Arina Bican turns everyday life into a psychological landscape. Small gestures, domestic objects, and quiet anxieties become visual narratives about control, vulnerability, and the pace of modern routine. Rather than spectacle, the work focuses on what often goes unnoticed—revealing how ordinary moments can carry emotional weight.

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What unusual or unexpected sources of inspiration have deeply influenced your work?

My sources of inspiration don’t necessarily come from art itself, but from everyday life — from things that seem ordinary or insignificant. I’m drawn to the small details that often go unnoticed: a mechanical gesture repeated day after day, a subtle yet persistent fear. These ‘small’ things often carry an immense emotional weight. Most of the time, what inspires me is a psychological state rather than a concrete image — the tension between safety and uncertainty, between calm and alertness. Even domestic routines become symbols of the ways we try to protect ourselves from what we can’t control. So, unexpectedly, my inspiration comes from within these ordinary moments, which, when looked at closely, reveal an entire emotional landscape. One of the most unexpected sources of inspiration for me was a simple yet unsettling question: ‘Did I unplug the iron?’ From that point, I began exploring how domestic objects and repetitive gestures can carry subtle emotional tensions. In my works, these objects become silent characters of anxiety, evoking the everyday rituals through which we try to reassure ourselves that we are present — and that we are in control.

What do you believe is the most meaningful role an artist plays today?

I believe the most meaningful role an artist plays today is to offer people a space for reflection and emotion in a world that is becoming increasingly fast and fragmented. Art has the power to bring communities together, to create dialogue, and to give form or voice to what many people feel but cannot express. Art can make the invisible visible, give shape to collective emotions, and bring a shared sense of meaning to a time that often feels scattered and disconnected.

In a world flooded with imagery, what responsibility do artists have to stand out and say something authentic?

Even though we live in a world flooded with images, I believe authenticity comes from within. When we listen to our inner voice and express ourselves through the lens of our own life experiences, our message remains honest and unique. Only then can we add something truly valuable to this vast visual ocean. I think an artist’s responsibility is not to compete with the multitude of images, but to bring depth where there is only surface. Authenticity appears when an artist has the courage to be vulnerable and to transform personal experience into a universal language.

Have you considered teaching your artistic skills to others? What excites or challenges you about that?

Alongside my own artistic practice, I also work with students who wish to apply to art high schools or universities. For me, this process is just as creative as working on my own projects — I try to give them a solid technical foundation, but more importantly, to help them discover their own artistic voice. What excites me most is witnessing their transformation — that moment when they realize art can become their personal language. The greatest challenge is finding the balance between the discipline required for exams and the freedom of artistic expression. I’m genuinely excited by the idea of sharing my experience and inspiring others to find their own voice. What I find most challenging is maintaining that fine balance between guiding and not limiting someone’s creativity — helping them grow without imposing my own style.

If you could step back into any artistic era, which would it be and why?

If I could step back into any artistic era, I would choose the Baroque period without hesitation. I’m fascinated by the intensity of that time — by the way art transcended pure aesthetics and became a total experience: sensory, emotional, and spiritual all at once. The Baroque is the visual theater of humanity — full of contrast, drama, and movement, yet profoundly human at its core. I admire how Baroque artists such as Caravaggio, Bernini, or Artemisia Gentileschi managed to give emotion a tangible form — light becomes a voice, shadows tell stories, and every detail carries an inner tension. Everything is amplified, yet never artificial — it is deeply felt. Beneath those spectacular compositions lies a sincere search for meaning, a confrontation with fragility and faith. It is an art that doesn’t hide vulnerability but transforms it into strength. In a way, I try to do the same — to give visibility to fragile emotions, to turn fear into beauty, and tension into form.

Can you take us through the evolution of an artwork, from that first spark of inspiration to the finished piece?

If I were to talk about the evolution of my work ‘Phone says go, body says no’, it all began with a very personal fear — the fear of not hearing the alarms and not waking up on time. It’s a simple, almost trivial feeling, yet it says a lot about our modern anxieties. From there came the idea to turn that moment of waking up into a tense, almost theatrical scene. The phone becomes a mirror in which I see myself caught between sleep and reality, between control and exhaustion. I wanted to capture that fragile instant when you are conscious, but not yet fully present. During the process, I focused on the balance between artificial light, reflections, and color, to recreate that mechanical atmosphere specific to rushed mornings. For me, the work speaks about the daily rituals that control us, about the way technology ends up dictating our inner rhythm. That’s how it evolved — from a small, personal fear into a visual reflection on modern life.

Does spirituality or a connection to something larger than yourself influence your creative process?

Yes, I believe there is a spiritual dimension in the creative process, even if it’s not always a conscious one. For me, creating means entering a state of total presence — a space where you are fully connected with yourself and with something greater than you. Art has always been a form of therapy for me: it frees me, helps me discover myself, and allows me to transform inherited anxieties and emotions into something luminous. In the end, each work becomes a form of healing and a path toward inner balance.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues—social, political, or environmental?

In my works, I choose to speak about contemporary anxiety — not through direct political or social events, but through everyday gestures that seem ordinary. The series ‘Did I unplug the iron?’ begins with a simple yet unsettling question. For me, the iron becomes a symbol of the invisible pressure that accompanies us daily — that diffuse fear that settles precisely in the space where we should feel safe. Through this theme, I try to explore a form of tension that feels very present in today’s world: the need for control, the fear of making mistakes, the constant anticipation of danger. I see it as an honest reflection on how we live today — always connected, yet never completely at ease.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

In my works, the message is quite clear because it comes from real, recognizable emotions — fear, unease, the need for control, vulnerability. I don’t pursue ambiguity for the sake of mystery; what I truly want is for people to resonate with what I felt while creating. I like the idea that the viewer can recognize an emotion, a state, a certain fragility they might have experienced themselves. In this sense, the work becomes a space of empathy — a bridge between my personal experience and that of others.

Can you imagine ever choosing to stop creating art? What might lead you to such a decision?

I don’t think I could ever truly stop creating. For me, art is not just a profession — it’s a way of existing, a means through which I understand the world and myself. Even when I’m not actively working, my mind keeps observing, transforming experiences into images, constantly searching for visual meaning. It’s a process that never really stops. Sometimes I even feel a kind of withdrawal when I’m not creating — an almost physical need to return to the studio, to work, to give birth to my thoughts. It’s a beautiful kind of addiction, one that I never want to recover from.