Where is the grass greener? That question runs through everything I make. I’m an immigrant, a woman, and an artist navigating the space between belonging and displacement. I moved from Lithuania to Ireland when I was young, and ever since, I’ve been told I’m Irish now—whether I agree or not. It’s a strange kind of acceptance, one that often erases as much as it welcomes. I’ve spent years trying to hold onto where I come from while being pushed to become something else. My work is a reflection of my life; the traumas, the shifts in identity, and the quiet moments that have shaped me. I don’t make work to be immediately understood. I build in layers—visually and conceptually—allowing things to slowly unfold. What’s on the surface is never the full story. There’s a tension in my practice between what is seen and what is kept hidden. I use material, pattern, and fragments to suggest that more is always waiting beneath. I want the viewer to take time, to look again, and to notice the contradictions and complexities I live with. My work often balances humour, nostalgia, and mythology. I embrace the mess, the emotion, and the uncertainty that come with exploring who I am. I don’t pretend to have clear answers. But through making, I try to find a place for all parts of myself. And still, I wonder: is the grass really greener, or are we just trying harder to make it look that way?
