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Pavlo Stasiouk

"An Ode to Tobacco" 2025

According to the histories, tobacco was given to man by the Creator to use in prayer. This plant has incensed sacred rites, perfumed friendly gatherings, and been the company and muse of countless creative endeavors. Like all created things, it has been abused and misused. Perhaps when seen in a sacred light, enveloped beautifully, we might be reminded of its divinity, and it can heal yet another soul, like it has done from its descent from heaven.

#watercolorpainting #guachepainting #botanicalart #symbolicart

"An Ode to Tobacco" 2025

According to the histories, tobacco was given to man by the Creator to use in prayer. This plant has incensed sacred rites, perfumed friendly gatherings, and been the company and muse of countless creative endeavors. Like all created things, it has been abused and misused. Perhaps when seen in a sacred light, enveloped beautifully, we might be reminded of its divinity, and it can heal yet another soul, like it has done from its descent from heaven.

#watercolorpainting #guachepainting #botanicalart #symbolicart

pumping the blood with a morning sketch

#penart #symbolicart #sketchbook #sketch

pumping the blood with a morning sketch

#penart #symbolicart #sketchbook #sketch

Thoughts, visions, quiet strangers...
Have you always had residence in me,
Or are you born eternally and free?
Were you with me as a child,
Or came unknowingly, to prove
Something I could not choose?
Behind my lids you form
Phantoms visibly
When I wake, and pupils show,
You slip ceaselessly between
Every seen reality
Can I trust you quiet stranger?
Have you come to reveal or mislead?
Are you loyal, if so, to whom?
Be you an organic impulse,
Or a not so silent dream,
Treat me good, my fellow stranger
Show me peace amidst the seams

#penart #sketchbook #artist

Thoughts, visions, quiet strangers...
Have you always had residence in me,
Or are you born eternally and free?
Were you with me as a child,
Or came unknowingly, to prove
Something I could not choose?
Behind my lids you form
Phantoms visibly
When I wake, and pupils show,
You slip ceaselessly between
Every seen reality
Can I trust you quiet stranger?
Have you come to reveal or mislead?
Are you loyal, if so, to whom?
Be you an organic impulse,
Or a not so silent dream,
Treat me good, my fellow stranger
Show me peace amidst the seams

#penart #sketchbook #artist

How great is the reach of salvation? How far does grace descend? Who is able to grow in holiness?

St. Guinefort was a knight's greyhound who, according to legend, was martyred. The dog-saint's owner confused the blood on the dog's mouth for his infant's blood, when in fact the dog had faithfully protected the child from a serpent. In the confusion, St. Guinefort was killed by the sword. When the knight realized what he had done, St. Guiniefort was buried and venerated by the local people. The church never recognized St. Guiniefort with any official decree, and stopped the dog's veneration with the tide of the reformation.

Regardless of canonical standing or rational argument forbidding a dog's sanctification, the potential of St. Guiniefort holiness fills the chasm we have dug between the body and and the spirit, the material and immaterial, creation and Creator. The presence of God holds every breath and fills every inclined ear. If a lowly dog strived for the Good, who am I to do otherwise?

#contemporarybyzantinepainting #sacredart #stguinefort #medievalart #iconography #iconpainter #watercolorpainting

How great is the reach of salvation? How far does grace descend? Who is able to grow in holiness?

St. Guinefort was a knight's greyhound who, according to legend, was martyred. The dog-saint's owner confused the blood on the dog's mouth for his infant's blood, when in fact the dog had faithfully protected the child from a serpent. In the confusion, St. Guinefort was killed by the sword. When the knight realized what he had done, St. Guiniefort was buried and venerated by the local people. The church never recognized St. Guiniefort with any official decree, and stopped the dog's veneration with the tide of the reformation.

Regardless of canonical standing or rational argument forbidding a dog's sanctification, the potential of St. Guiniefort holiness fills the chasm we have dug between the body and and the spirit, the material and immaterial, creation and Creator. The presence of God holds every breath and fills every inclined ear. If a lowly dog strived for the Good, who am I to do otherwise?

