Portraits of Resilience

Stories of Ukraine’s Young Refugee Artists

Regina was 15 when Russian troops invaded her city in east Ukraine.  She and her mother survived amidst the flying bullets and bombs for a month and a half.  They saw everything – the destruction, the fear, the silence that followed each explosion – until their city was destroyed. They had to flee.

At 16, Regina moved to the Czech Republic, alone.  She is one of 110,000 Ukrainian youth who fled to this nearby country. They had to adapt quickly, learn a new language and culture, navigate bureaucracy, find shelter, and find a way to continue their education.  

On top of the constant stress of being a refugee, many of these youth face discrimination and ridicule.  They also wake up to news feeds filled with images of the latest Ukrainian destruction, and hope that their families and villages survived another night of missile and drone attacks.  Many relive their trauma every night during fitful sleep.  

For Regina, her main form of dealing with this stress is to dance.  “Dance helps me overcome the fear,” she says in her quiet voice.  Another dancer, Natalia, told us, “Through dance, I can express emotions that are too deep for words.”

"Ukrainians are very expressive,” says Oksana Dolga, a Ukrainian living in Prague for several years. “After leaving Ukraine due to the war, many youth felt lost and depressed without the arts.  But when they were able to find a way to make art again – to have self-expression – it brought them back to life, improved their mental health, and brought a sense of normality to an abnormal situation." 

This project focuses on telling the stories of displaced Ukrainian youth who have made creativity part of their lives. Pursuing an art form has helped many of them find comfort and purpose in the midst of chaos. For some, it also provides a bridge to new friendships and helps them integrate into Czech society.

For Hanna, music has been a way to build community and create respite for other refugees.  For Denys and Makovka, acting connects Ukrainians and Czechs through storytelling and theater.  For Valerii and Anastasia, the competition of speedcubing or ballroom dance has given them something positive on which to focus their time and energy.  For Regina, dance is a way to not only deal with her fears, but to inspire others.

Reading their stories makes it clear that few of these young people want to be defined as “refugees.”  While there is an underlying element of sadness and loss, most of them are focused on working hard, making the most of their opportunities, finding ways to serve others, and creating a better future for themselves.

Throughout Europe, Ukrainian refugees face increasing suspicion and discrimination fueled by Russian propaganda, making their struggle not only to survive, but to be seen and understood, even more difficult.  At a moment when public attention is shifting and empathy for refugees is waning, these voices remind us that war is not abstract.  It shapes the lives of individual young people – each still trying to grow up, to dream, to build a future – even while carrying the burden of their trauma and loss.

A quick note before you read the stories:

This gallery presents a curated selection from Portraits of Resilience, featuring Ukrainian teen artists living in exile in the Czech Republic. The full series includes 40 portraits paired with personal narratives; a broader image edit is available upon request. A signed GDPR/Model Release is on file for each subject. I would be glad to tailor a sequence or thematic edit specifically for your publication, and to discuss possible formats for feature, photo essay, or multimedia presentations and interviews.

  • One day I heard explosions, and my life turned upside down. My family tried to wait it out, but we couldn't just sit in the basement all the time. So we fled on an evacuation train – it was the scariest trip I've ever been on. The carriages were crammed with people, many in serious condition. The train stopped often because of loud explosions. 

    It was an extremely difficult trip, but it took us to Lviv.  Even there the war did not let go of us; very quickly we realized that we had to move on.  That's how we ended up in the Czech Republic.

    Integration into a new country with a new language was extremely difficult.  We had lost so much: our home, our culture, and everything that brought us joy.

    One day my mom found a dance group in Prague, and she signed us up (I have been dancing since I was three years old).  We also found a vocal teacher from Ukraine – Olga Bachko – who created a vocal group for children.  We sing our native songs, and perform on stage, telling the world about our wonderful country.  Our performances have even raised funds to help Ukraine; I am very proud of this.  

    I’ve also won many dance awards. Dancing helps me show everything that lives in my soul; it gives me strength and confidence, and helps me stay in touch with myself.  Thanks to these things, I have been able to survive the transition and trauma, and have hope.

    Despite everything that’s happened, I try to look to a bright future. Music and dance have become my support and voice through which I tell my story.

    ~Yaroslava (13) and Arina (14)

  • Story coming soon.

    ~Marharyta, 17

  • We put our whole life into three backpacks.  The evacuation train was crowded, filled with children from an orphanage who were rescued from the shelling; there was no way to take many things.  As we rode that train, we saw the explosions for the first time.

