Marina is a mixed media artist whose practice unfolds through observation rather than control. She approaches creation as a form of quiet witnessing — observing how forms, colors, and movements emerge, as if on a stage, while remaining fully present within the process. With a background in graphic design, she naturally gravitated toward working with physical materials, where she could give a more tangible life to her ideas.
Working across different materials and scales allows her to remain in a state of exploration, continuously developing and expressing what arises in the moment. Her works reflect states of mind and feeling rather than fixed meanings. Marina’s art becomes an extension of her personal experience — shaped through her interaction with the world around her.
Marina Yakimova
My visual language follows an intuitive direction —
often abstract, at times graphic — guided by an inner
sense rather than predefined structure.
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Whether you’re interested in an artwork, a collaboration, an exhibition, or simply have a question, I’d love to hear from you.
Why did you choose abstraction as your primary form
of artistic expression?
of artistic expression?
I chose abstraction because when I express my visions in this way, it awakens the same curiosity in me that I hope it awakens in others. I find myself looking at a work and wondering: What is it? What could it be? What do I feel when I look at it?
Realism, for me, carries less mystery. It is a translation of something that already exists in front of us. We experience reality every day, alive and complete in itself. Reproducing it as a secondary interpretation has never attracted me as much.
Abstraction, on the other hand, is a place where feeling can take any form. It exists without predefined boundaries, labels, or expectations. It is like the difference between dreaming and waking life. In dreams, anything is possible—you can become anyone, experience anything. I feel creativity works in a similar way.
Realism, for me, carries less mystery. It is a translation of something that already exists in front of us. We experience reality every day, alive and complete in itself. Reproducing it as a secondary interpretation has never attracted me as much.
Abstraction, on the other hand, is a place where feeling can take any form. It exists without predefined boundaries, labels, or expectations. It is like the difference between dreaming and waking life. In dreams, anything is possible—you can become anyone, experience anything. I feel creativity works in a similar way.
Do you ever feel that a work knows more about you than you know yourself?
Absolutely. I would even say that many of my works become, in some way, predictions of my future—future events, realizations, emotions, or experiences.
What comes through me during the creative process often emerges from the subconscious, almost like a vision. First it appears as an image or feeling, then it takes shape in the physical world through the artwork. Only later do life experiences unfold, and when I look back at what I created before those experiences happened, I often discover remarkable similarities and connections.
It feels as though the work understood something before I consciously did.
What comes through me during the creative process often emerges from the subconscious, almost like a vision. First it appears as an image or feeling, then it takes shape in the physical world through the artwork. Only later do life experiences unfold, and when I look back at what I created before those experiences happened, I often discover remarkable similarities and connections.
It feels as though the work understood something before I consciously did.
If your paintings had a scent, what would it be?
Depends on the artwork. Mostly soft and comforting.
Probably the scent of a warm cup of hot cocoa.
Probably the scent of a warm cup of hot cocoa.
How do you know when a work is finished: when it becomes beautiful, precise, or when it stops letting you go?
A work is finished when my emotional relationship with it comes to an end.
There is a moment when I become detached from it. I stop thinking about changing it, adding something, or revisiting it. Ideas about the work no longer follow me through the day.
At that point, I let it go.
Whether I consider it beautiful or not, whether I like it or dislike it, becomes irrelevant. If there is nothing more I feel compelled to do with it, then the work is complete.
There is a moment when I become detached from it. I stop thinking about changing it, adding something, or revisiting it. Ideas about the work no longer follow me through the day.
At that point, I let it go.
Whether I consider it beautiful or not, whether I like it or dislike it, becomes irrelevant. If there is nothing more I feel compelled to do with it, then the work is complete.
Imagine that no one would ever see your work again. Would you continue creating, or is the presence of a witness essential for you?
I won’t deny that having a witness is an important part of art.
Fortunately, at the very least, I myself am both the creator and the witness. My own experience of seeing the work already completes a part of that circle.
Of course I would continue creating. There were periods of my life when no one saw my work, and I still created with the same necessity and devotion.
A witness is a continuation of the creative act, but not its original cause.
Fortunately, at the very least, I myself am both the creator and the witness. My own experience of seeing the work already completes a part of that circle.
Of course I would continue creating. There were periods of my life when no one saw my work, and I still created with the same necessity and devotion.
A witness is a continuation of the creative act, but not its original cause.