The air is deeply breathable. 

The mountain lies wrapped in mist, 

its colours hushed beneath the thick veil. 

A small, almost whispered sign, 

an open gate to a courtyard – 

enough to draw us gently in. 

Everything is fresh: 

the stone path, 

the dewy garden, 

the wet earth. 

My husband plays with small, 

orange, woolen pom-poms 

trembling on a string, 

I wander whether we are truly 

where I think we are. 

And then –

a woman, 

gracefully adorned by life. 

She thanks us for the tidy yarn balls 

and leads us to a stone building 

beside the house. 

A wooden door opens,

a high threshold, 

a room 

where a wide window – the eyes of the world – 

looks out onto the mist. 

The fog follows 

like a long quiet sigh 

and fills the moment 

with mystery. 

As we promised ourselves, 

the woman with the delicate, calm voice and I, 

this is now our moment 

for Leshten. 

She plays soft, jazz music 

and leaves us alone. 

I gaze at the book covers, 

read aloud the familiar poet's words, 

comfortably framed 

and signed by his hand,

and know 

we are exactly where I think we are. 

Where the soul wished us to be. 

The mist, 

the mountains behind it, 

the paintings on the walls, 

the stones around us, 

the faded dandelions in a champagne flutes, 

the musical instruments, 

the photographs – 

everything turns into POETRY. 

Words, 

baptised in silence, 

moist,

with soft, blurred contour 

gently touch the senses. 

A lyrical calm, 

a consoling mystery

dissolve the boundaries of forms, 

silently letting the tenderness 

of the autumn light 

flow through the arteries 

of the body. 

Time slips away. 

A feeling of merging settles in – 

with the mist 

that "hangs its empty sleeves like a coat",

with the 'ladder" 

whispering skyward, 

with the wisdom of stones, 

with the vastness of the paintings...

I "put on the coat 

made to my measure" 

and slowly 

and wordlessly 

return to myself. 

Whole. 

Still. 

At peace. 

As if I could stay here 

for a long while. 

I choose three books. 

The woman returns, 

her delicate, calm voice noticing: 

"Ah, you've chosen Boris."

I tell her 

I keep the Book of Stones like an icon at home, 

and now I'm drawn 

to the Book of  Titles. 

She adds softly, 

"There's also the Book of Silence."

We found this place without plan 

on a rainy day, 

and she says – 

"That's precisely way the door stays open, 

to be found unexpectedly."

Among life's mystical paths, 

I silently agree. 

And I realise 

I am praising what needs no praise. 

It's better to returned to silence –

that almost divine silence 

that connects the poet 

beyond the walls. 

As we leave, I think:

How much grace there is in the simple presence,

How much awareness – in silence. 

Boris Hristova, born in 1945, is one of Bulgaria's most respected contemporary poets and writers, known for his deeply human voice and quiet philosophical presence in Bulgarian literature. His novels, essays, and screenplays gained fully recognition only after the fall of the totalitarian regime on November 10, 1989. 

Since the mid-1990s, the poet has lived far from the noice of the cities, in the mountain village of Leshten in the beautiful Rhodope region. Together with his wife Darina, a painter, he chose a life of privacy and pure creativity. He rarely appears in public, avoids events, and although he has accepted a few literary and academic awards, he has declined state honours, a personal decision Hristo made long before the end of communism. Withdrawal became a central theme of his work: retreat not as escape, but as a moral stance, a way of preserving inner truth.   

Life in Leshten reflects this philosophy. Surrounded by the people closest to him and by the mountain's quiet majesty, Boris Hristov gathers stones from the Rhodope slopes and inscribes them with wisdom. He photographs the beauty around him, carves wooden sculptures from ancient roots, and in the evenings sometime performs improvise concerts on instruments he made himself. These creations, along with his books, Darina's paintings and work by other contemporary artist are housed in the couple's gallery, a beautifully restored barn in their courtyard. 

