsibility. Plus, painting on commission is tricky for me since I often work with abstractions.

Once, I was asked me to paint a picture for a house in Miami. It was quite challenging to wrap my head around: a house in Miami, a whole different continent, you know. Or, for instance, they suggested, "Let me tell you about my dog's passing, and you capture my grief in a painting." Well, how do you think that would work? (laughing)

I prefer to initiate portrait commissions myself. Once, I painted emotional portraits of my parents. It was a deeply personal project for me. Perhaps I just missed them terribly at the time.

— What's the most unusual request you've ever received?

I was asked to capture the connection between masculinity and femininity through shapes and colors. You know, when someone doesn't quite know if they want an abstract or figurative painting, and they just explain these clippings from esoteric magazines, and you're left thinking, "What's going on here?"

Then there's this acquaintance of mine, probably the only person who can come and say, "I think you should reconsider this painting. It needs more pink." At first, I'll listen, thinking, "What are you on about?" But then, I'll end up doing it just as he suggested. He's a creative guy himself, into music. He comes, gives feedback on my work, and then just leaves me alone with those thoughts! I don't immediately agree with his comments, but somehow, in the end, I tend to listen. It's like some kind of long game manipulation. Maybe he's a wizard?

— Based on your experience, how long does it usually take to complete a painting?

Well, it varies. Some paintings come together in about a week, while others can take several years. There's this one piece I've been working on kind of sporadically: I laid down the initial background about four years ago, and then later added some sketches on top.

You know, I didn't always see myself as an important part of the process, but over time, I've come to realize that if I don't take care of myself, it gets harder to create the next piece. So, these days, I try not to take on more than two paintings at a time. Otherwise, I'd wake up feeling like I have a bunch of unfinished tasks hanging over me, and that just throws me off.

I'm also thinking of focusing more on creating series, exploring a specific theme in depth. It feels easier to paint in smaller chunks rather than tackling one huge, monumental piece.

— Do you have any desire to try other forms of art, like sculpture, for example?

Well, recently I kept a piece from a dismantled wall. I'm planning to draw a face on it, and voilà, my first sculpture-painting! (laughing)

Actually, I really want to learn sculpture, but I'm afraid I won't be able to do it while living in Russia. I feel like my urge for asceticism will take over soon, and I'll move somewhere else again. It would be great to set up a studio in nature, in complete isolation. Then I'd have the resources to delve into sculpture. Right now, I don't have the patience to withstand people's curiosity about what I do. Hopefully, in about five years, I'll tame that aspect.

— Are we talking about large sculptures?

Yes! I prefer the idea of sculptures not being constantly monumental, but something inflatable. In other words, sculptures that can be transported. Not for private collections, but for the public — a kind of installation.

— Do you have a muse?

Well, I've mainly had not female muses, but male ones! (laughing) In culture, it's often portrayed that a woman is a muse. There's even a belief among artists: you need to write the names of the nine muses in the studio for them to come. I don't believe in that, but perhaps it's worth writing and seeing what changes.

Although there was one girl who inspired me tremendously. Whenever I talked to her, ideas just flowed. Perhaps she was my muse. We don't talk anymore, so I guess I'll never know.

A muse is often a destructive concept. It rarely inspires from warm motives. It's usually someone you suffer for or have unresolved emotions towards. A muse is needed when energy comes in waves. Now I have my own internal rails, I try to ensure there are always consistent forces to paint.

An artist doesn't so much need a muse as a sense of being in love. Whether it's a director, musician, or even a stranger. It's impossible to be constantly in love with those you love. But being in love with someone you'll never see — that's beautiful.

— Do you have any rituals you adhere to in your art?

I love dancing for my paintings! Sometimes I put on music for them and leave. Classical music, like variations of heartbeat, is the best rhythm to work to! My favorite piece is "Bolero". I just adore it! Recently, I bought a subscription to the conservatory and decided to experiment by going there every Wednesday. Wise people go, so perhaps that's why they live so long!

Back in the day, I studied with Lola Schnabel, Schnabel's daughter. We met in Sicily, and it turned out she had a studio in Milan. I went to her as an assistant. She tried to explain to me the technique of sitting in front of the canvas in deep meditation, waiting to see certain symbols, writing them on the canvas, and then painting over them. Unfortunately, that doesn't work for me.

— Which country or culture has had the greatest influence on you? What element inspires you?

Asia used to be my source of inspiration. I had developed a deep connection with nature there—I'd walk barefoot in the jungles without fear! But with the rising popularity of yoga and meditation, I grew weary of Asia. It's often the case when something becomes popular: not that the quality diminishes, but the soul fades away. That's precisely why I don't want everyone to like my paintings. Take Andy Warhol, for example—he's a cool media guy, but there's little soul in his work.

