Ksenia Yolk
- Anna Lilli Garai
- 22 hours ago
- 4 min read
Ksenia Yolk lives and works in Tallinn, Estonia. She draws what she sees around her: a cup of coffee, a quiet street, the morning light. Her work is digital, yet it maintains a soft, handmade feel. The scenes are calm and reflect everyday life. In pieces like “Estonian Breakfast,” “Favourite Local Bakery,” and “Good Morning, Tallinn,” there’s a sense of familiarity, as if you’ve seen them before.
Q: You often draw from the everyday — coffee cups, small corners, quiet rituals. What makes a moment feel worth keeping?
A: I’d say I truly value life and all the little fragments that make it whole. They might seem insignificant, but they create a sense of home and comfort.
A mug we brought back from Prague, coffee from my favourite café, my grandmother’s coffee pot, or the jam our family has been making for generations — they’re all simple yet warm details that make me feel like myself.
I love it when everyday objects carry stories — when the things around us hold memories of moments, people and journeys. There’s something deeply human and genuine about that. I often think it’s these small details that shape our sense of happiness: not the grand events, but the warm morning light, the familiar smell of coffee, the dish that holds a memory. All of this grounds me, brings me back to the present, and reminds me that life is already happening — right now.
Q: “Estonian Breakfast” mixes comfort with imperfection. Do you think small flaws make a scene more real?
A: I absolutely believe that textures and certain imperfections help to convey atmosphere.
For me, this piece is a sort of memory of my youth — when I could quite happily spend the whole day on coffee and cigarettes after a wild night. The roughness and texture reflect that slightly crumpled feeling and the lingering trace of the night before. But the overall warm colour palette hints that the hangover will pass, and a good day lies ahead.
Q: Your digital works have a soft, handmade feeling. How do you get that warmth through a screen?
A: Much of what I draw carries a personal meaning for me — and I think that’s the main ingredient.
When working digitally, I use paper textures, pencil-like brushes and soft, imperfect strokes — all of it helps to translate my mood and bring a touch of warmth and tactility to the digital surface.
Q: “Favourite Local Bakery” captures a place that feels both local and universal. What draws you to scenes like that?
A: I’m drawn to scenes that feel simple and familiar, yet universal — places where anyone might feel at home. A bakery is one of those spaces. It instantly evokes warmth, cosiness, the smell of fresh bread and the quiet light of morning. There’s a ritual in it, an everyday rhythm that connects people — after all, everyone has their own “favourite bakery”, a place they long to return to.
I love painting such scenes because they exist at the intersection of the personal and the shared. On the one hand, I draw from a specific place — its atmosphere and details — but on the other, I create an image in which anyone can recognise something of their own. These scenes aren’t loud or theatrical, but they’re full of life: familiar movements, quiet waiting, the scent of coffee, light falling across a window. Those quiet moments are the ones I cherish most, because they hold the beauty of real life — the kind we often overlook.
Q: “Good Morning, Tallinn” has this quiet sense of time passing. Do you think about nostalgia when you work?
A: Yes, I think there’s often a sense of nostalgia in my work — though not as a longing for the past. It’s more a warmth towards fleeting moments. When I draw, I try to capture the mood of time itself — the morning when the city is just waking, the soft light, the hush, the sounds that will soon dissolve into the day. There’s calmness in that, but also a gentle melancholy, because everything is always changing.
I don’t try to bring the past back — I want to hold on to a sense of presence, to catch a second before it slips away. For me, nostalgia isn’t about “things were better before”, but about noticing the fragility of a moment and appreciating it here and now.
Q: Your images feel intimate but open. How do you decide how much of yourself to leave in a picture?
A: For me, drawing is always a dialogue between the inner and the outer. Every piece inevitably holds a part of me — in the colours I choose, the mood, the details I decide to highlight or leave in shadow. But I try not to tell everything directly. I like when an illustration leaves space for the viewer — a place where they can feel something of their own.
I don’t think of it as a conscious decision of “how much of myself to reveal” — it happens naturally. Sometimes a piece feels deeply personal, and you can sense it straight away. Other times it becomes more universal, as if I’m simply observing rather than speaking about myself. I think the balance lies there — when something personal is honest enough to be recognisable to others.