This year, the poet celebrated his 80th birthday. I don't know how this milestone unfolded for him, but I am deeply grateful that I found my way to the gallery this fall. I had heard that sometimes he greets visitors himself. Whether it was him or his wife I met ultimately did not matter. What stayed with me was the feeling of being welcomed by the space itself, by the stones, the words, the fog and the mountain.   

In a world constantly driven by speed, visibility, and relentless demand for output, Hristov's gallery feels like a sanctuary. It invites listening rather than broadcasting, contemplation rather than urgency. Here, artistic practice is rooted not in algorithms or performance, but in presence, in the slow folding of the inner voice. The lesson I carried away was one of creative sovereignty. Art can grow from solitude. Silence and stillness can be like sunlight and water. And some of the most authentic works are born far from the noice, in a remote corner of the world, in a small room overlooking mist and mountains.  

Gallery Address 

2962 L E S H T E N, Bulgaria

+359 896 645 593

• December 08, 2025

After the Rain

The air is deeply breathable. 

The mountain lies wrapped in mist, 

its colours hushed beneath the thick veil. 

A small, almost whispered sign, 

an open gate to a courtyard – 

enough to draw us gently in. 

Everything is fresh: 

the stone path, 

the dewy garden, 

the wet earth. 

My husband plays with small, 

orange, woolen pom-poms 

trembling on a string, 

I wander whether we are truly 

where I think we are. 

And then –

a woman, 

gracefully adorned by life. 

She thanks us for the tidy yarn balls 

and leads us to a stone building 

beside the house. 

A wooden door opens,

a high threshold, 

a room 

where a wide window – the eyes of the world – 

looks out onto the mist. 

The fog follows 

like a long quiet sigh 

and fills the moment 

with mystery. 

As we promised ourselves, 

the woman with the delicate, calm voice and I, 

this is now our moment 

for Leshten. 

She plays soft, jazz music 

and leaves us alone. 

I gaze at the book covers, 

read aloud the familiar poet's words, 

comfortably framed 

and signed by his hand,

and know 

we are exactly where I think we are. 

Where the soul wished us to be. 

The mist, 

the mountains behind it, 

the paintings on the walls, 

the stones around us, 

the faded dandelions in a champagne flutes, 

the musical instruments, 

the photographs – 

everything turns into POETRY. 

Words, 

baptised in silence, 

moist,

with soft, blurred contour 

gently touch the senses. 

A lyrical calm, 

a consoling mystery

dissolve the boundaries of forms, 

silently letting the tenderness 

of the autumn light 

flow through the arteries 

of the body. 

Time slips away. 

A feeling of merging settles in – 

with the mist 

that "hangs its empty sleeves like a coat",

with the 'ladder" 

whispering skyward, 

with the wisdom of stones, 

with the vastness of the paintings...

I "put on the coat 

made to my measure" 

and slowly 

and wordlessly 

return to myself. 

Whole. 

Still. 

At peace. 

As if I could stay here 

for a long while. 

I choose three books. 

The woman returns, 

her delicate, calm voice noticing: 

"Ah, you've chosen Boris."

I tell her 

I keep the Book of Stones like an icon at home, 

and now I'm drawn 

to the Book of  Titles. 

She adds softly, 

"There's also the Book of Silence."

We found this place without plan 

on a rainy day, 

and she says – 

"That's precisely way the door stays open, 

to be found unexpectedly."

Among life's mystical paths, 

I silently agree. 

And I realise 

I am praising what needs no praise. 

It's better to returned to silence –

that almost divine silence 

that connects the poet 

beyond the walls. 

As we leave, I think:

How much grace there is in the simple presence,

How much awareness – in silence. 

Boris Hristova, born in 1945, is one of Bulgaria's most respected contemporary poets and writers, known for his deeply human voice and quiet philosophical presence in Bulgarian literature. His novels, essays, and screenplays gained fully recognition only after the fall of the totalitarian regime on November 10, 1989. 

