Experience is a vital component in any endeavor.

The matryoshka is an enduring symbol. Iconic, recognizable, yet stagnant. It's time to shift it from its dead center.
I'm not trying to "modernize" folk art. I'm taking a universally familiar structure and pushing it beyond the realm of a souvenir. This isn't a replica, but a contemporary object, clear in form, and fitting for modern human surroundings.
Stereotypes recede. The essence remains. A minimalist silhouette, revealing both archaic roots and something akin to a totem. The square base adds architectural quality, making the play of volumes more expressive. The transition from circle to square is not just a technique, but a sign.
The glossy varnish is gone. In its place are matte surfaces, the tactility of wood, and reliefs you want to explore with your fingers. Engraving replaces painting: a calm, animalistic pattern applied by laser or router.
Assembly is classic, but with variations. Through combinations of materials, the matryoshka ceases to be merely folkloric and becomes simply a good object.
This project is about contemporary Russia—neither official nor decorative. The one that knows how to speak subtly, yet precisely. Without kitsch, but with respect for its roots.

The samovar is an object that has long transcended mere kitchenware. In contemporary conditions, it's less about tea and more about circumstances.

• It's a ritual—unhurried, almost theatrical.
• It's memories—of country houses, aluminum spoons in faceted glasses, and the smell of smoke.
• It's a heritage—if you're lucky, your grandfather's still stands at home.
• It's an object—capable of occupying a worthy place in an interior, if given the chance.

The samovar's silhouette has remained almost unchanged for a hundred years. It reached us with the same pot-bellied body, topped with something akin to a helmet. In daily life, it's long since become unnecessary, and as a symbol, it's too decorative. Hence the result: gathering dust in a museum or on a mezzanine.
What to do about it? Not restore, but reconceptualize. The core remains—the vertical form, the central tube, the enveloping volume. But the external solution is different. Modern, clear, restrained.
An inspiring example comes from Asian practices. There, craftsmanship isn't preserved in amber but lives on: it's stripped of the superfluous, re-examined. We do the same. Simple forms, clear rhythm, minimalist materials.
The main motif is the hearth. It's not just about warmth, but what is built around it. The object as a focal point: for family, for friends, for those who are home this evening. The wide tray hints at a large gathering, and a gathering implies time spent with loved ones.
In terms of design, it's a charcoal samovar. Because an electric one is something else entirely. Here, not only the result matters, but also the process.

The task was to create a smart bedside table. Not just a visually striking piece for an interior, but an object packed with features: chargers, a humidifier, a projector—all customizable to the client's wishes.
Given the Middle Eastern context, I wanted the piece to fit the environment with respect for the location, climate, and culture. I opted against typical oriental ornaments, choosing instead two core associations:
First, the desert. Not just heat and sand, but also the oasis: water, freshness, shade. Salvation.
Second, the desert as another planet. An utterly alien landscape, juxtaposed with cities boasting more technology than our ministries. I aimed to capture this aesthetic—between sand and high-tech. The resulting forms are almost cosmic.
An oasis implies water. Inside the table, there's a built-in humidifier, a florarium, and a glass flask through which both vapor and plants are visible.
The flask illuminates. Light from below—shining through water and vapor—creates a diffused, living glow. As the vapor moves, condensation gathers on the walls and trickles down in drops—all contributing not just to an effect, but to an atmosphere.
In other variations (slides 3 and 4), the flask is larger, the light deeper, and the forms softer. There's a clear reference to sand dunes, shifting sand waves, and all the fluid geometry of the desert.
I succeeded in combining three elements into one object:

• Locality (oasis, sand, moisture);
• Futuristic aesthetics (light, vapor, fluid forms);
• Uncompromising functionality.

It's a hybrid of interior and climate. Technologically advanced, yet full of character.

Some lighting fixtures remain just appliances. Others become part of the space, almost a sculpture. I was interested in the latter: when design is more important than lumen output. I took the aesthetic of Soviet modernism as a base—not the one with slogans and symbols, but the one with form, geometry, and pragmatism. To this, I added the idea of "ruins"—not as destruction, but as a sense of time. Light emerges from cracks, reflects off internal facets, working with volume rather than just flooding everything. Stone inlays evoke artifacts of a bygone civilization, one that seems recent yet is already perceived as a myth.
In some instances, the form reads as a displaced geometric cube; in others, the glass reveals the texture of its "innards." Some models are more decorative, others closer to functionality, but the principle is universal: these are not background elements, but autonomous objects. All designs are established as 3D models, making them easily adaptable to any task. This approach allows not just for production, but for rapid re-launching. The result is an object that seems to be from the past, yet feels contemporary—familiar, but transformed.

In this work, furniture remains furniture—with a clear function and purpose. But an additional layer is embedded within each detail. The foundation is the aesthetic of Soviet constructivism, without direct quotes, yet with a recognizable restraint. The forms are simple, almost austere, with geometry that requires no explanation. Stone inlays are integrated locally—not as an effect for effect's sake, but as a hint of the archaic. As if the form is a remnant of something more ancient, and the interior has simply grown around it.
This isn't a literal recreation of the old, but a look at the recent past as an era already gone—on par with the Aztecs or Mayans. The table legs, silhouettes, proportions—everything can be perceived as an echo of a bygone culture. Yet, the objects are not overloaded; they don't turn into mere decoration. Here, stone functions as an accent, not a dominant feature. Everything is assembled in a unified style but with the flexibility to be broken down into collections. This approach offers both cohesion and adaptability. It's like creating an object for an interior, but with the feeling that it will endure, even if the interior disappears.

The goal was to expand the product range, not just increase it—making the product suitable for both a showroom and a private home hallway. The initial framework was: affordable, versatile, and easily scalable. It was crucial not to overcomplicate production while meeting the needs of architects and designers who require something for everyday use: not boring, yet understated, without pretension.
I proposed two scenarios: modular light fixtures that could be combined in various configurations, and monolithic ones—solid and simple. Modules offer flexibility and variety, but they require precise assembly. Monoliths are robust but less versatile. Both types are designed for low power: indicative, ambient lighting, where you don't need to flood an entire hall with light, but rather to subtly illuminate a path—for example, in a gallery, from reception to exit.

This project was conceived as an attempt to reignite interest in the factory—through crystal, but without resorting to retro. The goal was to create a series that clearly bears the Gusevsky Crystal Factory's signature, but instead of museum-like pathos, features contemporary design. Techniques characteristic of the Soviet school of hand-blowing were used, but reinterpreted to meet modern demands: production in Russia, working with non-ferrous metals, and full shadowless illumination. The light fixtures were intended to be sustainable collection elements, not art objects—with the flexibility to vary formats from pendant to table lamps.
I considered two approaches. The first was to use existing forms to conserve resources and accelerate launch. This would have provided a quick start but limited future development. The second was to develop new forms that retain the factory's character but avoid associations with a vase on a grandmother's sideboard. The latter represents a more long-term investment in the brand's unique visual language.