I like to describe my practice as storytelling. I’m interested in how stories can be told and retold, and how each retelling opens them up to new interpretations, twists, and fictions. In my work, these stories take shape through different media and materials, often evoking a sense of digital nostalgia.

That's a great question - I don't really know. But whenever I'm consciously working with certain feelings, situations, or emotions, I always ask myself, "What does this feeling look like?" or "What character or situation does it remind me of?" That usually gives me some ideas of how to shape it.

Haha, I would not say that I particularly like this contradiction, but I like the result and the aesthetics you are referring to, and that's what helps me stay patient throughout the process.

One thing it taught me was that an old, smelly space can't be cleaned with AR brooms and brushes alone - you still need real human effort. But beyond that, Interlude became a great collaboration between many different elements: the circus tradition of magic tricks, which has often been based on new technologies; the historic building itself, which at the time was undergoing an important transformation and renovation; and the independent theatre group KVADRIFRONS, who launched their performance programme in the circus building and also curated my exhibition. Their movements were performed using motion-capture technology, then recorded and adapted for the animated brushes, symbolically preparing the old space for new beginnings through digital technology.

The hardest part was realising how huge and widespread this issue is, and figuring out how to compress it into a few artworks that could still communicate the complexity and diversity behind this "pleasure of hating." I tried to use the original office story only as a starting point for digging deeper into the issue, and that helped me come up with many other experiences and stories that could be transformed into artworks, such as a magical mirror-like installation inspired by online forums or Dialogues, a work inspired by the tragic "Texting Suicide Case," highlighting the power of online manipulation.

Yeah, I found it very interesting to think about what insights could be drawn from my own experience of playing this life simulation game, and actually it really helped me better understand what might be behind this human enjoyment of wrongdoing. Very often - and I think the online environment makes this especially easy - we do bad things simply out of boredom, curiosity, or for fun.

Of course, I'm absolutely not trying to defend such behaviour, but my experience with The Sims made me realise the dark side of boredom. At first, I tried to play the game by the rules. Then, of course, I discovered the cheat codes, became instantly rich, and bought and built everything the game had to offer. But very quickly, it all became so boring that the only interesting thing left was to start experimenting by killing the avatars. Apparently, many people ended up doing exactly the same thing, so I think it's fair to conclude that boredom can be quite a dangerous state, and at least for me it partly explained the situation at the office where the original story behind the project started.

I was commissioned by the Survival Kit contemporary art festival to create a new artwork for an exhibition with the theme "Being Safe Is Scary." Thinking about what that theme meant to me, I came across some blurry memories of the film Bubble Boy, which I had seen as a teenager.

The film tells the story of a boy who literally lives inside a plastic bubble because of his mother, who, as we discover at the end, simply wanted to keep him safe. But what became truly interesting and inspiring was discovering that this rather problematic road movie was actually based on the true story of David Vetter and his tragic life.

Learning about his experience made me think a lot about what it really means to be safe - or to keep someone safe at any cost, even in the name of love.

Cybervikings of Mars was inspired by one of Elon Musk's tweets suggesting that we should "nuke Mars" as a progressive idea for making the planet habitable for humans. I found that idea both suspicious and dangerous. It also made me draw parallels with Western history, and unfortunately not only history, where ideas of progress have often been used to justify the destruction and displacement of native worlds in the name of a supposedly better future. That I find most suspicious.

Showing work in a public space is always challenging, but it's also an opportunity to reach and communicate your ideas to a much wider audience than you would in an exhibition space. When an artwork enters a public environment, it also enters a completely different context, and it's always exciting to see how people interact with it - and what kinds of reactions it provokes.

This project reminded me of the beauty of simple things. Even though producing this large edition of screen prints was just as time-consuming and demanding as making a digital work, it felt refreshing to change my medium and shift from digital techniques to traditional silkscreen printing.

A Panic Attack on a Sunny Day was very much inspired by a blog that a friend of mine started writing after she and her family moved from Riga to sunny Valencia, hoping to put some distance between themselves and the potential danger caused by Russia's war against Ukraine.

But even in this beautiful, sunny place, physically farther away from the horrors of war, her mind was still occupied with thoughts about what was happening, causing constant questions, worries, and anxiety. So, in a way, it doesn't really matter whether a panic attack happens on a sunny or a gloomy day - it is still a panic attack.