Recently, the idea of heading to the mountains has come to mind. Alone, by car, through the woods. I crave the silence.

By the way, I really enjoy diving! Descending underwater, you immerse yourself in what dominates the land. Diving teaches that everyone has their place. Humans are just as important a part of the ecosystem, and the untamed ocean will never harm them. There's a sense of security in the water that's often missing in everyday life.

— How tired do you get from the rhythm of the capital?

Very tired. Unfortunately, it's an unavoidable part of our reality. There's this thing called Sha-tsi energy—it drains a massive amount of energy from the masses. Moscow has a lot of it, especially in the skyscrapers. This city will always be like that. So, I guess that's why I enjoy being abroad so much. There, you're detached from the familiar rhythm of life and completely left to yourself.

I'm lucky that my parents have a house in the countryside, and I can go there anytime. I think it's important to learn to ground yourself internally, regardless of your surroundings. Maintaining calmness while stuck in traffic, when the kids and dogs are waiting at home... it's difficult, of course, but worth a try.

I'm really looking forward to summer when I can paint outdoors! I love being at one with the earth while simultaneously being detached from it. My previous studio, for example, was on the basement level, but in the new workshop, everything's different: more space, high ceilings. [By the way, there's a theory about astral bodies that suggests our creative body extends to almost three meters in height, and inspiration only comes when the ceilings are over three meters high.]

— What excites you in your daily life?

Right now, I'm getting back into making collages from scans. With the warmer weather, I'll be collecting all sorts of little things — worms, twigs, buds. I love doing this; it's been a while (smiling).

I also love reading thesis papers and dissertations from graduates of different institutes. It's always a condensed source of useful information, all in a small volume. One work that stuck with me was about the study of human remains after burial and cremation. It discussed how it affects the earth in a spiritual sense.

My passion for fashion hasn't gone anywhere either. I often browse websites with archives of magazines and photoshoots, and I collect A Magazine — a publication curated by different designers. There's so much inspiration in fashion shoots! I read books on the history of fashion. My brain quickly grasps ready-made solutions and combinations; I absorb them and start drawing.

— Which designers do you admire?

Well, when it comes to inspiration, the Margiela archives are like a treasure trove. Martin Margiela's influence on fashion is undeniable. And then there's Dries Van Noten — he's more than just a designer, he's an artist in his own right, especially with his meticulous attention to form and design. Did you know he even has a separate company that focuses solely on fabric design? It's fascinating — you can take one of his fabrics and hang it up like a piece of art!

Every designer has their moment of brilliance. Even Dolce & Gabbana once pulled off something remarkable — remember their iconic leopard print?

I'm really impressed by the Russian fashion market, especially during the sanctions period. It's refreshing to see so many brands putting out small, limited collections. It ensures that you're not going to run into someone wearing the same outfit as you. Plus, I've noticed more and more brands collaborating with artists these days, like USHATÁVA, for example. I think we have a lot of potential for growth in that area.

— Would you like to collaborate with any Russian brands?

I don't think so. I once did a drop of hand-painted items. I've seen how clothing is made, and I can even make patterns. I sewed a couple of things just for myself. There's something incredibly satisfying about bringing an idea to life and then wearing it, feeling proud of what you've created. I especially love the challenge of finding rare leather. Right now, for example, I'm searching for a supplier of horsehide leather, and soon I'll be getting some Nigerian goat leather. I haven't decided yet what I'll do with it — maybe I'll paint over it.

— Which artwork [your own or someone else's] elicited a strong emotional response from you?

I adore Bacon's work. When I look at his pieces, they feel familiar, like I've known them for ages. There's this sense of being on the edge, you know, like during turbulence on a plane when you realize things could go south any moment.

I'm also drawn to Hermann Nitsch, an Austrian artist who works with blood. His canvases resemble shrouds from crucifixions. It's the art of neurotics, perhaps just what my neurotic side craves. I've always been more intrigued by artists with serious psychological issues than, say, Picasso.

^{Hermann Nitsch}
On the other hand, Henri Matisse and Erik Bulatov are calming. But, again, I don't feel like moving forward in warmth and tranquility. Movement arises only from internal turmoil.

— Have you considered performance art for yourself?

It would be cool to paint a large canvas in front of an audience. I think I'll come to that closer to my 30s. Right now, as I mentioned earlier, I don't have enough experience to gather even ten people who would watch the process without getting distracted.

It's important not to think you're more than you actually are. I've met artists who, without even stepping into a room, display some arrogance. I don't approve of that. In the end, it's not the artist who decides; it's the mass of people — democracy, roughly speaking.

— How do you view your past works?

There's no painting that I would look at and think how awful it is. If such a painting existed, I would destroy it.

