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There’s a rare quality to Aissulu Kadyrzhan — a presence that feels both grounded and otherworldly.
To step into Aissulu’s world is to enter a landscape shaped by sensitivity and intention — where art, design, and fashion coexist as forms of consciousness. Her home, her gestures, and the paintings she creates all seem to breathe the same rhythm — one of harmony, curiosity, and quiet power.
A loyal collector and friend of NINObrand, she embodies the brand’s ethos of intelligent minimalism and emotional clarity. In this conversation, Aissulu invites us into her inner and outer worlds — revealing how beauty, for her, is not a surface but a frequency, a way of listening to life itself.
I think my relationship with painting began long before I realized it. Growing up in Kazakhstan, a land of vast open spaces, where the horizon stretches endlessly — I was always captivated by the meeting of earth and sky. I could spend hours watching the light shift and the colors breathe across that immensity. That quiet observation became a kind of inner language, a way of sensing the world.
When I finally started painting, it felt like remembering a language I already knew. Through it, I could translate not only what I see, but what I feel — presence, memory, the invisible connections between things. Over time, painting became the most natural way for me to think, to feel, and to belong to the world around me.
I am most drawn to translate sensations of presence — those quiet, intangible states when the world feels suddenly alive and aware of itself. I often think of nature as a form of consciousness, where even the smallest thing, a stone, a cloud, a shadow, carries its own inner life. When I paint, I try to listen to that subtle dialogue between the visible and the invisible.
The vastness of the Kazakh steppe shaped this way of seeing. Growing up surrounded by open space taught me to feel rather than simply look — to sense the air, light, and distance as living forces. On the canvas, I try to evoke that same depth of stillness and connection, where perception slows down and the boundaries between self, world, and awareness begin to dissolve.
Scale, for me, is not just a matter of size. It is a way of embodying space and energy. Working on a large canvas allows me to enter the painting physically, to move with it, almost as if I am inside a landscape rather than depicting one. The gestures become more like breathing — expansive, rhythmic, and alive.
I think large scale offers a kind of freedom for both the painter and the viewer. It lets emotion unfold without constraint and gives energy the space to move and settle. In some way, it echoes the vastness of the Kazakh steppe I grew up with — that sense of horizon, openness, and immersion that has never left me.
Lately, my process has been centered on observation — really paying attention to the world around me, especially the natural world. I am drawn to living things — trees, stones, plants, animals, clouds, skies, even planets — and to the quiet vitality they hold. This connects deeply to my interest in animism, the idea that everything possesses its own inner life or consciousness.
I often begin by taking many photographs of something that captures my attention. Later, I spend time looking through them, trying to understand what exactly drew me in — what feeling or presence I want to convey. From there, I might make a small sketch, and then gradually translate that into a painting on canvas.
At some point, the painting begins to take on its own life. It starts to guide me rather than the other way around, and I simply follow what it tells me — responding to its rhythm, its mood, its quiet demands. That is when it becomes a true dialogue between the seen and the felt, between myself and the world.
My studio feels like a sanctuary — a place where the spirit of painting lives. When I arrive, I always light incense and spend a few quiet moments in silence, just to greet the space and settle into its atmosphere. It is a simple ritual, but it helps me shift from the outside world into a more attentive, receptive state.
I try to keep the studio clean and orderly, especially at the end of a painting session. That act of cleaning feels like a small gesture of respect — a way to close the dialogue with the work until the next day. These quiet routines help me create a space where I can listen, focus, and let the paintings unfold naturally.
Silence is essential for me — both inner and outer. I need my mind to be quiet and calm, open enough to receive the energy of painting. It is a kind of equilibrium I try to maintain, and that is why I do not listen to music while I work.
But my studio is not completely silent — there is a gentle soundscape that surrounds it. I often hear birds, the wind moving through the trees, or the soft murmur of the creek nearby. Those natural sounds feel like part of the rhythm of painting itself — subtle, alive, and grounding. They remind me that I am working within a larger conversation with the world.
For me, all visual forms — art, fashion, architecture, or gardens — are guided by the principles of beauty. I define beauty as a kind of dynamic equilibrium, where color, movement, rhythm, and proportion come into alignment. When that happens, you can sense it immediately — it feels true, alive, and complete.
Through years of painting, my eyes have become sensitive to these relationships. I recognize them almost intuitively, and I am drawn to moments where things fall into balance, even if that balance includes tension or contrast. Sometimes a slight dissonance or irregularity creates vitality, but in the end, I always return to a sense of harmony — that quiet feeling of coherence where everything seems to breathe together.
