First Steps into the World of Art

by Aneta Cieplak

We all have a dream. Or maybe more than one. Those quiet visions that live within us since childhood—growing, evolving, sometimes forgotten, but never truly gone.

I had many dreams. I loved theatre, history, biology, and anything that made me feel curious and alive. But above all else, there was art. Art that I saw not only in galleries and museums, but in old furniture, in the curve of trees, in shadows on the walls, in how light danced through a window. To me, the world was, and still is, a place of constant discovery—a canvas of beauty and mystery.

As a child, I threw myself into every creative project. Paper, glue, crayons, paints—I adored it all. I never hesitated to raise my hand. I had an idea for everything. Whether it was decorating a school display or entering an art competition, I jumped in without fear. And often, I won. But more than anything, I loved the feeling of creating freely—without judgement, without expectation. That kind of freedom is something we often lose as we grow.

And growing up did feel different. After high school, I chose my own path—one that led me away from home at eighteen, to the United Kingdom. It was supposed to be a year-long adventure, but life had other plans. I stayed much longer.

I traveled. I saw places that changed me. I met people who inspired me. I collected beauty wherever I went—in fabrics, food, objects, architecture. Art was always with me, but I wasn’t yet making it. I was an admirer, not a creator.

Then, not so long ago, life shifted again. A painful incident—both physically and emotionally—brought with it a long period of upheaval and soul-searching. I won’t go into that story just yet. Some chapters are still too tender. But what matters is what came next.

I started painting again. Quietly, hesitantly, but with a fire that felt both old and new.

When I found out about an open call for a local exhibition space, something in me said: Do it. I applied, unsure of what to expect. And suddenly, it was happening. My first vernissage. My first public step into the world as an artist.

At the time, I was working on a collection I called Echoes of Memory. The series came from a place deep within me. I found myself thinking often about home—about Poland, my childhood, and the resilience of my mother and grandmother. Life on a small farm, the quiet struggles, the vivid beauty. In those memories, I found comfort, healing, and stories I wanted to tell with paint.

"The Storm is coming" 2024 by Aneta Cieplak

One of those stories is in a piece called Storm is Coming—a painting filled with looming skies and charged emotion. It recalls the fear I felt as a child during thunderstorms, after lightning burned down my mother’s family home. It’s not just about weather. It’s about the suddenness of change. The duality of beauty and danger. The fragility of what we build.

Sharing that painting—sharing any of them—felt vulnerable. Exposing. Like inviting strangers to see parts of my soul that even I hadn’t looked at closely in years.

The days leading up to the opening were both exhilarating and terrifying. I had the loving support of my friends and my partner, who helped me pack the car, hang each canvas, and set up the space for guests. I posted on social media, invited everyone I could think of, and still worried no one would show up.

But people came. And not just people—I felt presence. Support. Curiosity. Emotion.

My dear friend Ewa was the heart of the installation. She helped me with everything from writing my artist statement to adjusting the lighting so that each piece had space to breathe. I will forever be grateful for her belief in me.

That evening was a beautiful whirlwind. I spoke with guests about the meanings behind my paintings. I explained where the images came from—what I was feeling, what I remembered. It’s strange—how hard that is to do. The words don’t always come easily. But I want to become better at it. Because those conversations matter. They make the work real for others too.

This vernissage was a milestone for me. A bridge between the little girl who once glued paper stars to classroom walls, and the woman now rediscovering her voice through color, form, and emotion.

It was a moment carved from years of difficult choices, grief, growth—and the quiet, persistent hope that art might one day become more than a dream.

And now… it has.