Ana

Ana grew up drawing elaborate maps of the stairwell outside her family’s Kutaisi flat. Each landing had a nickname; every neighbour acquired a tiny illustrated flag. She was less interested in reaching the roof than in persuading someone to come along. That habit survived the move to Tbilisi, along with a spectacularly unreliable sense of direction.

After a semester of making immaculate layouts that nobody wanted to read, she began folding one-sheet zines about ordinary city mishaps. A broken umbrella became a travel guide; a missed bus became a comic. She now keeps a box of unfinished editions under the desk she shares with Medea, who insists that a floor is not an archive.

The playful khinkali drawing suits her belief that a familiar Georgian detail can carry wit without becoming a souvenir cliché. She likes bold, economical marks and letters that feel spoken. Her toughest reader is Salome, a childhood neighbour who will happily cross out a precious sentence and then walk across the city to return the notebook in person.

Recently, Rati offered to turn her wandering routes into a tidy interactive map. Ana agreed, then removed every instruction that sounded like an order. Their argument has become a project: a map with room for curiosity. She is learning that finishing something does not mean closing every possible door, and that an invitation needs an actual address.