Since the mid-1990s, the poet has lived far from the noice of the cities, in the mountain village of Leshten in the beautiful Rhodope region. Together with his wife Darina, a painter, he chose a life of privacy and pure creativity. He rarely appears in public, avoids events, and although he has accepted a few literary and academic awards, he has declined state honours, a personal decision Hristo made long before the end of communism. Withdrawal became a central theme of his work: retreat not as escape, but as a moral stance, a way of preserving inner truth.   

Life in Leshten reflects this philosophy. Surrounded by the people closest to him and by the mountain's quiet majesty, Boris Hristov gathers stones from the Rhodope slopes and inscribes them with wisdom. He photographs the beauty around him, carves wooden sculptures from ancient roots, and in the evenings sometime performs improvise concerts on instruments he made himself. These creations, along with his books, Darina's paintings and work by other contemporary artist are housed in the couple's gallery, a beautifully restored barn in their courtyard. 

This year, the poet celebrated his 80th birthday. I don't know how this milestone unfolded for him, but I am deeply grateful that I found my way to the gallery this fall. I had heard that sometimes he greets visitors himself. Whether it was him or his wife I met ultimately did not matter. What stayed with me was the feeling of being welcomed by the space itself, by the stones, the words, the fog and the mountain.   

In a world constantly driven by speed, visibility, and relentless demand for output, Hristov's gallery feels like a sanctuary. It invites listening rather than broadcasting, contemplation rather than urgency. Here, artistic practice is rooted not in algorithms or performance, but in presence, in the slow folding of the inner voice. The lesson I carried away was one of creative sovereignty. Art can grow from solitude. Silence and stillness can be like sunlight and water. And some of the most authentic works are born far from the noice, in a remote corner of the world, in a small room overlooking mist and mountains.  

Gallery Address 

2962 L E S H T E N, Bulgaria

+359 896 645 593

Read more »

The world today has lost not only one of its greatest photographers but also one of its most compassionate souls — Sebastião Salgado.

His images were never just photographs; they were powerful calls to action and profound expressions of empathy. I will never forget the emotions I felt after experiencing his GENESIS exhibition in ROM and watching the documentary The Salt of the Earth. I explored these feelings further in an essay I wrote during my portrait photography class in 2016, which I’m sharing below.

Beyond his extraordinary art, Salgado dedicated his life to environmental and humanitarian causes, proving that his compassion reached far beyond the frame.

Rest in peace, Maestro 

To look at a photograph by Sebastião Salgado is to experience human dignity and contemplate what it means to be human — a child, a man, a woman. 

To look at a photograph by Salgado is to immerse yourself in one of the most uncomfortable emotional conditions people have ever known: human pain; the kind that results from exploitation, war, ecological destruction, or an economic system that punishes the weak. 

To look at a photograph by Salgado is to embark on a powerful voyage through darkness and light, despair and hope, beauty and ugliness, form and content.

I was not aware of his remarkable body of work until I accidentally came across a black-and-white portrait of an African woman, shot vertically below the eye line, against the light, beside a tree. She was carrying a pot of water on her head. There was something extraordinarily beautiful in the timeless smile on her face, in the delicate way her powerful feminine hands held the pottery vessel, and in the patterned traditional dress and turban that exposed a strong sense of belonging. Her eyes were gazing into the future, bursting with pride and hope. She was holding the whole wide world in her hands. All the elements in the picture were connected in a cultural and spiritual richness that compelled me to think about the life behind the face.

Woman carrying water at Tchin Tabaraden, Taharaden Region, Niger, 1973

Later, I learned that this particular image, gorgeous in its simplicity, was photographed in 1973 during Salgado’s and his wife’s journey with the CCFD (Catholic Committee against Hunger and for Development) across Nigeria to document the famine in Africa. In fact, it was the first photograph Salgado sold independently to the CCFD. They liked it so much they decided to use it as the poster for their campaign, “The Planet Belongs to Everyone.” This portrait was displayed in every church in France and in all the parish houses and centers. Apparently, this image confirmed Salgado’s decision to abandon a promising career in economics and become a freelance photographer.

