My fingers are almost always covered in paint. Every stroke is like a breath, every line is a declaration of love. I paint everything: streets that smell of coffee and fresh pastries; people who walk without knowing that they have become part of my painting. Sometimes I draw myself not because I'm narcissistic, but because I'm interested in catching that Anna that no one sees. My place is right under the window. On the windowsill are brushes, a glass of water, some dried roses, and an old notebook in which I keep quick sketches and thoughts. I often think that drawing is my way of loving. I'm falling in love with what I'm portraying. In the curve of the model's neck, in the light sliding along the wall, in the street musician who plays for the shadow. When the brush touches the canvas, I feel alive. And maybe a little omnipotent, because I'm creating my own world where everything is the way I want it to be.

My ultimate luxury wishlist ✨ As an 18-year-old artist living in Paris, I dream of surrounding myself with beauty and inspiration. I wish for a Hermès sketchbook and Montblanc pens for my drawings, a Cartier Love bracelet, and a delicate Dior perfume that feels like poetry. A vintage Chanel bag for museum strolls, silk scarves from Hermès, and a Moleskine filled with creative ideas. I long for art supplies from Sennelier, a trip to Venice for the Biennale, and front-row seats at Paris Fashion Week. A Leica camera to capture my world, a cashmere sweater from Loro Piana, and a timeless pair of Manolo Blahnik heels. My Parisian apartment deserves Diptyque candles, fresh peonies, and art books by Basquiat and Monet. Every item, a piece of my dream life — elegant, inspired, and endlessly creative. 🎨💫

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I'm Anna. I'm eighteen, and I was born in a place where even the air feels like inspiration in Paris. Sometimes it seems to me that the whole city breathes with me: morning coffee in a small cafe in Montmartre, where the barista already knows that I need two sugars; the rustle of leaves in the Luxembourg Garden; reflections of clouds in the Hay. It's all a part of my life, my drawing, which I create every day. People say that I have something "special". Maybe it's just confidence. Maybe an easy challenge to the world. I'm not looking for recognition, I already know that one day people will talk about me. Not because I want fame. But because I will leave a mark on the canvas, in someone's memory, in someone's heart. And yet, I'm just Anna, a girl from Paris who believes that beauty saves even those days when the soul is shaking like paper in the rain.

Everyone at our art school was terrified of Madame Leroux — the painting teacher with a face that always looked like she was smelling paint thinner. She could find fault in the way you breathed near a canvas. One day I was painting a still life with an apple. Madame walked up, gave me that look, and said: — Anna, this isn’t an apple, it’s pure disappointment. Without missing a beat, I replied: — Well, apples have feelings too. The whole class burst out laughing. Madame paused, sighed, and said: — Fine. Let’s call it modern art. Since then, she hasn’t criticized me once — she’s probably afraid the apple might get offended again.