I didn’t choose this craft—it was here before I was. In the 1980s, I didn’t understand anything yet; I was just there: I remember the warmth of the workshop, which enveloped me like a living thing; I remember the silence, which held no emptiness—only focus; I remember my father’s and mother’s hands moving with confidence, as if they had known every next step for a long time. There were no explanations, no instruction in the usual sense—there was presence. And I grew up in it, without even realizing that it was something more than just daily work.
Back then, it seemed like ordinary life. I didn’t know it was art. I didn’t know it was something rare. I didn’t know that these necklaces weren’t just jewelry, but a form of thought born through the hands. I simply saw how, day after day, forms emerged, how they took on color, how they became something complete. And only now do I understand: they were doing this back when almost no one was talking about ceramic necklaces, when it was neither a trend, nor a niche, nor a market. It was a pure decision—internal, precise, without external cues.
And now, when I return to those forms, there is a special thrill in it. Because reviving necklaces from the 1980s isn’t about copying. It’s about listening. About paying attention to what has already been created but hasn’t lost its power. There is a memory in these forms that doesn’t lie on the surface. It isn’t visible at first glance, but it can be felt. Their vibe cannot be constructed or reinvented. It was born back then, in another time, and has remained unchanged.
The honey terracotta in these necklaces is like stored-up warmth that never fades. It isn’t bright or flashy, but it has a depth that draws the eye. Coffee terracotta is calm, balanced, almost quiet. It needs no explanation, for it speaks for itself. And together, these shades create something more than just color—they create a state of mind.
These collections don’t look like something new—and that is their strength. They seem to stretch back from antiquity and move forward through time without losing their meaning. They do not try to conform to the moment; they do not adapt to trends. They simply are, and that is precisely why they remain relevant.
There are no additives in them—no chemicals, no artificiality, no desire to please at any cost. There is no decorative pretense here, no simplification for the sake of effect. There is no pompous kitsch, no glitter. There is only material that behaves honestly, and hands that do not try to deceive it. This is pure art that needs no justification.
And, perhaps most importantly—I now understand what I didn’t understand back then. This isn’t just a continuation of the work. It’s a conversation with time. It’s a responsibility to what was done before me. And it’s the feeling that you’re not starting from scratch—you’re stepping into an existing story and continuing it, without violating its essence.
These necklaces aren’t about the past. They’re about continuity. About how things can outlive the circumstances in which they came into being. About how the warmth once invested in them doesn’t fade—it passes on, from hand to hand, from generation to generation.
And only now does it become clear: this is not something that can be invented or created from scratch. It is a legacy that already exists. It can only be felt—and carried on.
Anatolii Mytskan, son of Olga and Roman Mytskan.