    My family reunited in Prague, where I had to start all over again. This was not just a move – it was the beginning of a new life from scratch in a foreign country.   But I learned to adapt, to see new beginnings where others might see endings, and to build something beautiful out of change.

    Since childhood, I had been drawn to understanding how nations speak to one another, how ideas move across borders, how peace is built from dialogue. I would pore over books about wars, alliances, and politics.  So when I came to Prague, I took intensive Czech language courses.  I completed an online bachelor's degree in Ukraine with two majors, and have now entered a Czech university, studying international relations.

    What once felt like an impossible dream – a girl from a small town in Ukraine imagining herself in the heart of Europe – has become my reality. I’m turning that childhood fascination into a purpose that guides me forward.

    For me, resilience isn’t just surviving – it’s transforming. It’s about connection, creativity, and the quiet courage to keep believing in what’s possible.

    ~Valeriia, 23

  • Story coming soon.

    ~Anastasia, 17

  • The first months after moving abroad, I didn’t believe I could find myself here. I had no dreams and no purpose.  Like millions of young people from Ukraine, at seventeen I had to grow up in a single day.

    I remember when I first drove through Prague, I thought: how happy these people are – they can just walk calmly, enjoy their coffee and the city. But not me.

    At that moment, it felt as if everything had been taken away from me, and I didn’t know when I would feel that same freedom again. I was looking at the bustling city like a colorful painting, but inside I felt deep pain and confusion.

    Art was my comfort and my motivation to keep moving forward. There were periods when I had no inspiration at all, but over time it returned, and I could spend whole days working on interior designs or writing poetry.  

    It was the desire to grow that helped me find my path, despite failed attempts and mistakes.  I hit some roadblocks – like having university applications be rejected twice.  But looking back at those events now, I see tremendous progress and personal growth. The difficulties made me stronger and more confident.

    The war continues, and every day young people like me suffer from stress, fear, and uncertainty about what the future holds. People are dying – among them, my friends.

    I’m making the most of this opportunity to work and study abroad. In the future, I aspire to apply my knowledge as an architect to Ukrainian projects, for the growth and flourishing of my country.

    We are an ambitious and determined nation. Among Ukrainian soldiers, there are countless talented people: artists, writers, musicians, dancers, actors. And despite everything, they keep fighting for the right to create, to live, and to love. Even far from home, I can feel this pulse, the thirst for life, freedom, and light.

    ~Anya, 20

  • My life before the war was very eventful and fulfilling. I spent a lot of time in nature – fishing, picking mushrooms and berries – and was engaged in a lot of creative activities, like knitting, embroidery and drawing. Beside that I also practiced swimming and judo on a competition level, juggled, and grew cacti and succulents. 

    In retrospect I can say that it was the best time of my life because I was spending it with my friends and family.

    The trip to Czechia and my beginnings here were an intense experience. I had to move for work several times and even lived in Germany for a while. Finally, I found my anchor in Turnov, a place near to my heart because of its incredible nature and spiritual vibe.

    As for my art: I got a lot of inspiration while in Czechia and was very motivated to try to create something new and unique. I started to paint ancient Slavic symbols which are filled with strength and positive energy. I paint them on paper, stone, and especially on clothes which I make myself. 

    My clothes never stay on my shelves for long. I give them all away. Seeing someone wear what I’ve created, being happy and grateful, is my greatest joy.  It is important for me not only to create, but also to spread creativity.

    My biggest dream of course is to return to my homeland in peace. I realize now more than ever that you can acquire any material wealth, but you can't get time and people back. In the end, no one knows how long we have been given to live in this world, so we need to appreciate every day and every opportunity we have.

    ~Serhii, 20

  • When the war began in 2022, I was 15.  My mother and I stayed in our city for a month and a half, in the very center of active fighting. Every day we faced death, as shells struck the city every twenty minutes. We saw everything – the destruction, the fear, the silence that followed each explosion – and we tried to stay alive. In that time our city was completely destroyed. Eventually, it became impossible to survive: there was no hot water, no gas, no light, no electricity. We were left with no choice but to flee.

    We managed to move to a larger city in Ukraine, where the situation was not as dire. Big cities were harder to hit with artillery, so there were mostly rocket and drone attacks, and our chances of survival were higher there.

