“The abandoned art gallery, transformed into my ephemeral art atelier, became a symbol of both creativity and impermanence. Nestled among the trees on Karlovačka Ada, this space changed everything. Island atelier, built on sand, surrounded by trees, and kissed by the river’s breeze, stood as a testament to the creativity and impermanence that defined my journey. But just as the river gives life, it also takes it away. Knowing that this unique space wouldn’t last forever made it even more special. The island, the river, and the art we created were all in constant flux, reminding me to appreciate the present moment.”
The Rise and Fall of Island Atelier
The summer I arrived on Karlovačka Ada, I had no grand plans to become a professional artist—I simply wanted to paint, to pass the time during lockdown in a place of peace. But it was the abandoned art gallery, transformed into my open-air atelier that changed everything. That space, nestled among the trees, gave birth to the decision that would shape my future. Without it, I likely would have continued painting as a hobby. But, as with everything shaped by the forces of nature, its existence was temporary. Four years later, the Danube, relentless and unpredictable, claimed the atelier, washing away my creative sanctuary. Yet, as the river took, it also paved the way for something new—a different studio, a fresh beginning.


Life is Simple on the Island
I had visited island Karlovačka Ada many times before, but this time felt different. The island had always been a retreat from the rush of daily life. Among its natural beauty stood an art gallery, built entirely from natural materials for the Elysium Music Festival. However, with the festival canceled due to travel restrictions during the lockdown, the once lively gallery was now an abandoned structure, waiting for a new purpose. The impermanence of the gallery, built for a festival that never happened, resonated with me. It was a reminder that nothing lasts forever, and that even the most beautiful creations can be swept away by time and nature.
Years earlier, the Elysium Music Festival had brought life to Karlovačka Ada. For three consecutive years, enthusiasts gathered on the island, building stages and structures using materials found on-site—some of the structures built without cutting down trees. Among these structures was the art gallery, created by a Greek builder and local volunteers. It was a space built in harmony with the environment, with living trees as its pillars and a roof tied together with ropes and reeds.
However, in 2020, the festival was canceled due to travel restrictions. The organizers held off canceling the event for as long as possible, waiting to see if the travel restrictions would ease. But by early July, it became clear that the festival couldn’t go forward. Despite this, the infrastructure remained—the showers, campsites, and stages were all ready, but the visitors never came.
I saw the possibility that my materials and canvases, which had been on the Danube’s shore under the tree canopies, protected by nylon, could now be secured under the roof of the gallery. I needed a place that would protect my paintings and supplies from the elements, especially from wind and rain, but also a space that remained connected to the surrounding environment.

Creating a Ephemeral Studio in the Wild
With the organizers’ permission, I transformed the art gallery into my open-air atelier. It wasn’t perfect, but it was functional. The space was open on all sides, with only a basic roof made of reeds. The atelier had two entrances, one facing east and the other north, and its roof provided much-needed shelter from the rain while keeping me immersed in the island’s natural beauty. Over time, I made small improvements, weaving reeds into makeshift walls along one side and building a workspace with shelves where I could store and prepare my materials. Despite the improvements I made, I always knew the atelier was temporary. The river was a constant presence, a reminder that the island could reclaim this space at any moment.
Each day, I woke to the sounds of birds singing as the first light of dawn touched the island. The cool, humid air from the river mixed with the scent of trees, creating a peaceful atmosphere.

My days quickly fell into a rhythm: a morning coffee, followed by a swim in the Danube as I soaked in the warmth of the rising sun, then hours spent painting in the atelier, surrounded by the sounds of nature.
In the beginning, I often worked alone, but soon I was joined by friends and visitors. Friends would stop by, some to chat, others to watch, and a few to pick up a brush and join me in the act of creation. The studio became a collaborative space, open to anyone with the desire to express themselves. One of these visitors was my friend Dolores, whose journey to Mount Everest inspired me to paint pieces that later became part of my series of paintings “Journey to the Top”. That collaboration marked the start of my serious commitment to art.
A Season's End
Last Days on the Island
As the summer transitioned into autumn, the atmosphere on the island shifted once again. The rains came, and with them, a different feeling. The air grew colder and more humid, and the island, which had once been full of life, slowly emptied. By the end of the season, I found myself among the last people still camping there. The solitude, though challenging at times, gave me space to focus entirely on my art. It was during these final days that I dove deeper into my work, expressing more of what I had discovered about myself and the island over the years. As the nights grew colder and the weight of the damp air settled in, I knew it was time to prepare for the inevitable departure. Before leaving, I had to carefully pack up all my belongings, including the paintings I had created over the summer. As I packed up my belongings and secured the atelier for the winter, I felt a sense of melancholy. This ephemeral space had become my sanctuary, but I knew its days were numbered.

