In the work of Veronika Fedorova, quietness becomes substance and attention becomes form. A childhood shaped by solitude and careful observation, a Vietnamese sensibility attuned to filled silence, and rigorous academic training in Saint Petersburg converge into a practice grounded in discipline and restraint. Subtle light, muted color, and fragile objects carry equal weight with wood, resin, and canvas. Each surface reflects patience; each space holds a pause. Art emerges here not as declaration, but as presence — a sustained act of noticing what might otherwise pass unseen.

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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

I often stayed home alone as a child, and during that time I learned to notice small, easily overlooked details around me. I liked coloring with felt-tip pens, carefully filling in shapes so the surface would be even, without stains and without crossing the lines. I also loved reading — it taught me how to step out of reality for a while. I may also carry a Vietnamese cultural sensibility from my father — a quiet pull toward the sacred, spirituality and filled silence.

Later, in Saint Petersburg, I deeply immersed myself in classical painting and studied its techniques and materials. It’s a very cultural city and I was constantly surrounded by artists and musicians. My practice was shaped by academic training, which gave me discipline and deepened my attentiveness. 

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

I don’t think of spirituality in a religious sense. For me, it’s more about presence and attention. When I work, I try to slow down and listen to materials, to small changes in light, to quiet emotional states. A feeling of belonging to something larger arises through these moments.  Creating becomes a way of staying with what is fragile. It’s a quiet practice, almost like a form of meditation, where I can step outside of everyday noise and enter a softer space.

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

I’m drawn to very subtle things: delicate painting, dried flowers, fragile small objects — things that have survived but often remain unnoticed. None of these elements ask for attention. They feel quiet, solitary and at the same time self-contained. I’m attracted to muted, slightly dusty colors. I think the weather in Saint Petersburg also shaped my sensitivity. The sky there is often grey and the transition from light to shadow is soft. The light gives everything a silvery tone and I think I carry this atmosphere into my work.

How has your artistic style transformed over the years? Are there specific influences, experiments, or moments that marked a turning point?

I was trained in academic painting in Saint Petersburg where I learned careful observation. That foundation still supports my work today. Over time, I felt the need to step away from strict representation and allow more air and intuition into my practice. I became less interested in depicting reality and more drawn to creating quiet, inner spaces and holding moments. An important moment for me was a residency at Herzel House where I was surrounded by artists working with many different materials. There, I began exploring epoxy resin, wood carving, ceramics. This experience opened my practice beyond painting and helped me think more spatially and tactually.

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?

It’s not very important to me that viewers fully understand a specific message. I care more about how they feel when they look at my work. Ambiguity is important to my practice because it leaves space for personal experience. I want the viewer to slow down, to stay with the work for a moment so they can form their own connection.

If you could communicate just one core message through your entire body of work, what would it be?

If I had to name one core message, it would be to care for what is more fragile than yourself. I want my work to offer quietness and calm to slow down, notice subtle details and stay with what feels vulnerable. For me, this is a form of care.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally, or seen it impact others?

I think art is therapeutic in a general sense. Through art, you can explore yourself and the world around you. You become more attentive to your own sensations. For me, painting slows me down. I like staying alone with my work in silence - it helps me focus on one thing and notice small nuances. Painting helps me stay present.

What are your long-term aspirations as an artist, both personally and professionally?

In the long term, I want to continue deepening my artistic language and working with painting, objects and space. I’m interested in creating environments where viewers can feel at ease, free and filled with something gentle and good and where they can slow down. Personally, I hope to keep growing through my practice, to exhibit internationally and to build a sustainable life around my work, while staying close to what feels true.

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Across painting, object, and space, Veronika Fedorova builds environments of attentiveness. Grey northern light, delicate materials, and softened edges invite stillness rather than spectacle. Ambiguity remains open, offering room for personal encounter instead of fixed meaning. At the core lies a simple, steady ethic: care for what is fragile. Through disciplined observation and intuitive expansion, this practice continues to deepen — seeking gentleness, clarity of feeling, and a sustained commitment to what feels true.