In a world filled with constant noise, art has the quiet power to restore the soul, serving as a sanctuary of light, healing, and presence. For UK -based artist Dina Edita Klumbys, painting is a deeply personal bridge to that inner peace. Blending contemporary abstract forms with deeply expressive animal portraiture, Dina’s work explores themes of emotional resilience, mindfulness, and human connection. In this exclusive conversation, she shares her thoughts on finding creative freedom, transforming personal history into visual harmony, and staying true to one's authentic voice in a fast-paced digital era.
From meditation to the first brushstroke — how does inner stillness transform into physical action the moment you pick up a brush? What happens in your studio at the exact moment clarity turns into color?
For me, meditation and painting come from the same place. Meditation taught me how to become quiet enough to hear myself, and when I enter the studio, I try to bring that silence with me. I don’t always begin with a clear image in my mind; sometimes I simply stand in front of the canvas and wait. There is a moment when thinking stops and feeling takes over. Then I choose a color almost instinctively and make the first mark. That first brushstroke is very important because it breaks the silence of the empty canvas. After that, one movement leads to another. I don’t try to control everything—I allow the painting to tell me where it wants to go. Clarity doesn’t really turn into color through thought; it happens through feeling. My hand becomes the bridge between my inner world and the canvas.
When you switch between creating intuitive abstraction and a detailed animal portrait, does your physical work routine change? Do these styles require different energies or environments?
Yes, they require very different energies from me. When I paint intuitively, I am looking inward. My movements are freer, and I often work with my whole body rather than only my hand—perhaps stemming from my background in dance. I feel rhythm, movement, and balance very strongly, so the painting can become almost like a dance between myself and the canvas. Animal portraiture requires another kind of stillness. I slow down and observe carefully: tiny changes in expression, the direction of the fur, the shape around the eyes, and the character of the animal. Music is important to me, but it has to match my emotional state. Sometimes romantic music that you can move to fits best, but other times silence is the most beautiful music in the studio. My breathing changes too—with intuitive painting it becomes expansive and energetic, whereas with detailed portraiture it grows slower and more concentrated.
You often write that animals' eyes "hold entire worlds." Which detail in an animal portrait is the most challenging to capture to convey their inner life?
The eyes are always the most important part for me. You can paint the anatomy perfectly and still not capture the animal. The technical details—the reflections, highlights, pupils, and colors—matter, but something deeper has to appear: presence. There is a particular moment when an eye stops looking like paint and suddenly feels as though somebody is looking back at you. That is the moment I am waiting for. Animals cannot explain themselves to us with words, yet their eyes can communicate trust, fear, curiosity, dignity, gentleness, and extraordinary wisdom. My challenge is not simply to reproduce what the eye looks like, but to respect what I feel behind it.
Your signature piece, "Strength," capturing your horse, became a symbol of your rebirth. How would you convey its energy through tangible sensations?
If someone could not see Strength, I would first ask them to imagine the physical presence of a horse—the warmth of its body, the softness of its coat, the strength of the muscles underneath, and the sound of its breath. For me, the painting contains both power and vulnerability. It is not aggressive strength; it is the strength to stand again after life has brought you down. It is grounded, warm, and alive. That is why Strength became much more than a portrait of my horse. When I look at it, I see part of my own journey: the woman I was, what I went through, and the person who slowly emerged from that experience. If I had to describe its sensation in one sentence, I would say: it feels like putting your hand against the warm body of a horse and remembering that you are alive.
You recently introduced line painting into your work. Do these lines symbolize new boundaries that you have learned to set during your healing process?
A line can create a boundary without becoming a wall. It can define a space while still allowing air and freedom around it, which is very meaningful to me. But my lines also represent journeys. They bend, meet, separate, cross, and sometimes return to one another. My newest line paintings became especially personal when my first love returned to my life after 37 years. We shared our first kiss and embrace when we were young, and suddenly, decades later, our paths crossed again. Perhaps that is why my lines became so important—they remind me that a path does not always have to be straight to arrive where it belongs.
Following this reunion, gold began appearing prominently in your work. Is this metallic element a symbol of gratitude?
Reuniting with my first love after 37 years was something I could never have imagined. Life can take us in completely different directions, and then suddenly bring us back together again. Around that time, gold began appearing in my paintings naturally. For me, gold represents something precious, something that survives time. It can also represent light, hope, gratitude, and the beauty we sometimes discover after going through many different chapters of life. So those gold lines are my way of expressing gratitude. They remind me that some connections remain inside us, even after many years have passed, and that life gives us unexpected gifts when we least expect them.