My most profound and memorable encounter with the life and work of this great Brazilian photographer, however, took place during the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Film Festival at the premiere of The Salt of the Earth in 2014. It was a fascinating, thought-provoking, and deeply moving tribute to Salgado’s career — from his first major project, Other Americas, to his most recent, Genesis. For two hours, I was mesmerized by the mellow voice of the photographer himself and by images of indescribable beauty and equally indescribable brutality. I couldn’t move, barely breathing. My heart could literally be seen beating in my chest to the rhythm of the changing photographs on the big screen: from the remarkable scenes of fifty thousand miners sculpted in mud, digging with their hands in a huge pit, to the unbearable suffering of refugees in Tanzania, to the genocide in Rwanda.

There was a moment, two-thirds of the way through the movie, when I felt crushed, overwhelmed and shaken to the core, perhaps to the closest degree to what Sebastião Salgado himself felt after witnessing so much death, injustice, and human pain firsthand.

I was moved to tears by an astonishing image of a little boy standing alone in a vast desert in the Sahel, with his dog by his side, a small guitar in his hand, wearing the dirty remains of a shirt but no pants. His posture — full of determination — showed he knew where he was going. He hoped to join the group of people barely visible in the distance. I hoped for him to make it…

Sahel, Boy and Dog, 1884

Even though most of the images were heartbreakingly disturbing, they were uniquely beautiful, with tones, shadows, and compositions, easily reached the viewer on a purely aesthetic level. The combination of vulnerability and power made the subject of every photo feel alive, familiar, and close to me, awakening the best of my own self.

I left the movie theater wishing for every individual to experience those images as I did. The power of Salgado’s photography is undeniable. It is not just a collection of documentary monochrome photographs that seem mystical, yet utterly real. It is a precious lesson in contemporary history, photography, ecology, and most importantly — humanity. A needle carefully inserted into our conscience, reminding us of the profound truth that we, as humans, are the spice that can make Earth either a worse or a better place to live. We can enhance or destroy the land we inhabit.

Salgado himself hopes his images can be used to provoke debate, so that we, together, can discuss problems, come up with solutions, and perhaps even bring about social change:

“What I want is the world to remember the problems and the people I photograph. What I want is to create a discussion about what is happening around the world and to provoke some debate with these pictures. Nothing more than this. I don’t want people to look at them and appreciate the light and the palette of tones. I want them to look inside and see what the pictures represent, and the kind of people I photograph.”

Today, we still live in a polarized reality. There are human crises around the world, forcing people to leave their destroyed homes and live in refugee camps. Most of our human activities continue to be tremendously destructive to nature. We need Salgado more than ever. If we have failed to learn the lessons of history, perhaps through photography we can learn how to avoid making the same missteps again.

                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                             School of Media Studies and Information Technology - Humber College, 2016

                                                                                                                                                 

"No photo, on its own, can change poverty in the world. Nevertheless, combined with text, films and all the efforts of humanitarian and environmental organizations, my images are part of a wider movement denouncing violence, exclusion and ecological issues.

These means of information contribute to raising awareness in those who see them, of the ability of all of us to change the destiny of humanity."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Sebastião Salgado

Photo: Portrait of Sebastião Selgado by Renato Amoroso

• May 23, 2025

Sebastião Salgado

The world today has lost not only one of its greatest photographers but also one of its most compassionate souls — Sebastião Salgado.

His images were never just photographs; they were powerful calls to action and profound expressions of empathy. I will never forget the emotions I felt after experiencing his GENESIS exhibition in ROM and watching the documentary The Salt of the Earth. I explored these feelings further in an essay I wrote during my portrait photography class in 2016, which I’m sharing below.

Beyond his extraordinary art, Salgado dedicated his life to environmental and humanitarian causes, proving that his compassion reached far beyond the frame.

Rest in peace, Maestro 

To look at a photograph by Sebastião Salgado is to experience human dignity and contemplate what it means to be human — a child, a man, a woman. 

To look at a photograph by Salgado is to immerse yourself in one of the most uncomfortable emotional conditions people have ever known: human pain; the kind that results from exploitation, war, ecological destruction, or an economic system that punishes the weak. 