#contemporarybyzantinepainting #sacredart #stguinefort #medievalart #iconography #iconpainter #watercolorpainting

With prayers powered by starlight and lines laced with dreams, the idea contained multitudes, like a raindrop full of sea

#penart #doodleart #symbolicart

With prayers powered by starlight and lines laced with dreams, the idea contained multitudes, like a raindrop full of sea

#penart #doodleart #symbolicart

Oh what I have seen in your face
#penart #doodle #sketchbook

Oh what I have seen in your face
#penart #doodle #sketchbook

Fixed on the shadow cast by me, bright life swirled unattended

#penart

Fixed on the shadow cast by me, bright life swirled unattended

#penart

The relationship of the seen and unseen, the external and internal, conscious and unconscious is a unity with distinction.
How the mountain is seen in the water, so is the external reflected within the internal.
The water holds the image of the mountain, yet it is not the mountain, ripples and jumping fish break this illusion of identical sameness.
And yet there is a unity, the mountain and lake exist in the same cosmos, painting with the same palette, but expressing themselves differently, working in distinct mediums.
There is distinction, but no dichotomy, no absolute opposition.
So it is with spirit and matter, so it is with body and mind, so it is with all things we treat with irreconcilable binaries.
To recognize the reality of distinction without loosing the ability to grasp them as a whole is how one can see true, and not be torn in two.
Truth is there in the rise and the fall. This does not mean to throw out your sense of direction, nor does it mean to reject a direction. Can you orient without knowing West, North, South?

The relationship of the seen and unseen, the external and internal, conscious and unconscious is a unity with distinction.
How the mountain is seen in the water, so is the external reflected within the internal.
The water holds the image of the mountain, yet it is not the mountain, ripples and jumping fish break this illusion of identical sameness.
And yet there is a unity, the mountain and lake exist in the same cosmos, painting with the same palette, but expressing themselves differently, working in distinct mediums.
There is distinction, but no dichotomy, no absolute opposition.
So it is with spirit and matter, so it is with body and mind, so it is with all things we treat with irreconcilable binaries.
To recognize the reality of distinction without loosing the ability to grasp them as a whole is how one can see true, and not be torn in two.
Truth is there in the rise and the fall. This does not mean to throw out your sense of direction, nor does it mean to reject a direction. Can you orient without knowing West, North, South?

From the sketchbook

How is it that one thing transforms into another? What secret is in the metamorphosis? From a soiled seed to a radiant flower to a... bird?
Ever changing matter flows, bubbles, steams into eternal patterns, like water shapeshifting into vessels. Perhaps then these lowly things can be brought to higher places? Transfigure that which is destructive and death-brining into that which is creative and life-giving. Potentiality buzzes with energy, yearning for its realization, and the actualization of that which it could be. Perhaps that thing that worries you is but an acorn awaiting its proper ground to stretch into a mighty oak?

#sketchbook #penart #doodle

From the sketchbook

How is it that one thing transforms into another? What secret is in the metamorphosis? From a soiled seed to a radiant flower to a... bird?
Ever changing matter flows, bubbles, steams into eternal patterns, like water shapeshifting into vessels. Perhaps then these lowly things can be brought to higher places? Transfigure that which is destructive and death-brining into that which is creative and life-giving. Potentiality buzzes with energy, yearning for its realization, and the actualization of that which it could be. Perhaps that thing that worries you is but an acorn awaiting its proper ground to stretch into a mighty oak?

#sketchbook #penart #doodle

From the sketchbook, Mother and Child

"But how will you die when your time comes, Narcissus, since you have no mother? Without a mother, one cannot love. Without a mother, one cannot die."
-Narcissus and Golmund, Herman Hesse

The Mother nurses a child, one of the oldest icons of human art, a pattern etched into the very fabric of creation, emanating out from the origin of all origins.
An unconditional care, a perpetual gaze, an eternal nourishment. In death and life The Mother meets us, she already long knew us, we have long known her even before setting sight of her face.
How can an image contain both a sweet lullaby and a forthcoming midnight? The Mother contains both with no contradiction. In the apparent paradox the matter of things finds its full expression of Truth. How do we love without dying, how do we die without loving?

