We recently had the chance to connect with Kriszti Sarusi and have shared our conversation below.
Good morning Kriszti, we’re so happy to have you here with us and we’d love to explore your story and how you think about life and legacy and so much more. So let’s start with a question we often ask: What’s more important to you—intelligence, energy, or integrity?
All of them are important for me, however, intelligence is at the top of my list.
Intelligence in art is more than just technical skill or talent—it’s a vital engine behind meaning, communication, and innovation. It helps an artist go beyond what is seen to explore what is felt, imagined, or questioned. Intelligence allows artists to interpret the world, shape culture, and create works that resonate deeply with others.
Intelligence gives art depth, shape, and longevity. Emotional intelligence, especially, helps the artist to connect—not just with their audience, but with themselves. It lets them speak without words, scream without sound, and know exactly when to shut up and let the piece breathe.
Art without intelligence can be decorative. But art with intelligence can change people.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
Hi beautiful people🧡 My name is Kriszti, aka @thatartsyvagabond
I was born in Hungary, but grew up in Austria and in Malta. I spent several years doing my Masters degree in film and in art in the Midwest . Eventually, I started exhibiting in Kansas City and in Minneapolis at First Fridays and in local galleries
My art is of human connections. These canvas paintings delve into human experience, exploring the intense feelings that bind us. Each stroke of vivid color is a brushstroke of emotion, where poetry and passion intertwine. Through abstract portraits, the paintings reveal the beauty of bodies infused with heartfelt sentiments.
I always paint real humans and real connections. Whoever wants to model and become immortal through a canvas. I paint for myself and to exhibit then sell and also do commissions.
Amazing, so let’s take a moment to go back in time. Who were you before the world told you who you had to be?
I was someone who thought elegance was survival.
Growing up in early 2000s Hungary, I found myself quietly absorbing the women flickering on the screen of TCM—Grace Kelly with her poise, Greta Garbo with her silence, Gene Tierney with her impossible beauty. They seemed to have mastered a secret code: don’t crack, don’t raise your voice, and for heaven’s sake, wear lipstick even when your heart is breaking. I learned early how to smile like everything was fine and sit just so. Being classy became a kind of armor.
But then, something shifted. Maybe I got tired of the silence. Maybe I realized I had opinions too big for good posture. Somewhere along the way, I discovered Katharine Hepburn—and suddenly it was okay, even glorious, to be sharp-tongued, to interrupt with wit, to laugh loudly, even (especially) at myself.
Letting go of the performance of perfection has been the most liberating thing I’ve done. Because the truth is, in art—and in life—there’s no such thing as the “elegant” way to feel. Emotions are messy. Opinions are loud. Sometimes the most honest thing you can make is ugly. And I love ugly. I love an ugly cry, an ugly painting, the kind of ugly that comes from telling the truth with no filter and no mascara.
Now, I don’t just sit pretty—I show up. I speak. I spill. I create with a little chaos, a lot of humor, and a refusal to stay in the role I was assigned. Because life isn’t meant to be a silent film. It’s meant to be lived—noisy, unfiltered, and fully mine.
When you were sad or scared as a child, what helped?
I used to think being on vacation was the ultimate dream—no school, no alarms, just freedom. But then summer would stretch too long. I’d run out of books, run out of paper, run out of things to paint. The days blurred, and suddenly it didn’t matter what time I woke up. That scared me more than anything.
That’s when I discovered the comfort of *work ethic*—not in a productivity-obsessed way, but in the sense that making things gave me structure, purpose, a reason to keep going. I realized I’m not afraid of being busy. I’m afraid of being blank. Of waking up one day with no ideas, no sketches waiting to be finished, no spark pulling me to create.
Even now, the thought of an empty house—no siblings arguing in the background, no pets underfoot, no messy table with paintbrushes drying in a cup—feels cold. Unsettling. Creating is how I fight off the silence. It’s how I stay tethered to the world. That quiet terror of nothingness is still there, but so is the relief that even in fear, I know what to reach for: a pencil, a canvas, a wild new thought.
Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. What do you believe is true but cannot prove?
That the greatest wisdom is kindness—and that you can see it in a painting. Not in perfect technique or clever concepts, but in the way someone paints with care. The softness of a brushstroke, the choice to show vulnerability, the decision to create beauty—or even ugliness—with honesty. I believe the most profound art isn’t always loud or polished. Sometimes it’s just quietly kind.
Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What do you understand deeply that most people don’t?
Emotions. History. Where a person has been—internally. When someone poses for me, it’s never just about their face or figure. It’s about the quiet things they carry. The colors in my paintings reflect the stories I sense—sometimes without a word. My friends know I can read between the lines of a sentence, spot a shift in tone, and tell how someone’s changed, why, and what it’s doing to them. I feel too much, maybe—but that’s why I paint people. Humans have this rare, beautiful ability to translate emotion into expression. I just try to capture it.
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