    I moved to the Czech Republic when I was sixteen, completely on my own. My mother stayed behind in Ukraine, so I had to build my life here from nothing. It was difficult, but I managed, because there was simply no other choice.  I moved into a home for at-risk youth; according to the rules, it wasn’t for refugees, but the staff decided to help us because there happened to be free spaces.

    While the war was horrible, what causes me much deeper emotions are everyday life problems, like expressing my feelings to others.  Dance helps me overcome the fear: it’s easier for me to show my feelings through the language of movement. But at the same time, dance is also my biggest fear, because I have to learn to show what I truly feel, to not be ashamed of who I am.

    I want to stop being afraid to try, afraid to talk about myself, afraid to live. I want to be that lady that inspires other people. I want to know that my words can help someone.  I’m a super sensitive and vulnerable person; I always want to help others, yet while I do that I carry my own problems inside. 

    For me, dance is what keeps me alive – but at the same time, it destroys me. I’ve never experienced as much stress and emotion in anything else.  When I dance, I put everything I have into it – all my emotions.  Sometimes, it helps me release them, but other times, it breaks me even more.

    BUT I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT IT.

    ~Regina, 19

  • I want people to understand how difficult it is to be far from home, from people close to you. It is very difficult to leave everything and start your life anew. 

    At the age of 17, I had to suddenly become a ‘real’ adult.  Moving to another country on my own brought a whole new level of responsibility. Without knowing the language, I had to fill out all the paperwork, get insurance, find somewhere to live, and somehow arrange my life without the help and advice of my family.

    Immigrants and refugees are almost constantly under stress. The stress is constant, and without realising it, a person becomes very tired.

    After learning Czech to level B1 in just over 3 months, I enrolled in the university.  I never encountered racism at university; if you ask for help, you will definitely get it, but you still feel like you don't belong. There were small details like cultural customs, memes, songs, jokes, and cult things that I just didn’t know. But these small details add up to a big wall that prevents you from fitting into the community. 

    Martial arts taught me discipline, and the ability not to panic or fear in stressful situations. 

    Discipline helped me understand what I should do in life, what my goals are, and helped me resist the temptations of ‘adult life’ and the sudden freedom that came my way.  I watched other teens delve into drugs and other substances in the absence of control.

    In spite of the constant stress, martial arts have helped me to keep my sanity.  I can adapt to unexpected situations, and control myself in them. Thanks to mastery of this art, I have found friends, education, and work.

    ~Kirill, 21

  • When I evacuated to the Czech Republic at 12 years old, it was very difficult for me. I lost all my friends and my ‘normal’ life.  Thankfully, through some organizations that support Ukrainian refugees, I got to know other refugees, attended workshops, danced, and received psychological support.  It was very helpful and made things easier for me.

    I am proud of the fact that I have been dancing for 10 years.  I will never leave it.  Even in another country, I found places where I could dance.

    Dance is the language of the body.  Through it I can express emotions that are too deep for words.

    In this photo, I am calm and focused.  This movement is about balance and self-confidence, like when everything seems difficult, I can still hold on and find my balance.

    ~Natalia, 16

  • Story coming soon.

    ~Arina, 14

  • I grew up in a small village, in a poor family. We lived a humble life, and sometimes it was very hard. From an early age, I had to work on the farm, look after my younger nieces, and sell milk at the market. 

    I went to Czechia because of the war, but also because I saw it as the only option to support my family in difficult circumstances. I came all by myself, one day after Christmas. Was it scary? Very much so.  Does it hurt?  Yes, deeply.  Did I ever want to drop everything and go back home?  I still do. 

    It’s not easy to keep working when you have no strength left, when your health fails and you still must earn money. It’s not easy to miss your family, lose your grandfather, and not be allowed time off to attend the funeral. It’s not easy to study and work without sleep. It’s not easy to know that your brother and brother-in-law are injured because they are fighting, and you can't even visit them, even when you know that every day could be their last.

    Also, my disabled parents are older and I am aware that our time together is shortening. But if I return home, I won't be able to provide for them or protect them. 

    So, I cry every night, and in the morning I go to work and smile. 

    Fortunately, there is something that always helps me keep going: art and creativity. They have been my source of strength and hope since childhood. 

    I love to draw, to sculpt, to decorate with ribbons, weave corn leaves, embroider, knit, paint. Art gives me the opportunity to show my true inner self.  For me it is a place where you can speak without words – a space without borders, restrictions, or rules, where you can be whoever you want to be. Where you are both the author and the hero of the story. Art helps distract me from sadness and burnout, and remember that there is still beauty in the world.