#penart #sketchbook #doodle

From the sketchbook, Mother and Child

"But how will you die when your time comes, Narcissus, since you have no mother? Without a mother, one cannot love. Without a mother, one cannot die."
-Narcissus and Golmund, Herman Hesse

The Mother nurses a child, one of the oldest icons of human art, a pattern etched into the very fabric of creation, emanating out from the origin of all origins.
An unconditional care, a perpetual gaze, an eternal nourishment. In death and life The Mother meets us, she already long knew us, we have long known her even before setting sight of her face.
How can an image contain both a sweet lullaby and a forthcoming midnight? The Mother contains both with no contradiction. In the apparent paradox the matter of things finds its full expression of Truth. How do we love without dying, how do we die without loving?

#penart #sketchbook #doodle

Perpetual care of heart, makes sure it doesn't die, drowned in a bed of thorny weeds, grasping for some light, choking out gentle flowers that creep along deep soil, a grounded protection from eroding winds, thank the garden god the periwinkle grows well in shade.

Perpetual care of heart, makes sure it doesn't die, drowned in a bed of thorny weeds, grasping for some light, choking out gentle flowers that creep along deep soil, a grounded protection from eroding winds, thank the garden god the periwinkle grows well in shade.

Straight from the nymphaion

#folksong #ukrainianfolk #ukrainianfolkmusic

Straight from the nymphaion

#folksong #ukrainianfolk #ukrainianfolkmusic

How did I forget you? How did I remember you again? This cycle of memory, this dance of the mind, to fall in and out of myself, again and again, feels like an eternal moment. Is this the presence of the mind? I surely cannot remember without forgetting, and yet how do you hide from me, within my own memory? A feeling, a thought, you come to me, to your confused passerby. I'm yours, not forgotten by you, but flew from you I did. To you I come to roost, had I ever left? There is but a single winding road, a manic melodic memory, that leads from you, and back again.

"To Mnemosyne, Fumigation from Frankincense. The consort I invoke of Zeus divine; source of the holy, sweetly speaking Mousai nine; free from the oblivion of the fallen mind, by whom the soul with intellect is joined. Reason's increase and thought to thee belong, all-powerful, pleasant, vigilant, and strong. ‘Tis thine to waken from lethargic rest all thoughts deposited within the breast; and nought neglecting, vigorous to excite the mental eye from dark oblivion's night. Come, blessed power, thy mystics' memory wake to holy rites, and Lethe's fetters break."
-Orphic Hymn 77

How did I forget you? How did I remember you again? This cycle of memory, this dance of the mind, to fall in and out of myself, again and again, feels like an eternal moment. Is this the presence of the mind? I surely cannot remember without forgetting, and yet how do you hide from me, within my own memory? A feeling, a thought, you come to me, to your confused passerby. I'm yours, not forgotten by you, but flew from you I did. To you I come to roost, had I ever left? There is but a single winding road, a manic melodic memory, that leads from you, and back again.

"To Mnemosyne, Fumigation from Frankincense. The consort I invoke of Zeus divine; source of the holy, sweetly speaking Mousai nine; free from the oblivion of the fallen mind, by whom the soul with intellect is joined. Reason's increase and thought to thee belong, all-powerful, pleasant, vigilant, and strong. ‘Tis thine to waken from lethargic rest all thoughts deposited within the breast; and nought neglecting, vigorous to excite the mental eye from dark oblivion's night. Come, blessed power, thy mystics' memory wake to holy rites, and Lethe's fetters break."
-Orphic Hymn 77

