What comes first in your work, external shapes or internal imagery? How do you balance these fields, and the wider surroundings which make up a third aspect?
My work begins with a feeling, an atmospheric sense, a memory of light, an emotional imprint from nature. I expand that sensation into something relevant to our time, something that doesn’t stay abstract, but resonates as a shared theme. In this case, it’s awareness of our changing climate.

From there, I shape systems that bring that feeling into form: sculpting not just objects, but experiences through light, data and time. The internal image, the external form and the surroundings are all part of the same choreography. They move together.

In the new piece I’m creating for Mykonos, the elements themselves; wind, heat, sea and salt are my collaborators. I’m not inserting a sculpture into nature. I’m building something that listens and responds to it. Like in my ‘Specimens of Time’ series, the work is designed to breathe with its environment.

Your work looks at reconnecting people to nature but also the effect of the “sublime”, the sense of deep awe that we feel from astonishing natural occurrences. What are the biggest challenges in creating this effect in art?

I first felt the sublime as a child, diving into the sea at dawn on the island of Brač in Croatia. The air was still. The sea was flat like oil. I slipped beneath the surface, and light fractured into gold lines around me. In that silence, I felt fully alive. It was the first time I understood I wasn’t outside of nature. I was inside it.

That memory became an internal compass I still return to. Through my work, I try to create spaces where others might feel that too, not as spectators but as part of the world’s fabric. When we reconnect to nature, we reconnect to ourselves.

The challenge is: the sublime can’t be manufactured. It’s elusive by nature. It happens in the in-between — in the contrasts of fragility and vastness, presence and absence, stillness and surge. It has to emerge, quietly. That’s why I work with light, sound, time — materials that are inherently ephemeral and sensitive. They allow for those moments to arise, if only briefly.

The hardest part? We’re overstimulated, desensitized. We scroll past wonders daily. So my job is to cut through the noise and stir that visceral sense of aliveness we all carry beneath the static. I do it by engaging the senses, tapping into our shared emotional bond with nature, and with each other.

How should one reconnect to nature in the modern digital age, where do you find balance?
I use technology to evoke the deep connection to nature that’s already within us. Just as a filmmaker might capture a landscape to inspire people to visit, cherish or protect it, I use light, time, code and data to create experiences that reawaken our emotional bond with the natural world. Technology isn’t at odds with nature, it’s a tool. What matters is how we use it.

You have talked in the past about technology as a vehicle for emotional terrain — which emotions most frequently come up when people see your art? Are there any emotions you wish to evoke that you haven’t yet?
People often tell me they feel wonder, calm or a sense of connection when they encounter my work and sometimes grief, when they recognize what’s been lost or is slipping away. I think of each piece as an emotional vessel: a space to hold feelings we rarely give ourselves permission to fully feel. And I want more of that. I want these experiences to quietly infiltrate our awareness, with a resonance that lingers. When we truly allow ourselves to feel, beyond distraction or performance, it can shift how we relate, how we act, how we live. That’s where individual emotion becomes part of the collective nervous system.

If you could be transported, safe from harm, to either the bottom of the ocean or outer space for ten minutes, which would you choose and why?
Being immersed in the ocean is my personal sanctuary, but a space that offers something else entirely: a complete recalibration of perspective. And I think we need that more than ever, not just awe, but the kind of scale that rewires how we see ourselves. Ten minutes in space would be enough to watch the Earth shrink into a fragile sphere, its edges blurring into the atmosphere. To feel, not just know, how interconnected and precarious everything is.

This year, Encounters explores themes of longevity: As an artist, what do endurance and longevity mean to you? And what can we learn from artistic endurance that might prove relevant beyond art?
To me, longevity in art isn’t about how long something physically lasts, it’s about the imprint it leaves. A work endures if it embeds itself in someone’s inner landscape, if it lingers long after the moment of encounter has passed.

Endurance as an artist is much the same. It’s not about repetition or polish. Rather, it’s about staying open, staying curious, and remaining in dialogue with the unknown. That takes a different kind of strength, especially in a world that prizes clarity, speed, and certainty. Real endurance is quiet. It’s the soft persistence of showing up, again and again, without guarantees, just the belief that something meaningful might emerge. ■

SCORPIOS ENCOUNTERS

Scorpios Encounters is a returning festival exploring the convergence of creativity and technology. Asking “how we can live and create in more enduring ways”, this season reflects on longevity and wellbeing at the intersection of art, code and ritual. 

The resulting program brings five leading voices in digital creativity to the shores of Bodrum and Mykonos, spanning installations and performances that grow over time, respond to the environment and evolve with input from the audience. 

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