Anastasia Fainberg is an artist, photographer, and set designer based in Limassol, Cyprus. Born in Moscow in 1995, she works with organic materials, sculptural forms, and sensory metaphors — often incorporating food, flora, and found objects — to create contemplative spaces that invite emotional and tactile perception. Her practice revolves around the dialogue between the ephemerality of nature and the transience of human emotion, weaving together personal memories and themes of transformation and synesthesia. Anastasia’s work has been shown at the Noorderlicht Photo Festival, MMOMA, the PH Museum, and 212 Photography Festival, and she’s participated in both Cosmoscow and Blazar art fairs. She’s also collaborated with brands like Zara Home, and her work has appeared in The New York Times, Elle Decoration, Fisheye, and beyond.

It’s a pleasure to have you here with us, Anastasia. How are you doing these days?

Thank you! It’s a pleasure to speak with you as well. I’m doing well — right now, I’m in the midst of planning the second half of my year. The first half was full of energy: I worked on some exciting projects with a fabric brand, curated an exhibition, and began experimenting with ceramics, especially exploring larger-scale forms.

At the moment, I’m preparing for a series of collaborations here in Limassol. One of them involves creating a performance that blends food and florals — I'm really excited about it. So yes, life is creatively intense.

What got you into still-life to begin with?

Curiosity. I’ve always loved creating abstract images that reflect thoughts and emotions. One day, I realized that you can express the same feelings using everyday objects — fruits, vegetables, simple things.

I wanted to explore that idea more deeply. It became a way for me to communicate through objects, to tell stories or capture a mood without using words. I took a workshop that gave me the basics, and from there, I just started creating my own still-life compositions.

In the beginning, I stacked objects together purely by intuition, experimenting and learning how things interact visually. Over time, after a lot of trial and error, I started to develop a style that feels truly my own.

What’s a typical day like for you in Limassol?

There are three things that are a stable part of my daily routine: walking, exercising, and working.

Walking helps me change my surroundings and clear my mind. Sport keeps me mentally balanced—I dance and do regular workouts, which really support my overall well-being.

A typical day looks something like this: I wake up and, if I have time, go for a walk before breakfast. Then I dive into work and focus on the tasks I’ve planned. I always make a weekly to-do list over the weekend so I can stay on track and not forget anything important.

I try to tackle the most important tasks in the first half of the day. I work with clients remotely, so my schedule is pretty flexible.

In the evenings, twice a week, I attend contemporary dance classes — I'm always curious to explore different art forms, and right now, I’m focusing on movement and the body.Sometimes I meet up with friends — we go for a walk or have dinner together. Being around people really helps me switch off and take a break from routine.

You translate senses into objects. How do you capture something as intangible as a scent or a feeling and give it a physical form?

I translate senses and emotions into objects by searching for their visual and tactile equivalents. I often ask myself: If this feeling had a texture, a shape, a temperature — what would it be? For example, excitement might feel sharp or prickly; joy could be something in warm colors, maybe even something that seems like it would have a sweet scent.

I'm inspired by the idea of synesthesia — the phenomenon where people experience things like time or words as colors, shapes, or tastes. I’m not a synesthete myself, but I love the concept that an emotion might have a color, a scent, or even a flavor. It opens up new ways to think about visual language.

In my process, I look at objects from different angles and imagine how they might carry emotional meaning — through color, form, contrast, or rhythm, taste, smell etc.

How do you choose the medium that best conveys the story you want to tell?

The medium I choose depends on the story I want to tell, how I want people to experience it, and how long I want the work to last. The medium is part of the message. Usually, I start with the idea — what I want to express — and then I find the medium that best supports it. Sometimes I need something static or long-lasting, other times something more temporary and alive.

If I want people to engage physically — to move around the work or feel its presence — I might choose installation. If the goal is to capture a fleeting moment or emotion, photography often works best. Each medium has its own limitations and emotional range, and I try to work with that consciously.

What is it about food and flowers that makes them such meaningful elements in your art?

Flowers are especially meaningful in my practice. To me, they behave like emotions — they’re fragile, they bloom and fade, they disappear and return. They’re deeply tied to cycles of time and transformation. Food sometimes appears in my work for similar reasons — it doesn't last, but while it exists, it activates the senses and connects people to memory and feeling. Both elements allow me to explore themes of impermanence, presence, and the beauty of what is temporary.