    Despite all I’ve been through, I continue to believe that not all people are bad. I believe that each of us can make the world a better place, through simple acts of love: to compliment, to support, to advise, to heal people with words and deeds.  This is why I chat with other struggling Ukrainian people online, utilizing my psychology degree to freely offer help and encouragement where it is needed.  

    When my world is upside down and crazy and gray, and I think will it always be like this? – creativity and kindness come to the rescue, pull me out of depression, and add color back into my life.

    ~Katya, 23

  • I moved to the Czech Republic during the second year of the war, when I was 17 years old. My parents did not have the opportunity to leave Ukraine and did not want to leave their home, farm, and family, so they sent me abroad.  My guitar was the first thing I packed.

    For me, creativity is not a way to run away from problems, creativity is the meaning. People like me are happy when something happens to them, because then I can write a song about it.  

    In my music I want to describe the unique experience of Ukrainians in the Czech Republic.  In one of my songs I wrote, “In this country, my blue passport turned me into a migrant gray mass.”  Even though I’m in a foreign place, and I often feel like a white crow or a blue orange, I really do like the Czech language and culture.

    I am very grateful to the Czech Republic for including therapy sessions in our medical insurance, to help with our mental health.  This is so important, because the most difficult thing for me has been to appreciate and see the good in life, in spite of all the bad weather. There is never a perfect day; something always happens. The main thing is to notice and remember the good moments.

    I keep a diary where I write small joys, a camera on which I record happy moments, and I see my psychologist to help me with this. I’ve learned that no one will make me happy except my own self-care.

    ~Illia, 17

  • Leaving Ukraine was one of the hardest decisions of my life.  My parents decided that it was better for me to go abroad, because Odessa was becoming more and more dangerous. 

    So I came to Prague alone at 17, and I had to become an adult in one moment – handling documents, courses, housing, and work on my own.  Just four months after moving, I entered Charles University to major in Political Science and International Relations. The first year was incredibly difficult; the hardest part was realizing that I was completely alone in a foreign country, and I was worried about my family in Odessa.

    Music is my passion. At first, I couldn’t make art after coming from Ukraine, because I hadn’t been able to bring my instruments with me, and I didn’t have money for a guitar. But when I did, art became a kind of catharsis for me – a way to pour emotions into something beautiful, and share them with friends and listeners.  

    I play drums, guitar, and bass in a couple of bands. Together with my friends, I am organizing a community called The Nest, where we host evenings for anyone to share their art: musicians, poets, dancers, visual artists, and more.

    I really miss my family. It is especially difficult because of what they are going through in Odessa right now. I pray every day that they are alive and well. But I do feel at home in Prague now; the city offers so many opportunities in the music I love.

    I’ve learned to keep believing in myself and my unique gifts. Each person is unique, and this is what makes us beautiful.  

    And another thing I’ve learned: after thunder and rain, the sun always comes out.

    ~Ruslana, 21

  • I have warm memories of how I went out to the fields with my friends. It was incredible, the plants changed from year to year: sometimes sunflowers, then wheat. The feeling of the wind on my face, the sun and grass – this is the picture of Slobozhanshchyna, the northeast region of Ukraine, on the Russian border, where I am from. This is the flag of Ukraine before your eyes.

    Right before the full-scale invasion began, I didn't believe it was even possible. I turned 17 on February 11, and I could not imagine that the Russians would start killing our people.

    Since then, my February has lasted more than one thousand three hundred days.

    ***

    No one should have to accept–at the age of 17–the possibility of her death in a couple of seconds from a Russian missile.  After several nights under shelling, we decided to go to the Czech Republic, to my uncle and mother, who already lived here. We hastily packed our things into a backpack and 2 bags, and left. I've taken pictures of everything in my life, but I didn't take pictures of my house when I left. I didn't want to remember it so gray and tired. 

    After a very difficult year and a half of adaptation in Czechia, I was finally able to make art again. I was also able to enter the Kharkiv State Academy of Design and Arts with a scholarship! Later, I found a company of Ukrainian students here in Brno, and for the first time in a year and a half I was not alone. 

    My art is colorful and multifaceted, like myself. I take photos, make collages, shoot videos, edit, do make-up, write texts and poems, and weave silyanka (traditional Ukrainian jewelry).