As the nights grew colder and the weight of the damp air settled in, I knew it was time to prepare for the inevitable departure. Before leaving, I had to carefully pack up all my belongings, including the paintings I had created over the summer. Everything needed to be taken back to the mainland; nothing could be left behind. The atelier itself needed to be secured, reinforced to withstand the harsh winter ahead. The roof and structure had to be tightened and fortified, ensuring it could endure the storms, wind, and possible snowfall that would come in the colder months. As I made the final adjustments, I realized this moment symbolized the end of one chapter and the anticipation of another. The island had given me so much, but now it was time for me to move on.
The Summers That Followed
Ephemeral Art and the Danube
In next summer, I returned to Karlovačka Ada, hoping to recapture the peace and magic of the previous summer. I started to paint the series Civilon – The Bull Who Loved to Eat Flowers. The island had become more crowded than the year before, especially on weekends, as more people sought refuge in nature during the pandemic. The quiet retreat I had known now bustled with activity, and to preserve the tranquility I so cherished, I adjusted my routine. I began camping during the weekdays and avoided the weekend crowds, reclaiming the sense of peace I had found the year before.
By the summer of 2022, I continued developing my series, moving between the island and my winter studio onshore, where I could refine my focus. That summer, we had a lot of work repairing the roof that had been damaged by snow; I replaced several beams that supported the roofing.By the next summer, I completed the Civilón series.


I also expanded the area behind the atelier to make space for my tent, with plans for the next summer to set up an improvised kitchen and a shelter with benches and a wooden table to host guests. But I had no idea what awaited me the next year. Then, in the winter of 2023, the highest water levels in over a decade struck the island. The water rose three times that year, and with each rise, more of the shore was swept away. The island’s landscape changed dramatically. The shoreline that had once supported the atelier was gone, and the structure, which had withstood years of wear, finally collapsed.
By late summer, the final flood destroyed what little remained of the beach in front of the atelier. The trees that once held up the roof had been swept into the river. When I arrived on the island after hearing about the destruction, I found the roof collapsed and the ground beneath it eroded away. The atelier, which had been my sanctuary for four summers, was now gone.
Facing Nature’s Power
Erosion and Loss
Island Karlovačka Ada has been made and shaped by the forces of the Danube. The island’s shores are constantly in flux, expanding and retreating with the rise and fall of the river. Over the years, I watched the sandy stretch between the atelier and the water shrink. When the first festival was held a decade ago, the beach in front of the art gallery was a wide expanse of about ten meters. But each summer, the river slowly claimed more of the land, pulling the shore closer to the gallery. By the time I transformed the gallery into an atelier, the beach had narrowed to about four meters. Still, there was enough space for people to pass by and for me to move around freely as I worked. But the river’s steady erosion was a reminder that this space—like everything else on the island—was temporary.
For the next two years, I spent my mornings hauling sand from the riverbank, trying to reinforce the ground in front of and around the atelier. It was a Sisyphean task, a form of exercise—and it became part of my morning routine.

Creation and Destruction
The River’s Lessons in Impermanence
When the flood finally receded, the atelier was beyond repair. Losing the atelier felt like a personal loss, but it was also a reminder of the transient nature of life and art. The island had given me a space to create, but it had also taken that space away. It was a stark symbol of the balance between creation and destruction that exists in nature—a balance I had come to accept over the years. The loss of the atelier was painful, but it was also a symbol of the impermanence that I had come to understand through my time on the island.
Two thoughts crossed my mind as I stood there: the desire to rebuild, not in the same place but somewhere new on the island, and the realization that perhaps it was time to find a more permanent space. I imagined a studio on the slopes of Fruška Gora, near Sremski Karlovci, where I could work year-round, close to nature but far enough from the river’s unpredictable tides. A place where I could continue to create without the constant threat of erosion. Still, for the permanent atelier to fulfill its purpose, the success of my artworks relied on them being bought by people willing to support my artistic endeavors.
Moving Forward
Embracing Change
The loss of my island atelier wasn’t the end of my creative journey; it was a transformation. The atelier had been a space of freedom, collaboration, and immersion in nature. Its destruction reminded me that creativity, like nature, is always in flux, always evolving. The island had given me so much, and while it had taken away the atelier, it had also given me the resilience to continue.
As I look toward the future, whether I rebuild the atelier on the island or create something new in the hills, I will carry the spirit of Karlovačka Ada with me. The island taught me about impermanence, the need to let go, and the beauty that comes from change. Creativity, like the river, is flowing, finding new paths. And with each loss, there is always the opportunity for new growth.