From past creations, I draw a lot into the future. I can take old sketches and try to transfer them to current canvases. As Rick Owens once said: "I don't study the archives of other designers, I study my own archives." It's more effective to learn from your own highs and lows. It's easier to correct your own mistakes than to take something from the triumphs of others.

I treat my previously crafted pieces the same way I treat current ones. I remember my childhood works, which for some reason have very strange names. For example, "Snail in the Circle of Awareness." (laughing) I think I was about ten years old then. It's amusing.

— Have you ever destroyed any of your paintings?

I often feel like burning canvases, but usually, I'm dissuaded from doing so. I approach it with ease — destroying a painting simply gives it a new form, it's like a change of dimension.

Of course, there's a piece now that I'm in a relationship with. With others, we're just neighbors for now. But there's nothing like, "this is mine, untouchable." The painting stands on its own. All I can do is ensure that it has its own life.

— Whose work among your contemporaries do you observe?

I can't single out anyone specific. I prefer American avant-garde artists, the abstraction of the 1960s. The post-war period in art, when people re-experienced their own freedom, is the most valuable time for me. After all, history is cyclical. And unfortunately, everything will repeat itself.

— What kind of movies do you watch?

I enjoy watching Polish experimental films: women screaming in paint, with knives. The last one I watched was "Poor Things." I was thrilled! I haven't seen such a surrealistic world capable of simply shutting down imagination in a long time.

I savor Paolo Sorrentino's films — "Youth," "The Great Beauty." Overall, I'm fond of his approach to life, albeit occasionally absurd.

But I'm still more impressed by paintings that move like movies. For inspiration, I might visit the Tretyakov Gallery to see a selection of Eric Bulatov's work, but I think I've outgrown that and can skip it now.

Photographer: Oleg Kurakin

— What technologies or innovations in the field of art impress you these days?

I'll hold off on using artificial intelligence until the very end. It somehow feels unfair to art. I'll be stepping back in time while everyone else moves forward. I might even move away from acrylic and ready-made paints.

The coolest things in life already exist. You can't get any more inspiration from social media, movies, or other paintings. Inspiration is something we've already digested. Nature has given us everything for that.

[Someday, maybe I'll "bury" my canvas and see what happens. I know a British designer who puts jackets into the ground, "buries" them, and then digs them up. It turns out beautifully, by the way.]

— How do you feel about contemporary art?

Contemporary art is mostly about connections. It’s not about talent or marketing, but about who knows whom. It’s a platform where people from different backgrounds are always visible. And this won’t go away. While marketers adeptly package concepts, there are artists who have no clue what they’re doing.

Artists often struggle to promote themselves, lacking a cohesive strategy. Personally, I find self-promotion uncomfortable. How can I ever give a material equivalent to my emotions?

[Artists, like children, don’t always navigate life well. I think sometimes they need solidarity. Why doesn’t anyone regard them with affection?]

— What difficulties do you, as an artist, face in your work?

I often struggle with unruly brushes. It's crucial for a brush to understand your speed. Everyone has a different stroke amplitude. Sometimes a brush dries out, you throw it away, grab a new one, and it's just not broken in yet. It’s frustrating to get mad at something you can’t change. It just takes time.

Occasionally, I wish I could paint like Michelangelo. I wake up thinking, ah, wrong era again! But no one should paint like Michelangelo, except Michelangelo himself (smiling).

— What is the most important thing in your creative process?

It's crucial to turn off my mind. When I think too much, nothing works. When I stop thinking, my hand just takes over. You have to believe in yourself and your abilities. Sometimes, the real challenge is finding the courage. You need to catch that altered state where basic dimensions like time, place, body temperature, and physical sensations fade away. That’s when you start feeling the flow. It's this shapeless information you unconsciously grasp, a state that usually comes in the middle or towards the end of painting.

— Do you consider yourself someone who knows how to live in the present moment?

Definitely. I've come to realize that I don't really have a choice but to live in the moment. It's like catching a tailwind — you feel it, and you just go with it. Reading books has helped me embrace this mindset, and life experiences have reinforced the importance of focusing on the present rather than dwelling on the past.

— What are your creative plans for the near future?

I want the studio to be cleared of all works, to feel the need to start anew. To create something unlike myself, to satisfy my inner schizophrenic, to establish a new image. I would like to try integrating scans into painting again. Plus, I have many unfinished paintings that I need to complete. And of course, I really want to hold an exhibition abroad.

— If you could create a work that was unlimited in time and space, what would it look like?

I would paint a canvas with clouds and stretch it over the city. You know, like the painted sky in movies.

— Wrapping up our interview, I'd like to invite you to complete the sentence: "Art is..."

Art is a universal language, a means of communication that brings together people of different nationalities and ages.