To look at a photograph by Salgado is to embark on a powerful voyage through darkness and light, despair and hope, beauty and ugliness, form and content.

I was not aware of his remarkable body of work until I accidentally came across a black-and-white portrait of an African woman, shot vertically below the eye line, against the light, beside a tree. She was carrying a pot of water on her head. There was something extraordinarily beautiful in the timeless smile on her face, in the delicate way her powerful feminine hands held the pottery vessel, and in the patterned traditional dress and turban that exposed a strong sense of belonging. Her eyes were gazing into the future, bursting with pride and hope. She was holding the whole wide world in her hands. All the elements in the picture were connected in a cultural and spiritual richness that compelled me to think about the life behind the face.

Woman carrying water at Tchin Tabaraden, Taharaden Region, Niger, 1973

Later, I learned that this particular image, gorgeous in its simplicity, was photographed in 1973 during Salgado’s and his wife’s journey with the CCFD (Catholic Committee against Hunger and for Development) across Nigeria to document the famine in Africa. In fact, it was the first photograph Salgado sold independently to the CCFD. They liked it so much they decided to use it as the poster for their campaign, “The Planet Belongs to Everyone.” This portrait was displayed in every church in France and in all the parish houses and centers. Apparently, this image confirmed Salgado’s decision to abandon a promising career in economics and become a freelance photographer.

My most profound and memorable encounter with the life and work of this great Brazilian photographer, however, took place during the Hot Docs Canadian International Documentary Film Festival at the premiere of The Salt of the Earth in 2014. It was a fascinating, thought-provoking, and deeply moving tribute to Salgado’s career — from his first major project, Other Americas, to his most recent, Genesis. For two hours, I was mesmerized by the mellow voice of the photographer himself and by images of indescribable beauty and equally indescribable brutality. I couldn’t move, barely breathing. My heart could literally be seen beating in my chest to the rhythm of the changing photographs on the big screen: from the remarkable scenes of fifty thousand miners sculpted in mud, digging with their hands in a huge pit, to the unbearable suffering of refugees in Tanzania, to the genocide in Rwanda.

There was a moment, two-thirds of the way through the movie, when I felt crushed, overwhelmed and shaken to the core, perhaps to the closest degree to what Sebastião Salgado himself felt after witnessing so much death, injustice, and human pain firsthand.

I was moved to tears by an astonishing image of a little boy standing alone in a vast desert in the Sahel, with his dog by his side, a small guitar in his hand, wearing the dirty remains of a shirt but no pants. His posture — full of determination — showed he knew where he was going. He hoped to join the group of people barely visible in the distance. I hoped for him to make it…

Sahel, Boy and Dog, 1884

Even though most of the images were heartbreakingly disturbing, they were uniquely beautiful, with tones, shadows, and compositions, easily reached the viewer on a purely aesthetic level. The combination of vulnerability and power made the subject of every photo feel alive, familiar, and close to me, awakening the best of my own self.

I left the movie theater wishing for every individual to experience those images as I did. The power of Salgado’s photography is undeniable. It is not just a collection of documentary monochrome photographs that seem mystical, yet utterly real. It is a precious lesson in contemporary history, photography, ecology, and most importantly — humanity. A needle carefully inserted into our conscience, reminding us of the profound truth that we, as humans, are the spice that can make Earth either a worse or a better place to live. We can enhance or destroy the land we inhabit.

Salgado himself hopes his images can be used to provoke debate, so that we, together, can discuss problems, come up with solutions, and perhaps even bring about social change:

“What I want is the world to remember the problems and the people I photograph. What I want is to create a discussion about what is happening around the world and to provoke some debate with these pictures. Nothing more than this. I don’t want people to look at them and appreciate the light and the palette of tones. I want them to look inside and see what the pictures represent, and the kind of people I photograph.”

