Tatjana Toškov

I have always unfailingly sensed when something stirs beneath the surface—both in others and in myself. The question was never whether I would uncover it, only how to digest it.

I am Tatjana Toškov: a chronic gastritis patient, a deeply emotional person, and a passionate smoother of verbal sharp edges—with humor as my tool.

I was born on March 6, 1971, in Belgrade, and on that day I was the only blonde baby with long black hair in the hospital. The first thirty years of my life passed quickly, in constant movement back and forth between Zrenjanin and Majdanpek: schooling, working at Radio Television Majdanpek, then at Radio Zrenjanin—until time suddenly slowed down. One after another, the people dearest to me grew ill and passed away in my arms. And then—as any true masochist might—I completed training in elderly and palliative care, choosing to pursue it professionally.

So much—my own and other people’s—had accumulated inside me that I became painfully aware of the need for release. At that time, my daughter was attending a drawing school that also welcomed parents. I accepted the invitation, fully aware that I had no talent, simply wishing to spend some time in another world. A wonderful young woman seated us, introduced us to basic artistic concepts, placed a jug before us, and drew our special attention to the shadows… and that was when I completely lost myself. I had never truly been aware of them—not in that way. Once I saw and felt them, I began to draw like crazy.

After a few months, my daughter gave up, but I stayed… until, over time, it slowly became clear that it still wasn’t enough. What was missing was the very thing I had set out in search of—healing release. None of what I carried inside was coming out; I wasn’t letting go. I loved drawing, I enjoyed it, but at the same time I was quietly sliding deeper into illness.

Then—at just the right moment, neither earlier nor later—I heard about Art Brut Serbia, Goran Stojčetović, and depth drawing, through my friend Marjan Đarmati. I visited the group’s Facebook page, and that was it. These people were bringing everything out—pulling, tearing, pouring, radiating it all from within themselves, without pardon or prejudice… it was pure delight.

I slowly began to immerse myself in my own inner world. Not long after, in 2023, nocturnal epilepsy surfaced—undiagnosed, yet present throughout my entire life. Now, when I look back at my earlier works, I can see how much I had been speaking to myself and preparing for what was to come. And so, here I am.

The struggles are still here, of course, because this is no magic—it is a process that takes time and work. But everything is slowly becoming clearer and lighter. Much lighter.

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