Between my fear and certainty
Flows a fount of Buttermilk
Creamy, fresh, foamy...
Splashing wildly, lively
Falling smooth
Here, amidst my oppositions
A clear note of one hundred voices
Sings my heart to peace
A harmonic cacophony
Not expecting, nor despairing
But simply humming
To a silent, godly beat

Between my fear and certainty
Flows a fount of Buttermilk
Creamy, fresh, foamy...
Splashing wildly, lively
Falling smooth
Here, amidst my oppositions
A clear note of one hundred voices
Sings my heart to peace
A harmonic cacophony
Not expecting, nor despairing
But simply humming
To a silent, godly beat

"The Mark of Life" 2025

At the nexus of the living, life and death meet at the crossroads. Where life is most, death presents her dangers most vehemently. All coalesce at the point where Being is most present, most concentrated. Where life is worth most, all things gather, yearning to taste but a drop of that which is, that which makes them most Be. At the crossroads every manner of creature passes and stops, be it demon or angel, living or dying, maker or taker. When life is pursued with all one has, do not be taken aback by what will show up, you are after what all other things are after, if you or they know it, it does not quite matter. All orientate towards this point. If one doesn't, they cease to be, cutting themselves from what nourishes them. Live vigorously without fear, pursue that which pulls you forth, life will teach you the rest.

#penart #symbolicart #artist

"The Mark of Life" 2025

At the nexus of the living, life and death meet at the crossroads. Where life is most, death presents her dangers most vehemently. All coalesce at the point where Being is most present, most concentrated. Where life is worth most, all things gather, yearning to taste but a drop of that which is, that which makes them most Be. At the crossroads every manner of creature passes and stops, be it demon or angel, living or dying, maker or taker. When life is pursued with all one has, do not be taken aback by what will show up, you are after what all other things are after, if you or they know it, it does not quite matter. All orientate towards this point. If one doesn't, they cease to be, cutting themselves from what nourishes them. Live vigorously without fear, pursue that which pulls you forth, life will teach you the rest.

#penart #symbolicart #artist

O Rising Sun, bring on the new, enlighten the unknown, bless each creature you shine upon, wipe the slumber from our eyes, remind us of that which we have forgotten.

Goodbye my friends, to new beginnings we now head

O Rising Sun, bring on the new, enlighten the unknown, bless each creature you shine upon, wipe the slumber from our eyes, remind us of that which we have forgotten.

Goodbye my friends, to new beginnings we now head

O how the fire whispers water into smoke
Releasing that which is held within without
O fire release from me these dark ambitions
Uncover them to be bright flames
That would warm a sooted soul
That would shine a blackened spirit
Making my heart a bonfire, so to do the same

O how the fire whispers water into smoke
Releasing that which is held within without
O fire release from me these dark ambitions
Uncover them to be bright flames
That would warm a sooted soul
That would shine a blackened spirit
Making my heart a bonfire, so to do the same

From the sketchbook.

My relationship to the concept of modernity, to "the inevitable progress", has been struggle for me to contend with. It has manifested in a rejection of social media and a rather negative view of technological optimism. Instagram, as an artist and singer, gives me an unprecedented opportunity to share my work, go beyond limits of space and time, reach people who are cut from the same cloth as me that I otherwise would be unable to meet. This is still a theory. Many people have told me is true, the fruits still have not bore.
Perhaps the problem of modern man is that he thinks he is modern. He believes we have passed a threshold of no return, tradition and ancient ways are too soaked in superstition and historical baggage to be any use for him. And yet, in the words of Plato, in the songs of peasants I have found meaning, identity, and solutions that "modern theories of man" could not offer me.
I do not wish for a conservative return, nor a progressive destruction, but rather a continous homage to Tradition, honoring ancient forms and finding their worthiness in my present and future life. For the world has not changed, we have not changed, only our conceptions and perceptions, and will they hold sway? Are they true accounts of reality or just another phase?
My use of technology, my use of Instagram will be in this vein, a tool, nothing more, to share that which was, is, and will be. Perhaps it will lead to me or me to them, people who wish to sit at the bonfire, whose kindle was started by a name now not known, but deeply felt.

