But it’s not just what Shalva creates—it’s how he creates it. His performances blur the line between artist and audience, inviting viewers to step into the chaos with him, uncomfortably close. He’ll ask you the strangest, most probing questions at lightning speed, breaking down the walls of polite interaction until there’s nowhere left to hide. “We’re all performers of our own lives,” he says, but what happens when the mask slips? When the ‘performance’ of your identity falls apart?
Shalva thrives on this tension, especially when it unnerves his Western audience. “People are so used to nice and pleasant things,” he explains. “We have to smile at each other. We have to connect. But discomfort? People can’t handle it.” And he’s right. We live in an age where discomfort is seen as something to avoid, to escape from. But Shalva disagrees. He believes that only through discomfort do we truly confront ourselves. Only by hurting a little—emotionally, mentally—do we open up to a deeper, more vulnerable connection.
This is where Shalva’s art hits hardest. It’s not about pleasing the eye or feeding the ego. It’s about breaking down our superficial walls, exposing the dirty corner we all have, but refuse to acknowledge. His works reflect versions of ourselves we don’t show publicly—the parts we hide. And it’s this dissonance, between the carefully constructed self and the chaotic reality beneath, that gives his art its undeniable power.
His creative process mirrors this same rawness. Perfection is a human invention, a societal construct designed to cage creativity. Instead, he experiments, fails, and tries again, each failure bringing him closer to his next breakthrough. His work is messy, unfinished, and chaotic—much like life itself. Vulnerability, he argues, is the ultimate human experience.
And perhaps that’s what today’s society is missing. In an era dominated by curated images, instant validation, and an endless pursuit of perfection, Shalva’s art offers something uncomfortable but vital: truth. The kind of truth that hurts. The kind of truth that makes you think twice before you hit ‘like’ on yet another filtered selfie.
Shalva welcomes you to the discomfort zone.