Growing up as a child who at five wore tights over his head, at ten sold pencil-drawn packets of street-picked leaves as “tea,” and by fifteen built a small empire inside a computer game, Daniil Ilnytskyy learned early how to create forms where meaning matters as much as surface. He was drawn not to objects themselves, but to the ideas they could carry — a curiosity that would later be tested, fractured, and eventually reassembled into something new.

At twenty, after moving to the United States — a place he once imagined as a mecca of flourishing dreams and new beginnings — Daniil encountered something unexpected: emptiness. Dreams faded. Desires lost their shape. Motion continued, but without direction. Attempts to move through this state — by clinging to the past or projecting certainty into the future — only deepened the fragmentation. Parts of himself felt suspended, scattered, waiting to be gathered.

Perspective shifted through people. Meeting others — each carrying their own struggles, doubts, and quiet searching — Daniil began to recognize a shared condition. The lack of inner grounding was visible in their words, their pauses, and the stories they told. Different lives, different paths — yet the same underlying absence.

One December night, the question became unavoidable.

What if emptiness could be met not with distraction, but with meaning?

What if the objects we live with every day could offer stability — not through appearance or function, but through what they hold?

That is how Iznanka emerged: as a way to make room for personal meaning within physical form. To create everyday objects that allow people to name and carry what matters to them — people, dreams, memories, affections, questions — held inwardly rather than declared.