    I am most proud of my photo project “I Dreamed of a House Again.”  I’ve also been very involved in the theater production "Until the War Ends,” where I have been a director, screenwriter, sound engineer, make-up artist, set designer, actress, and more. In this project we help Czechs and others understand what it’s like to be us – to be Ukrainians living in a foreign country because of war.

    ~Kataryna (“Makovka”), 20

  • Even though I’ve been studying art since I was little, during the war it became something deeper and more personal for me. 

    I'm from the border town of Zaporizhzhia, which was attacked from the very first day of the invasion. We fled to the Czech Republic in an evacuation train with neither a number nor a clear route, traveling in complete darkness, with no way to contact our families. 

    Later, in Prague, I met a mentor who helped me transform my pain into art. She organized creative meetings for people who want to both create, and escape everyday life.  We went to museums, drew from nature, and met in the studio to turn ideas into reality. We attended creative festivals that raised money for Ukrainian soldiers, and explored new artistic places in Prague. Today, we continue creating together; she has become my good friend.

    In my work, I use traditional colors and symbolism. In the Ukrainian artistic tradition, black means sorrow and red means love. But today, in my art, red means blood. These colors are echoes of loss, strength, and the courage to continue.

    ~Mariia, 14

  • Before the war, my life in Ukraine was very closely connected with music and family. 

    I lived with my grandparents, sisters, and brother.  We supported each other, and the house was always filled with life, laughter, music, and warmth. I loved to travel to the mountains with my grandfather – we had special conversations, joint adventures, a sense of peace in the midst of nature.  Although my mother lived abroad at the time, we always felt her care and love, even from a distance.

    When the full-scale war began, I left Transcarpathia for the Czech Republic. The hardest part was saying goodbye to family and friends – their tears and hugs remained in my heart. 

    The road through the familiar mountains seemed like an endless farewell to home. There was a lot of fear and pain inside, but somewhere deep lived the hope that there was safety ahead and a chance to meet those I love again.

    After leaving Ukraine, I started working at a factory; I tested products and performed other tasks. Most of my time was taken up by work.  But even then, I didn't stop singing: music was always there, and I continued to sing, because it is a part of me that cannot be lost.

    Singing gave me the strength not to break down, to express my emotions, and find peace. It is also a way to share my soul with other people.  

    Music helped me feel like I was still me, even far from home.

    ~Oksana, 20
    ~Sofia, 15

  • I was 15 years old when I arrived here; I closed myself off from everyone, and only dreamed of going home as soon as possible.  It was very hard for me to trust people; it was extremely difficult to meet new people. I didn’t want to talk to anyone at all, even my parents.

    One day, I was walking to the store with my parents, and I saw some street musicians. Something inside me told me that I wanted to stay and listen. From that moment, I often went out just to listen to them play. There was one girl standing there, and she was the first to come and introduce herself. I didn’t really feel like talking to her initially, but later we went for a coffee together to chat.  I had found a friend.

    Now I have three friends who are always with me; they are the most valuable thing I have.  I’m truly happy that I found the kind of people with whom I can be myself.  Thanks to them, I’ve grown musically — I’ve learned how to sing. 

    I am now a street musician; I sing Ukrainian songs on the street, and that’s how people get to know me. In the future, I want to become well-known — not for the money, but to promote Ukrainian culture and to make people aware of its rich history.

    ~Solomiia, 18

  • When the full-scale invasion started and I was hiding in shelters, crossing cities, leaving the country, writing felt almost offensive. You don’t describe things poetically when you’re trying to survive them, right? For a long time, I couldn’t find the strength to create anything: I felt like a doll being torn in different directions, losing all its content.

    But I began to notice that silence doesn’t protect me — it only erases the record of what’s happening to me. The longer I stayed quiet, the less real everything became.  I was losing contact with the part of me that could still notice and feel.  When I began writing again, it wasn’t about expressing myself; it was about testing whether I could still feel anything beyond survival and fear.

    Writing was my way of reclaiming the voice the war had tried to take away.  

    In the end, that’s what art is for me: a way of keeping my voice alive when everything else insists on silence.  Art doesn’t restore what’s lost, or protect me from reality.  But it does help me remain present — to keep seeing and speaking, even when silence tries to disguise itself as peace.

    ~Maria, 21

  • All my life I’ve been interested in creating something with my own hands.  I love to draw.  It feels good to try new things, to experiment, and to express myself in this way. 

    My life from the age of 11 was not very happy. My mother got cancer and it was very difficult for an 11-year-old child.  (Fortunately, she is alive and well.)  Then COVID started, and it was not easy either.  Then my grandmother – with whom I’d lived all my life – died.  I was heartbroken.

