Paintings — Mila Vasileva

The paintings of Mila Vasileva are not merely paintings — they are memory.

Each of her canvases breathes the air of Old Sofia, where the trams still ring with brass numbers and the scent of linden trees lingers after an afternoon rain.

She does not paint cities, but the remembrance of them. Her houses are not architecture, but faces of time — weathered façades that smile softly, as if recalling the footsteps of those who once lived within them. Upon their rooftops rests a silence — that old silence only an artist with long memory can capture.

Oil, in her hands, is not a medium, but a prayer in color — humble, gentle, earthly. Even when she paints sunsets or streets, Mila seeks not effect, but dignity. There is warmth in her shadows — the human warmth with which an old master would touch the shoulder of a student and whisper: “Do not add color here — add feeling.”

And the viewer, standing before her painting, feels the past draw near without sound, as though summer from 1923 enters through an open window. Thus her world remains alive — not as a museum, but as a memory that does not wish to depart.

Lia