Today, we still live in a polarized reality. There are human crises around the world, forcing people to leave their destroyed homes and live in refugee camps. Most of our human activities continue to be tremendously destructive to nature. We need Salgado more than ever. If we have failed to learn the lessons of history, perhaps through photography we can learn how to avoid making the same missteps again.

                                                                                                                                                 

                                                                                                                             School of Media Studies and Information Technology - Humber College, 2016

                                                                                                                                                 

"No photo, on its own, can change poverty in the world. Nevertheless, combined with text, films and all the efforts of humanitarian and environmental organizations, my images are part of a wider movement denouncing violence, exclusion and ecological issues.

These means of information contribute to raising awareness in those who see them, of the ability of all of us to change the destiny of humanity."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Sebastião Salgado

Photo: Portrait of Sebastião Selgado by Renato Amoroso

Read more »

When one season gently gives way to the next and the shift becomes more palpable than ever, we joyfully realize that Easter is approaching. This year, as all of Christianity unites in celebrating on the same date, we collectively prepare for one of the most beautiful and uplifting holidays — a time to reflect on the profound symbols of spring: renewal, hope, and peace.

Deeply rooted traditions and rituals mark this season, each carrying its own significance in celebrating rejuvenation, connection, and the promise of life after the dormancy of winter. But we can all agree that among them, the Easter eggs stand out as one of the most cherished. Dating back to pagan times, cultures worldwide have embraced and adapted the practice of decorating eggs — the source of life. 

We have all experimented with various ways of colouring them, but one method that has elevated the tradition to an art form is undoubtedly the Ukrainian pysanky.

Last week, I had the pleasure of witnessing this intricate art firsthand, thanks to a dear friend who introduced me to a remarkable Ukrainian-Canadian artist and writer. Stepping into Maria’s world was nothing short of inspiring. Her warm welcome, her passion for the craft and openness in sharing the meaning behind each carefully drawn line and colour choice made the experience truly special. With my camera in hand, I had the opportunity to capture her home studio, her exquisite egg collection, and the beauty of her work — preserving not only stunning visuals but also the essence of a tradition that speaks of resilience, hope, and the enduring power of culture.

Maria Zdaniw was born in Poland, just 10 kilometres from the Baltic Sea. After World War II, both her father’s and mother’s families were forcibly resettled from the post-war border regions of Ukraine to Poland’s recovered territories during Operation Vistula. Her parents were deeply involved in the Ukrainian community in their town, organizing concerts and the New Year celebration known as Malanka. At home, they spoke Ukrainian, but they were not allowed to use it outside. Determined to preserve her mother tongue, Maria taught herself how to read and write in Ukrainian language.  

“When I was a child,” she shared, “we weren’t allowed to celebrate our holidays. It was only later that I remember us gathering together. One vivid memory comes to mind—celebrating Christmas at my uncle’s house. The entire family would travel to the neighbouring village in the evening. All the windows were covered with blankets because everything had to be done in secret.”

Maria arrived in Canada in 1979, embracing a new beginning. She got married, built a family, and raised two children. One Easter, her son’s godfather gifted her a pysanka. Its interesting patterns and vibrant colours stirred something deep within her. Suddenly, memories of her mother crafting pysanky in the Lemko style for Easter flooded back, filling her heart with nostalgia and warmth. Maria felt an unbreakable connection to her roots and fell in love with the art of pysanky.

She began collecting them, and now possesses some truly magnificent designs that inspire her. When her children started attending Saturday school at St. Volodymyr Church, Maria learned how to create Pysanky herself. She has been writing them ever since. 

The name for Ukrainian Easter eggs comes from the Ukrainian verb pysaty, meaning “to write.” This reflects the fact that the designs are not painted but written onto the raw eggs. The artist, known as the “writer,” uses a wax-resist (batik) method, applying melted beeswax with a special tool, kistka. By layering different colours of dye, complex multicoloured patterns emerge. Once the design is complete, the wax is removed, revealing the colours preserved at each stage. The egg is then sealed with protective coats. Though it may seem simple, the process requires patience, precision, and skill.