If you could work with any unusual or unconventional material for a project, what would it be and why?

If I could work with any unconventional material, I think I’d explore fungi — especially mycelium. I’m fascinated by the idea of growing organic life directly onto objects like concrete, metal, or even old wheels. There’s something poetic about letting something soft and alive slowly take over something industrial and rigid.

More than the material itself, I’m drawn to unconventional processes. I’d love to create a material from scratch — something that doesn’t yet exist, something responsive, maybe even biodegradable.

I’m also interested in working with metal — not necessarily an unconventional material, but an unfamiliar one for me. I’m curious to see how a strong, rigid substance can be shaped to reflect organic forms, and how much of that natural softness it can actually hold without losing its essence.

Is there something in your daily routine that you find surprisingly beautiful or inspiring? How would you turn that into a still life?

Yes — I often find something deeply inspiring in early mornings, especially when I manage to wake up before the city. There's a softness to that time: the sky turns pink, red, and blue; the air is fresh in a way that feels completely new each day. Birds are singing, everything is still, and there’s a quiet thrill in not knowing what the day will bring. It makes me feel warm, grounded, and somehow deeply alive.

If I were to turn that feeling into a still life, it would be built around atmosphere and texture. I’d use a soft gradient background — like the morning sky — with elements like fresh green leaves, seasonal flowers (like white or pale pink hibiscus and plumeria), and dewy fruits. A grapefruit would sit at the center, bright and zesty like the first burst of sunlight.

I’d also scatter pink currants across the scene — delicate and translucent, like drops of morning light. Maybe a few blueberries too, like echoes of the night that hasn't fully let go. It would be a still life about the moment just before — filled with promise, tenderness, and quiet wonder.

If you were to create a still life that represents your personality, what objects would be in it?

It would be a bit whimsical, a bit romantic — definitely layered and not too polished. There would be garden flowers, like wild bellflowers and maybe irises or poppies — something soft yet full of character, free-spirited and a little wild.

There’d also be a beautiful glass, maybe half-full of something sparkling, and an unusual candle — something slightly offbeat that adds a spark of mystery. Maybe some figs and peaches for warmth and depth, and little odd objects like gloves or wire twists — hints of unpredictability and a touch of chaos.

Altogether, it would be a still life with soul — not quiet, but not loud either. Just complex, like a story you want to keep looking at.

When you've led still life workshops, what’s the most unexpected or memorable reaction you’ve had from someone attending?

I’ve had several memorable experiences through my work, and I’d like to share two that stood out to me the most.

The first was a workshop I held in Istanbul, designed to inspire chefs to approach food in a more artistic and visual way — to create arrangements that would help them see ingredients from a fresh perspective. What really stayed with me was how openly and creatively they responded to this approach. After the workshop, many of them began applying it in their plating and table settings in ways that were thoughtful, playful, and beautiful. Seeing that kind of transformation — from concept to actual practice — was incredibly rewarding.

The second moment came from a student who took part in one of my workshops. She told me that the experience completely changed the way she sees the world — that learning to pay attention to the objects around her shifted her entire perspective, not just in creative work, but in daily life. That kind of quiet, internal transformation is what stays with me the most — and reminds me why I do what I do.

Sometimes, students even bring or send me small gifts after a workshop — like in Istanbul, where one girl gave me a piece of handmade ceramic tableware she had created herself. It was beautiful and personal. Moments like that are incredibly meaningful — when something that matters to you resonates with others, and they respond by sharing something of their own. That exchange stays with you.

What’s on the horizon for you?

A lot of new adventures, I think. I'm at a stage where I want to experiment more — with mediums, with formats, with how my work interacts with people in real spaces. I'm planning a few events and exhibitions, and from there… we’ll see.

Lately, I’ve been rethinking many aspects of my practice and career, and that’s leading me toward something more open, more collaborative. I feel a growing shift — from creating mostly for the digital space to building experiences that exist in the physical world, that invite presence and human connection.

Whatever is on the horizon, I know it’s something meaningful. I want my compositions to grow beyond the frame — to live in space, time, and in conversation with others.