ART VILLA

My story begins before me. It begins with my mother.

She was born the daughter of a legendary footballer, one of the best of his generation in Bulgaria. My grandfather played for the national team and trained future legends. He left behind a legacy of discipline, excellence, and devotion to craft. That legacy lives in my mother, and through her, it lives in me.

But my mother was not only an athlete’s daughter. She was an artist.

Before life narrowed her path, she was a dancer. She performed professionally. She used to tell me stories about the roles she danced, about Greek mythology, about the Minotaur. She would reenact scenes in front of my eyes, transforming our living room into a stage. She had a beautiful, powerful voice. That voice is where mine comes from. It is why I can sing.

She also wrote. Constantly. That is where my love for words comes from.

Every artistic talent that lives in my body exists because of this woman.

Yet life asked her to disappear.

She married my father and became a housewife for sixteen years. She abandoned her art. She abandoned her dancing. She abandoned her writing. She even abandoned her career as a history professor in order to raise me and give me everything she had.

When my parents separated, she was left with nothing.

No safety net. No recognition. No space to return to who she was. She was forced to clean houses to survive.

This woman, who once danced mythology into being, has spent the last decade cleaning other people’s homes. Her body is broken. She can barely walk. She had a kidney removed. She now lives a small, painful, diminished life in London, far from the woman she once was.

And she is not alone.

Today, my friend Antoinette is coming to clean my house. Antoinette is a violinist. She has played at the Royal Albert Hall. And yet she tells me she has an empty bank account. She cleans houses to survive.

These are not isolated stories.

They are everywhere.

Artists. Musicians. Creators. People with beauty in their veins who were forced into lives far away from their purpose simply to endure.

This is why I want to build the Art Villa.

I want to create an art villa in Bali and bring my mother there to manage it. Not as charity, but as restoration. As dignity. As a return to self.

I want to turn this villa into a living, breathing sanctuary for artists and musicians. A place to stay. A place to create. A place to teach and to learn. A place to share meals, stories, and music. A community. A home. A refuge for those who have lost their way, and for those who were never given the conditions to thrive.

This will not be an investment made for money.

It will be an investment made to change lives.

I know I can change my mother’s life.

I know I can help Antoinette.

And I know I can help many others.

As I speak this, I feel shivers in my body and tears in my eyes. I have never felt my heart resonate with a vision this deeply. This is not just inspiration. This is recognition.

My grandfather saw angels and built a church. That was his calling.

This is mine.

He built a place for faith. I will build a place for art. A living sanctuary where creativity is honored, where people remember who they are, and where purpose is no longer postponed.

This came to me in a dream because it is not an idea.

It is a destiny remembering itself.

Amen.