Maria generously explained each step of her work, demonstrating the wax application and showcasing the variety of eggs she uses — from white and brown chicken eggs to green-tinted ones, ostrich eggs, turkey, goose and even rhea eggs. Her studio is filled with boxes and baskets of delicate empty eggs, shelves overflowing with dyes and books for pattern inspiration, and meticulously arranged pysanky, displayed as if in a museum.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the birds, flowers, leaves, trees, triangles, poppies, fruits, and serpentines — the quiet magic of the world that Maria wrote with her hands on her pysanky. And I couldn’t help but think how significant they are today, as the war in Ukraine, waged by Russia's unprovoked and brutal invasion continues into its third year this Easter season.

Maria is saddened and hopeful all at once — despite the pain, her faith remains unshaken. She found that, during the war, creating beauty in the face of utmost atrocity added another layer of meaning to her work. The symbolism of pysanky extends well beyond the celebration of Easter. These eggs are more than just decorated objects; they are a deeply symbolic and powerful form of folk art. They tell stories of resilience and national identity, standing in defiance of Russia’s long history of attempting to suppress Ukrainian cultural heritage.  

They are unity. 

They are prayer.

They are hope.

They are faith in victory.

At the end of our visit, Maria sent us off with our treasured Pysanky and a story passed down through generations — a tale of a monster, the embodiment of evil, held in chains deep within the Carpathian Mountains to prevent it from unleashing destruction upon the world. Ukrainians hold a heartfelt belief that the more Pysanky people create around the world, each adorned with ancient symbols and messages, the tighter the chains become around the monster, keeping the darkness at bay.

“You know who the real monster is today?” she asked rhetorically. “I will continue to write Pysanky. As long as we keep writing these eggs, good will triumph over evil. And my soul will be in peace.”

Now, more than ever, the need for support and solidarity with Ukraine is crucial. Let’s educate ourselves and others about the cultural significance of Pysanky and the ongoing challenges Ukraine faces.

To support Maria Zdaniw and the efforts of Ukrainian women fighting against injustice, one Pysanka at a time, you can reach out to her at

  mzdaniw@hotmail.ca 

She sells her pysanky at church bazaars and craft shows in Toronto and nearby western regions.

Disclaimer: Not all patterns show in the images are original designs by Maria. Some are part of her personal Pysanky collection, others are inspired by various Ukrainian artists, and many are her own creations. 

• March 15, 2025
• spring

The Art of Pysanky

When one season gently gives way to the next and the shift becomes more palpable than ever, we joyfully realize that Easter is approaching. This year, as all of Christianity unites in celebrating on the same date, we collectively prepare for one of the most beautiful and uplifting holidays — a time to reflect on the profound symbols of spring: renewal, hope, and peace.

Deeply rooted traditions and rituals mark this season, each carrying its own significance in celebrating rejuvenation, connection, and the promise of life after the dormancy of winter. But we can all agree that among them, the Easter eggs stand out as one of the most cherished. Dating back to pagan times, cultures worldwide have embraced and adapted the practice of decorating eggs — the source of life. 

We have all experimented with various ways of colouring them, but one method that has elevated the tradition to an art form is undoubtedly the Ukrainian pysanky.

Last week, I had the pleasure of witnessing this intricate art firsthand, thanks to a dear friend who introduced me to a remarkable Ukrainian-Canadian artist and writer. Stepping into Maria’s world was nothing short of inspiring. Her warm welcome, her passion for the craft and openness in sharing the meaning behind each carefully drawn line and colour choice made the experience truly special. With my camera in hand, I had the opportunity to capture her home studio, her exquisite egg collection, and the beauty of her work — preserving not only stunning visuals but also the essence of a tradition that speaks of resilience, hope, and the enduring power of culture.

Maria Zdaniw was born in Poland, just 10 kilometres from the Baltic Sea. After World War II, both her father’s and mother’s families were forcibly resettled from the post-war border regions of Ukraine to Poland’s recovered territories during Operation Vistula. Her parents were deeply involved in the Ukrainian community in their town, organizing concerts and the New Year celebration known as Malanka. At home, they spoke Ukrainian, but they were not allowed to use it outside. Determined to preserve her mother tongue, Maria taught herself how to read and write in Ukrainian language.  