Your decision to replace traditional painting titles with "affirmations" is a powerful step. How do these affirmations interact with the audience?
An affirmation may begin with something very personal to me, but once the painting leaves my studio, it begins another life. Someone can stand in front of it and discover a meaning I never consciously intended. I don’t want to tell people exactly what they must feel; the affirmation is an invitation. Sometimes a person will tell me what they see in one of my paintings, and I think, I never saw it that way. But their interpretation isn’t wrong—their own experiences have entered into a conversation with mine. A title names something, whereas an affirmation can continue working inside you.
You are expanding into wearable art, such as silk scarves and dresses featuring your prints. What is it like to see your art move outside traditional frames?
For me, this is a very exciting new direction. When I paint, every painting carries a part of me—my emotions, memories, experiences, and the way I see the world. Usually, a painting stays on a wall, but wearable art gives it a completely different life.
The idea that someone could wear one of my paintings as a silk scarf or a dress is very special to me. The artwork begins to move with the person, becoming part of their personality and their own story. Art doesn’t have to belong only in galleries or inside a frame; it can become part of our everyday lives. Perhaps someone wearing one of my designs will feel beautiful, confident, or simply happy—and for me, that would be wonderful.
Your daughters have witnessed your transformation from the very beginning. How do they influence your creative life?
My daughters are an essential part of my story because my eldest daughter suggested that I paint my feelings on canvas during a period when my health was very poor. Such a simple suggestion changed my life. They knew me before I considered myself an artist: they saw the difficult period, the first paintings, the uncertainty, and then the exhibitions, awards, and publications. They certainly have opinions! I value their reactions because they know both the artist and the woman behind the work. But ultimately, I have learned to trust my own intuition, which has been one of the most important parts of my transformation.
You have been part of the Global Talent Confederation for over a year. How has your vision evolved during this time?
When I compare my work from a year ago with what I am creating now, the biggest change is confidence. Previously, I was exploring many directions—abstraction, nature, flowers, animal portraiture, and figurative work. All of those stages taught me something. Now, my visual language is becoming clearer. The flowing lines, female forms, elements of nature, and gold are creating a recognizable language. My artistic vision has also expanded—I no longer think only about creating a painting to hang on a wall, but where else art can live. Being part of an international creative community has encouraged me to think bigger while protecting what makes my work personal.
What thoughts and emotions did you bring back from the Confederation Members Summit in London on June 26, 2026?
The Summit carried a special emotional meaning for me because London was my home for nearly 30 years. Being surrounded by creative people from different backgrounds reminded me how universal art can be. We may speak different languages and have completely different life stories, yet creativity gives us a way to recognize something in one another. I found myself thinking about my own journey—working in hospitality, then in a primary school, experiencing the health crisis, discovering painting, and eventually finding myself in an international artistic environment. I came away feeling that we should not be afraid when life changes direction; sometimes what feels like an ending is actually the beginning of an identity we haven’t met yet.
How do you protect your slow, meditative art from the pressure of social media algorithms while staying true to your authenticity?
Social media constantly tells us to produce more: post more, show more, be visible, be quick. But creativity doesn’t always work at that speed. I spent too many years learning how to listen to myself to give that away to an algorithm. Meditation taught me that silence is not emptiness—sometimes nothing appears to be happening on the outside while something very important is developing inside. My advice to artists is: don’t allow the speed of social media to determine the speed of your creativity. Art needs time to experiment, make mistakes, or sit quietly with an idea. “The algorithm can ask me to hurry. The canvas never does.” When I stand in front of my canvas, there is no competition and no deadline for attention. Social media is a tool to share art, but it is not where art is born. My art is born in silence, emotion, experience, love, and the courage to listen to myself.
Through her profound reflections and intuitive approach to creation, Dina Edita Klumbys reminds us that art is far more than aesthetic expression—it is a living dialogue of resilience, grace, and authentic human connection. Her story demonstrates how personal vulnerabilities, when embraced with patience and mindfulness, can transform into an extraordinary source of inner strength and universal light. In an era that constantly demands speed and visibility, Dina's journey stands as a powerful testament to the value of slowing down and honoring one's true rhythm. By giving space to silence and allowing emotion to guide her brush, she offers the world not just paintings, but a gentle, enduring invitation to pause, breathe, and reawaken to the quiet beauty within ourselves. As her artistic voice continues to expand across galleries, wearable designs, and global stages, her message remains timeless: true creation begins when we have the courage to listen to the stillness within.