Art is a language spoken by hearts, and for Yana Belyayeva, it has become the only possible way of an honest dialogue with the world. A self-taught artist whose path is built not on academic dogmas, but on intuition and a deep living of every moment, today she confidently represents Kazakhstan in the international art community as a member of the Global Talent Confederation. In this interview, Yana opens the door to her workshop of meanings. We talked about how to turn confusion into harmony, why the culture of Kazakhstan is primarily a "state of scale," and how to preserve the "living breath" of a painting while transferring it into a digital format. This is a conversation about finding inner support, about the courage to be vulnerable, and about why, in modern chaos, the ability to take a pause in time becomes a true act of creativity.
Yana, you consciously chose the path of a self-taught artist, believing that the main thing in art is sincerity and feeling. How does this approach, based on intuition and personal experience, help you develop your skills and master new techniques without a formal education?
The conscious choice of the path of a self-taught artist for me is a choice of being honest with myself. Intuition and personal experience become not a substitute for knowledge, but its source. I observe a lot, analyze my own sensations, and watch how the material, color, and texture react. This path teaches responsibility: if something doesn’t work out, you can’t refer to a school or a method—you look for a solution within yourself. This is how your own language and confidence in it are gradually formed.
You have been a member of the Global Talent Confederation for more than a year. What changes have occurred in your creative approach and development during this period?
Participation in the Global Talent Confederation gave me a sense of inclusion in the international context. During this period, I became bolder in my statements, began to formulate the concepts of my works more accurately, and became more attentive to the presentation and dialogue with the audience. In terms of my career, more structure has appeared: an understanding of where I am going, which projects truly resonate with me, and which do not.
Which of the exhibitions or international projects you participated in over the past year had the greatest impact?
The projects where there was live communication with artists from other countries had the greatest impact. It is there that a sense of like-mindedness is born—not by style, but by the depth of the search. Such projects are valuable not for their scale, but for the quality of the dialogue: when you are understood without translation or explanation.
You note that the contemporary art of Kazakhstan is a synthesis of traditions and innovation. How do you strive to combine your personal perception with elements of the rich culture of Kazakhstan in your works?
For me, the culture of Kazakhstan is not an ornament as a decorative element, but a state: scale, silence, inner dignity, a connection with the land. I try to combine my personal perception with these archetypes through color, texture, and a sense of space. These are not direct quotes, but rather an internal dialogue with the place where I live and which formed me.
You speak of the culture of Kazakhstan as a "state of scale and silence." If you had to work on a project in a completely different landscape—for example, in a metropolis like New York—would these archetypes remain the basis of your creativity?
Kazakhstan for me is not just geography. It is a way of hearing space. Scale and silence live inside, so they stay with me in any city. In a metropolis, I would not argue with the noise—I would look for pauses in it. It is more interesting for me not to adapt to the environment, but to find cracks of silence in it. Archetypes do not disappear—they transform, become denser, sharper. They are complemented by the noise of the city and evolve into modern rhythms.
You mentioned that your future digital project will become a "continuation of the painting's breath." How do you manage to transfer the living, almost tangible texture and "inner dignity" of materials inherent in your physical works into a digital format?
For me, digital is not the opposite of living. It is just a different breath. I don’t want to imitate the texture of a canvas or the weight of a material—I want to transfer a state. The silence between the layers. The tension of the pause. The inner dignity of the form. The digital format will become a continuation of the gesture—not a copy. What matters there is not pixels, but rhythm. If it is possible to maintain a sense of presence, it means “the painting breathes” even in the space of the screen.
You previously mentioned that communicating with buyers and collectors fills you with ideas. What is the most memorable feedback or reaction to your work you have received that truly influenced your future creativity?
The most memorable feedback was from a collector who said: “I cannot explain what exactly is in this work, but I felt calmer when it appeared in the house.” This response influenced me greatly—I realized that art does not have to be rationally understandable; its value is often precisely in its quiet, almost imperceptible impact.
Themes of vulnerability and personal boundaries require great courage from an artist. Where is the line for you between artistic revelation and excessive publicity of experiences?
The line is where meaning disappears. If a revelation becomes a demonstration of pain—it is no longer art, but exposure for the sake of attention. I work only with what has been lived and comprehended. Where the personal stops being only mine and begins to sound universally. If the viewer recognizes themselves—it means I managed to show the essence. If they see only the creator’s wound—it means I have crossed the line.
Your creative method is based on "rhythm and pause." Do you transfer this philosophy into your daily life? Does the ability to "hold a pause" help you maintain that "honesty with yourself"?
Yes. Rhythm and pause are not just a method; they are a way of being. The ability to stop today is more important than the ability to accelerate. A pause returns you to the body, to breath, to honesty. In a world of constant noise, it becomes a form of resistance. And it is in these stops that I hear myself again. Without them, it is impossible to maintain an inner foundation—neither in art nor in life.
Your creativity is a reflection of an emotional state. Do you have an artistic or compositional technique that helps you translate complex inner states, such as "confusion or harmony," into a visually understandable form?
Most often, I work with rhythm and pause. In a state of confusion, a broken composition, a shifted center, and tense color contrasts appear in the works. Harmony, on the contrary, manifests in repetition, the breath of form, and soft transitions. I do not strive to literally illustrate an emotion—it is important for me to create a space in which the viewer can recognize their own state.
You see your development in experimenting with combining painting and digital technologies. How do you envision your first major project, which should become a synthesis of traditional art and digital elements?
I see my first major digital project as a multilayered space where a physical painting becomes the basis, and digital elements—the continuation of the painting’s breath: sound, movement, light. This is not about being flashy, but about deepening the experience, when the viewer can literally “enter” the state of the work.
In addition to working on new techniques, what themes related to the inner world of a person do you plan to explore in your future large-scale projects?
In future projects, I am especially interested in themes of vulnerability, personal boundaries, loneliness, and, at the same time, the connection between humans and the environment. How the outer world is reflected in the inner, and vice versa. These states are very resonant with the time we live in now.
What ambitious career goals do you set for yourself for the coming years? Do you have a dream of a solo exhibition in a specific country or a collaboration you would like to realize?
In the coming years, I set a goal for myself to expand my international presence and realize a solo exhibition outside of Kazakhstan. I am also interested in interdisciplinary collaborations—with architects, musicians, digital artists. My dream is to create a project that will become not just an exhibition, but an experience.
When you encounter creative blocks, what is the most important piece of advice, based on your personal experience, that you would give to aspiring artists to maintain inspiration and keep moving forward?
The main advice for beginning artists is to allow yourselves to be alive and not to demand a constant result from yourselves. Inspiration is not a resource that needs to be squeezed out, but a state that comes when you treat yourself with care. Sometimes a step forward is a pause, silence, and taking care of your own inner space.