#sketchbook

From the sketchbook.

My relationship to the concept of modernity, to "the inevitable progress", has been struggle for me to contend with. It has manifested in a rejection of social media and a rather negative view of technological optimism. Instagram, as an artist and singer, gives me an unprecedented opportunity to share my work, go beyond limits of space and time, reach people who are cut from the same cloth as me that I otherwise would be unable to meet. This is still a theory. Many people have told me is true, the fruits still have not bore.
Perhaps the problem of modern man is that he thinks he is modern. He believes we have passed a threshold of no return, tradition and ancient ways are too soaked in superstition and historical baggage to be any use for him. And yet, in the words of Plato, in the songs of peasants I have found meaning, identity, and solutions that "modern theories of man" could not offer me.
I do not wish for a conservative return, nor a progressive destruction, but rather a continous homage to Tradition, honoring ancient forms and finding their worthiness in my present and future life. For the world has not changed, we have not changed, only our conceptions and perceptions, and will they hold sway? Are they true accounts of reality or just another phase?
My use of technology, my use of Instagram will be in this vein, a tool, nothing more, to share that which was, is, and will be. Perhaps it will lead to me or me to them, people who wish to sit at the bonfire, whose kindle was started by a name now not known, but deeply felt.

#sketchbook

Learn to be fertile like the field
Fire green stalks with vigorous breath
When the sun shines and the rain is good
Set out your seeds to germ
When the night is cold and winter storms
Retreat to your ground, your place of rest
And do not fret that flowers are not abound
For every season there is a call
A Seeding, Growing, Blooming sound
Do not flower when bees fly far
Do not wither from cows' graze
Learn your cycles and sing along
Suffer you will, you need not try
Needless worry brings you down
Bumble brambles to my song
And teach me how I might sing along

Learn to be fertile like the field
Fire green stalks with vigorous breath
When the sun shines and the rain is good
Set out your seeds to germ
When the night is cold and winter storms
Retreat to your ground, your place of rest
And do not fret that flowers are not abound
For every season there is a call
A Seeding, Growing, Blooming sound
Do not flower when bees fly far
Do not wither from cows' graze
Learn your cycles and sing along
Suffer you will, you need not try
Needless worry brings you down
Bumble brambles to my song
And teach me how I might sing along

Spending time sketching with friends and ancient gods
#sketchbook

Spending time sketching with friends and ancient gods
#sketchbook

There is a beauty in decomposition,
those parts that are most solid, most central remain longest.
All that whithers and decays does so quickly.
All that is momentary and illusory falls away,
revealing its nature as that which it is, a thing falling.
In death-- that which is falling, the dead finally fall and that which is alive soars upward.
If only it has wings to grow, to sprout, to bloom RICH FRUIT

#doodle

There is a beauty in decomposition,
those parts that are most solid, most central remain longest.
All that whithers and decays does so quickly.
All that is momentary and illusory falls away,
revealing its nature as that which it is, a thing falling.
In death-- that which is falling, the dead finally fall and that which is alive soars upward.
If only it has wings to grow, to sprout, to bloom RICH FRUIT

#doodle

Glory to the setting Sun
Bringing days to end
Night now comes
But I do not fear
For you I know are near

Glory to the setting Sun
Who bathes in golden hues
Bees, trees, and lil ol me
Painted warmly ray by ray

Glory to the Setting Sun
Pay the dead their dues
To that land you now head
Bring back the good news

Glory, Glory, Glory!
The living cannot die!
The dead rise!
And so will I

Glory to the setting Sun
Bringing days to end
Night now comes
But I do not fear
For you I know are near

Glory to the setting Sun
Who bathes in golden hues
Bees, trees, and lil ol me
Painted warmly ray by ray

Glory to the Setting Sun
Pay the dead their dues
To that land you now head
Bring back the good news

Glory, Glory, Glory!
The living cannot die!
The dead rise!
And so will I

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