“When I was a child,” she shared, “we weren’t allowed to celebrate our holidays. It was only later that I remember us gathering together. One vivid memory comes to mind—celebrating Christmas at my uncle’s house. The entire family would travel to the neighbouring village in the evening. All the windows were covered with blankets because everything had to be done in secret.”

Maria arrived in Canada in 1979, embracing a new beginning. She got married, built a family, and raised two children. One Easter, her son’s godfather gifted her a pysanka. Its interesting patterns and vibrant colours stirred something deep within her. Suddenly, memories of her mother crafting pysanky in the Lemko style for Easter flooded back, filling her heart with nostalgia and warmth. Maria felt an unbreakable connection to her roots and fell in love with the art of pysanky.

She began collecting them, and now possesses some truly magnificent designs that inspire her. When her children started attending Saturday school at St. Volodymyr Church, Maria learned how to create Pysanky herself. She has been writing them ever since. 

The name for Ukrainian Easter eggs comes from the Ukrainian verb pysaty, meaning “to write.” This reflects the fact that the designs are not painted but written onto the raw eggs. The artist, known as the “writer,” uses a wax-resist (batik) method, applying melted beeswax with a special tool, kistka. By layering different colours of dye, complex multicoloured patterns emerge. Once the design is complete, the wax is removed, revealing the colours preserved at each stage. The egg is then sealed with protective coats. Though it may seem simple, the process requires patience, precision, and skill.

Maria generously explained each step of her work, demonstrating the wax application and showcasing the variety of eggs she uses — from white and brown chicken eggs to green-tinted ones, ostrich eggs, turkey, goose and even rhea eggs. Her studio is filled with boxes and baskets of delicate empty eggs, shelves overflowing with dyes and books for pattern inspiration, and meticulously arranged pysanky, displayed as if in a museum.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the birds, flowers, leaves, trees, triangles, poppies, fruits, and serpentines — the quiet magic of the world that Maria wrote with her hands on her pysanky. And I couldn’t help but think how significant they are today, as the war in Ukraine, waged by Russia's unprovoked and brutal invasion continues into its third year this Easter season.

Maria is saddened and hopeful all at once — despite the pain, her faith remains unshaken. She found that, during the war, creating beauty in the face of utmost atrocity added another layer of meaning to her work. The symbolism of pysanky extends well beyond the celebration of Easter. These eggs are more than just decorated objects; they are a deeply symbolic and powerful form of folk art. They tell stories of resilience and national identity, standing in defiance of Russia’s long history of attempting to suppress Ukrainian cultural heritage.  

They are unity. 

They are prayer.

They are hope.

They are faith in victory.

At the end of our visit, Maria sent us off with our treasured Pysanky and a story passed down through generations — a tale of a monster, the embodiment of evil, held in chains deep within the Carpathian Mountains to prevent it from unleashing destruction upon the world. Ukrainians hold a heartfelt belief that the more Pysanky people create around the world, each adorned with ancient symbols and messages, the tighter the chains become around the monster, keeping the darkness at bay.

“You know who the real monster is today?” she asked rhetorically. “I will continue to write Pysanky. As long as we keep writing these eggs, good will triumph over evil. And my soul will be in peace.”

Now, more than ever, the need for support and solidarity with Ukraine is crucial. Let’s educate ourselves and others about the cultural significance of Pysanky and the ongoing challenges Ukraine faces.

To support Maria Zdaniw and the efforts of Ukrainian women fighting against injustice, one Pysanka at a time, you can reach out to her at

  mzdaniw@hotmail.ca 

She sells her pysanky at church bazaars and craft shows in Toronto and nearby western regions.

Disclaimer: Not all patterns show in the images are original designs by Maria. Some are part of her personal Pysanky collection, others are inspired by various Ukrainian artists, and many are her own creations. 

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