Nicole: You grew up in Riga, Latvia, a place with deep-rooted folk traditions. How has this shaped your artistic vision, and what aspects of your homeland still resonate in your work today?

GAÏA: Latvia holds a unique place in my personal history. It’s a land where folk traditions, nature, and the changing seasons are deeply honored, and these forces shape who you are, even without you realizing it. Midsummer is the pinnacle of the year—it’s when nature and ancient pagan rituals intertwine, connecting us to something larger. This has seeped into my work unconsciously, but now I see it clearly. My art reflects this deep connection with nature and the rhythms of the earth, but it also carries the influence of those ancestral practices that speak to identity and transformation.

You've mentioned that you absorbed a lot from the artistic environment of your childhood, especially through your relationship with the work of Latvian painter Rudolfs Pinnis. Could you tell us more about how that immersion influenced your path as an artist?

Rudolfs was like a great-grandfather to me, although I was too young to truly know him when he was alive. It wasn’t until after he passed that I fully stepped into his world. I moved into his old bedroom and studio, where his presence still lingered—through his paintings, the scent of oil paints, and the books and art posters that filled the space. Living there, I absorbed not just the visual art but the intellectual and bohemian atmosphere he had created. He spent time in Paris in the 1920s, carving out his style and living that dream artists chase. It wasn’t so much about copying his artistic language but about soaking in the grandeur of his vision and the creative spirit that surrounded him.

Textile has become your primary medium, especially raw linen shaped with shellac, forming what you call "contemporary mummies." What drew you to this medium, and how did this concept of "contemporary mummies" evolve?

My relationship with textile began through touch. There’s something primal about working with linen—it’s a natural material that responds to the hand. It allows me to shape and mold it intuitively. The fabric itself carries a rawness, and when I add color, it’s as if I’m layering light and shadow, bringing dimension to the piece. The term "contemporary mummies" came from the visual similarity to Egyptian mummies, but it also speaks to the concept of transformation. It’s about the tension between revealing and concealing, covering something while still exposing its essence. There’s a space for contemplation in that act—where the material becomes both a shield and a mirror for deeper reflection.

You’ve described your workspace as more than just a studio—almost like a "chamber of wonders." How do you view the relationship between the objects in your studio and the narrative that runs through your work?

My studio is a sacred space. It’s not just where I create; it’s where I live within my work. Every object, every arrangement holds power and meaning. I see my art as part of a larger narrative, where everything—the atmosphere, the objects, the energy of the space—contributes to the whole. It’s like stepping into a living story. While I don’t see myself as part of the work in a performative sense, I do become part of the process. I breathe life into the space, and a bit of my energy flows into each piece. The idea of a Gesamtkunstwerk resonates with me—the concept that all elements are interconnected and together create something greater than the sum of their parts.

PHOTO NURIEL MOLCHO