The Artistic Philosophy & Origins of Masha Luch: An Autobiographical Essay

My name is Masha Luch. I am a contemporary interdisciplinary artist. In my practice, I explore different forms of communication, the theme of memory, the perception of time and space, and the search for one’s place within that space. A central aspect of my work is the aesthetic of absence: situations in which removal, exclusion, or reduction allows attention to focus on a thought or a sensation.

I am drawn to ciphers and riddles, to motifs of observation and quiet looking, to behavioral patterns and their repetition. If there is a possibility to create an artistic statement by removing something rather than adding to it, this is the direction I choose.

Also, I do not limit myself to a single medium and try to remain open to different formats, as in my practice they come together as a unified language of artistic expression. Textile art, sculpture, video, graphics, and self-publishing coexist in my work, and despite their different technical approaches, I do not perceive a fundamental divide between them. Each idea arrives already shaped by its own form and emphasis. I do not choose the medium for a project; it dictates itself.

Over time, as I have gained distance and the ability to look back, it has become increasingly clear to me that this approach did not emerge suddenly. It developed gradually, beginning in early childhood, shaped by my environment and by the events unfolding around me.

I was born and raised in Russia, and my childhood took place in the 1990s, a period often referred to as the Crazy Nineties (or Wild Nineties). The aftershocks of the collapse of the Soviet Union made this a difficult time both economically and emotionally. People lost stability and, with it, the sense of a future they had once believed in. Society and the state were undergoing profound transformation, and although I was very young, this context inevitably influenced me.

My family, like most families at the time, lived in conditions of constant and total scarcity: food, clothing, and even a basic sense of safety were often lacking. We were surviving in the most literal sense, and this ongoing shortage of resources gave rise to what could be called forced creativity. If you wanted something, you had to invent a way to make it yourself. This became part of everyday life: sewing, repairing, building, finding solutions with minimal means. From an early age, this experience taught me how to work with limitations and how to achieve the strongest possible result under conditions of scarcity, both technically and on a deeper, conceptual level.

The anxious and unstable routine of those years was softened, for my brother and me, largely thanks to our mother. Again and again, she found ways to provide us with what we needed so that we would not feel the lack quite so sharply. She also introduced me to visual art. In her free time, she drew, doing so with genuine dedication and talent. From a very early age, I knew quite clearly that I wanted to be an artist.

However, within that unstable reality, this desire was not perceived as something acceptable or realistic. In my environment, there was a persistent belief that being an artist was not a profession, but rather a state of mind, something to be kept “for oneself.”

Under these circumstances, my aspiration toward art had to take on a more applied form, otherwise it would not have been possible to pursue it at all. This is how my path led me to the profession of fashion designer. After receiving a classical art education and graduating from an art school, I entered a university in Saint Petersburg to study in this field.

My years of study became an important stage of formation, but they did not bring a full sense of alignment with myself. It was, rather, a compromise. While creating clothing collections, I increasingly encountered the fact that my work was perceived more as artistic statements or art objects than as commercial solutions within fashion design. I was drawn to minimalism, unconventional technical approaches, and innovative construction, and at the same time, my fashion projects addressed themes that were atypical or even inappropriate for the industry. Gradually, it became clear that even within an applied profession, I was moving toward a different, more conceptual territory.

Despite the growing inner conflict, I genuinely enjoyed studying. Ambition and a strong drive to achieve produced tangible results. I received awards at fashion competitions, which were followed by offers of professional internships, including opportunities outside of Russia. Even before completing my degree, I was invited to take on the role of lead designer at a clothing brand. On the surface, everything seemed to be unfolding perfectly, yet the feeling that I was not in my place did not disappear.

As a result, I continued searching for my own trajectory, working with various brands and engaging in illustration, animation, and visual language across different formats. For several years, I remained in constant motion, changing directions roughly every two years. Each time, I adapted quickly to a new field and reached a certain level of commercial success. However, even when I arrived at a point that provided financial satisfaction, I did not experience a sense of inner coherence. The expectation that this would begin to feel like personal fulfillment never materialized, and I would start again from zero. This period became part of an internal search that only years later led me to recognize my artistic identity.

This cycle was interrupted by a personal crisis, when I finally allowed myself to stop and to admit honestly that I wanted to do what I had dreamed of since childhood, even if it would not bring commercial success. This decision did not immediately mark the beginning of a new chapter, but the simple act of giving myself permission to be honest brought a sense of inner calm and clarity.

After making this choice, I went through a period of wanting to renounce my previous experience and education. It seemed to me that deep institutional knowledge within the fashion system could become a limitation and impose a narrowed perspective. I decided to start from a clean slate and completed training in a workshop focused on research-based practices in contemporary art. However, once I began working in this field, I quickly understood that my prior experience could not be excluded. Knowledge connected to textiles, to the feel of material and an understanding of how it behaves, proved to be deeply embedded in the way I think. Today, I accept that textiles and working with them remain part of my authorial code and return regularly in my practice.

Over time, I began to realize that my inclination toward minimal gestures, concealment, understatement, and ambivalence is not an aesthetic choice, nor even a choice at all. Rather, it is an imprint of early experience, in which my right to be an artist felt uncertain and not fully permitted. In my work, a state of duality often emerges: a statement seems to exist and yet remains elusive; presence appears evident and at the same time almost disappears. This language has become my way of speaking through reduction, pauses, and minimal forms.

In this way, I seem to legitimize my own right to speak, allowing a statement to exist in a liminal, ambiguous state. This is not a strategy and not a mask, but a way of being an artist that formed within me over time and proved to be the only possible one.

Today, my artistic philosophy is built around the idea of presence without imposition. I consciously work through exclusion, pauses, and minimal gestures, creating space for the viewer. For me, minimalism is not a style, but a way of thinking and a lens through which I perceive the world. I do not seek immediate understanding, nor do I propose a single, definitive interpretation. I am drawn to creating art as a form of quiet dialogue, in which meaning emerges not from assertion, but from attentive observation and the viewer’s personal experience of engagement.

https://mashaluch.com