    And then the full scale invasion began.  On the first day of the war, my father volunteered to serve in the military, and on the second day my mom sent me away to a safer city.  I had to leave everything behind and start everything from scratch. It was very sad and scary, and I couldn’t draw much.  

    Throughout all of this, I kind of lost myself; I didn't even understand my true me anymore.  To this day, I feel like I have to wear a mask so much of the time, just to fit in.  It’s easier to pretend I'm someone I'm not, than to face people disliking me or being mean to me.  

    Currently, due to the poor state of my mental health, I cannot draw as much as I would like. But my drawings are getting better, step by step.  My older sister recently gave me her graphic tablet to draw with – she and my mom have always been there for me, trying to help in every way they can.  And my drawing helps too; it's my source of comfort and strength.  Through all of this, I’m slowly working at figuring out who I am.

    In the end, I just want people to see the real me, not the mask I wear for everyone.

    ~Yan, 17

  • When the Russian full-scale invasion began, my mother, grandmother, and I spent a month in our small home surrounded by explosions, day and night.  When the fear and sleeplessness became unbearable, we finally set out on foot toward the “still alive” part of Mariupol, hoping to find safety and a cell signal. 

    We eventually found shelter in a dormitory basement with about 300 others from a nearby village destroyed by bombs. For weeks we cooked over an open fire and listened to constant shelling.  At last, as the fighting closed in, relatives helped arrange a driver to evacuate us. We reached a small Crimean Greek village, only to have armed Russian soldiers search our phones and papers. After a week there, we moved on through Berdyansk and the occupied Zaporizhzhia region, passing countless checkpoints manned by DPR militants, and Chechen and Buryat mercenaries.  We were shocked to be treated like common criminals in our own country.

    Prior to this nightmare, I was already living with chronic depression, a bout with cancer, and hopelessness.  I would numb the feelings with video games, but the thing that really helped me was music.  As Bob Marley said, “One good thing about music: when it hits you, you feel no pain.”

    I loved music and creativity: drawing, sculpture, app design, singing.  But after all this trauma, I was so burnt out mentally that it took away all my desire to create anything.  Escaping from Ukraine and coming to the Czech Republic felt like being transported through a portal into a completely different dimension.  I couldn’t get used to it. 

    Slowly, the desire to create has returned, and I’ve discovered new passions, like acting.  With some friends, I’ve created a mix of theater and performance art called “Než válka skončí” (“Before the war ends”).  We try to help Czech people understand the Ukrainian experience of being immigrants because of the Russian genocide in our country. We perform at an old prison in Brno that has been slowly transformed into a cultural space.  In addition, I have two part-time jobs: translating for Ukrainian refugees, and promoting mental health.  I also look for other ways I can find to be of service.

    I feel that art and service are able to shift my attention away from the constant worries associated with building a new life in a foreign country.  Art helps me relax, while service channels my energy into addressing meaningful social issues.

    Nevertheless, I often feel that I am underestimated.  I want to prove to myself that I can succeed in doing what I love, in spite of the circumstances of my life – including my recent ADHD diagnosis.  I’ve been through a lot of things, but still have very low self-confidence.  Some days I feel like I’m stuck in a “Groundhog Day” cycle, trying and trying without seeing results, blaming myself for not being disciplined enough.

    And yet every day I try to do at least something to take a step forward.

    ~Denys, 22

About Fritz Liedtke:

Fritz began photographing when he was a teen, and art has played a profound part in his life.  His personal and professional photography have been widely published in places like National Geographic, Huffington Post, and The New York Times, and is shown in galleries and collected by museums and collectors around the world.  His work aims to tell the quiet human stories that often go unheard, with sensitivity and compassion.

See his professional work here, and his fine art projects here.

About our Team:

This project would never have left the ground without the faith and determination of 4 women, who continue to volunteer their time and passion to make this project come to life: Martina Klimova (with whom I went to art school many years ago, and who didn’t think my initial idea for this project was too crazy), Oksana Dolga (whose passion and compassion for youth and community-building knows no bounds), Tanya Sushko (who found and coordinated over 60 youth, and assisted me daily, often without sleep), and Andrea Svobodova (an anthropologist passionate about telling the stories of immigrant youth).  I could not have asked for a better group of kind-hearted, hard-working, fun-loving Czech and Ukrainian women to work with.