For me, clothing is another way of composing — like painting in a different dimension. It continues the same visual language of color, texture, proportion, and rhythm. The way a fabric moves, how colors interact, or how a silhouette relates to space can evoke the same feeling I look for in painting.
I see dressing as an expression of mood and presence. It is about sensing what feels in tune on a given day — what materials, tones, or shapes resonate with the moment. In that sense, clothing, like painting, becomes a way of practicing harmony and awareness in everyday life.
I’m drawn to clothes that feel sculptural and slightly austere. Perhaps that comes from the restrained nature of Kazakhstan — its dry climate and the vast openness of the steppe. There’s a quiet elegance in simplicity, in forms that hold both strength and restraint.
I also love pieces that can shift and transform depending on how they’re worn — that modular quality speaks to my fascination with reinterpretation. Maybe that sensitivity comes from growing up during the last years of the Soviet Union, when we had very little and learned to be inventive with what we had. Out of limitation came imagination.
That is why I feel such a deep connection to NINObrand. Her designs embody the same duality I am drawn to — confidence and vulnerability, structure and softness, straightforwardness and complexity. Her pieces speak through shifting silhouettes, tactile fabrics, and quiet details that respond to the body’s rhythm. I also connect to her restrained palette — my favorite black, alongside nuanced blues, grays, and warm pinks and beiges — together they feel like a three-dimensional painting. Each piece is modular and can be combined with others from her collections. They converse effortlessly, creating a sense of coherence and harmony even as every new collection feels distinct and boldly reimagined.
For me, beauty is a state when something reveals itself fully, without forcing or pretending. It is not about perfection but about alignment, when inner and outer worlds come into balance. You can feel it as a quiet vibration, a kind of truth that resonates beyond appearance.
I think beauty lives in that dynamic equilibrium — in the rhythm of things breathing together. It can be found in a landscape, a gesture, a piece of fabric, or a fleeting moment of light. It is an energy that draws you in and holds you still, reminding you that everything alive, seen or unseen, carries its own pulse of being.
The world I want to live in is calm, tactile, and alive. Its colors are soft and breathing, shades of earth, sky, water, and stone, shifting gently with the light. The textures are natural and imperfect: raw wood, linen, clay, the surface of a rock warmed by the sun.
It is a world that feels open and spacious, where beauty is quietly revealed. There is rhythm to it — the sound of wind, the movement of leaves, the hum of life in balance. I imagine a place where everything, human and nonhuman, exists in mutual awareness, where stillness and vitality coexist, like a long inhale and exhale of the earth.
In the beginning, my work came from a place of resistance. Growing up in an environment dominated by men, I felt a strong need to assert myself — to claim space through painting. I created large, monumental canvases depicting women’s bodies in states of power, using bold brushstrokes, high contrasts, and a deep presence of black. That intensity was my way of speaking, of being heard.
Over time, something shifted. My practice has become quieter, more contemplative. I no longer feel the need to prove or defend. Instead, I listen and observe. My recent paintings are more nuanced and subtle; they seek to reveal the hidden nature of things rather than control them. I try to step aside, to let the work breathe on its own. There is less emotion in the expressive sense, but more presence — a gentler kind of truth.
Lately, my curiosity has turned inward. I have been paying closer attention to myself, trying to understand, accept, and nurture a part of me that is kind and compassionate. It is a quiet inner work, but it changes everything. As I grow that gentler presence inside, I feel freer to be authentic, to experiment, and to let go of the fear of judgment from the professional world.
This shift has opened space for new directions in my practice. I have been exploring video — a medium where I still feel uncertain and a bit naive — yet I allow myself to stay in that vulnerability, to learn through not knowing. It has become less about mastery and more about discovery, staying present in the unfolding.
I hope they feel a sense of stillness, as if time has slowed and something inside them has quietly opened. I want the paintings to create space for presence, where perception deepens and the boundaries between self and world soften.
More than anything, I hope they feel connected — to themselves, to nature, to something larger and alive that moves through all of us. If they leave with a feeling that can’t be fully named but lingers — like a breath, a vibration, a moment of calm recognition — then the work has done what it was meant to do.
With heartfelt gratitude to Aissulu for opening her home and sharing her intimate creative world with us.
It’s a gift to witness the quiet poetry of her process and presence.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into her luminous universe.
