Notes from Artmood

 Barcelona, 2025.


Sometimes I wonder what truly stays inside a work of art.

Is it only pigment, paper, clay and paint?

Or does every piece quietly preserve something of the person who created it—a memory, a longing, a fleeting joy, a season of life that can never be repeated?

There are works that stop us in our tracks for reasons we cannot explain. We look longer than we intended. We return to them without knowing why. Their beauty is only part of the story. Something invisible seems to reach beyond form and technique.

Perhaps that is what we call the soul of art.

When I create my paper mache bowls and wall sculptures, I never try to make them perfect. I try to make them honest. Every texture, every uneven edge and every layer carries the trace of my hands, my patience and the quiet hours spent creating.

Creating has become more than making objects. It has become a way of being in the world—something I hope to continue for as long as my hands are able to shape paper into form.

I often wonder if that is what people feel when they choose a handmade piece—not perfection, but presence.

Or perhaps...

it is simply God's gentle touch.

Only later did I realize that I had first experienced this feeling while standing, completely captivated, in the Picasso Museum in Barcelona.

Maybe that is why the works of Pablo Picasso continue to speak so deeply to millions of people around the world.

Perhaps every true work of art leaves behind something of its creator.

And perhaps that is what makes it timeless.


Photo taken at the Picasso Museum in Barcelona in 2025

— ArtMood

Snow again.

The world feels quieter when it snows — as if everything softens, even our thoughts.

Tomorrow the calendar says Valentine’s Day. A day for love.
But love does not wait for dates. It does not need permission.

It is in the way light falls across a table.
In the warmth of a familiar presence.
In work done slowly, carefully, with intention.
In the land beneath our feet.

I think of Latvia — my home.
Not as warm as Spain.
Not as blue as Greece.
Without the towering drama of Italian mountains.

And yet, it is mine.
And I love it.

Love is not measured by climate or landscape.
It is measured by belonging.

Today, as the snow turns quietly in the air, I feel how much has been given to me — my family, my small cat companion, my hands that shape paper into something lasting.

If I could wish one thing, it would be this:
May you always have something to love.
Someone to hold close.
A place that feels like yours.

And in every bowl I make, there is a quiet fragment of that feeling —
a small piece of joy,
a small piece of love,
pressed into paper and sent gently into the world.

13.02.2026


A New Year, A Quiet Beginning