The Gauguin Syndrome —
and the First Whisper from the Forest

Before I continue, I want to tell you another story — one far more important, with a hint of history. Allow me to take you far back in time. The years are the 1880s, and the place — or places — are Paris, Copenhagen, the island of Martinique, later the Pacific island of Tahiti. Paul Gauguin, a young and ambitious stockbroker, lives a good bourgeois life with his Danish wife, Mette-Sophie, and their five children. He earns very well on the stock market (his annual income is about 30,000 francs — equivalent to roughly $150,000 today). He doubles this considerable sum through successful art market operations.

Everything seems more than rosy — until the 1882 stock market crash significantly reduces his income. Gauguin, then 34 years old, decides to devote himself entirely to his great passion: painting. From that moment on, he lives as a professional artist and bohemian, without achieving any noticeable success during his lifetime (although, unlike Van Gogh, with whom he shares a deeply problematic friendship, he does manage to sell some paintings). He dies in 1903 on the island of Tahiti — and only three years later, his paintings become both artistic and commercial triumphs, eventually ranking among the most expensive ever sold.

The story of this restless spirit has been told many times and in many ways. But what I want to focus on here is the crisis that led him to all of this. At its heart, the radical turning point in Gauguin’s life is a kind of existential crisis — similar to the midlife crisis, but distinct enough to deserve its own name: the “Gauguin Syndrome.” It carries relatively clear characteristics that set it apart from the broader class of existential crises:

It is a crisis linked to a radical life change — one where a person abandons a good, stable existence and chooses the artistic path, a dream that likely defined their inner life all along but was long suppressed, “sacrificed” for bourgeois stability. As a result, the person loses much of their social status and financial security. In practical terms, they become the proverbial violinist who can’t feed a household — but gain, along with this loss, a powerful sense of freedom and personal authenticity. And in most cases of the syndrome, that is enough to sustain them until the end of their life, with or without major creative success.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’m telling this story because it happened to me — almost by the book.

When I left Bulgaria, I wasn’t just moving to a wealthier place. I made myself the most solemn vow: that the door to the artist’s life was closed forever. I would never again allow myself to be a “violinist.” (Remember, I had burned everything — that small pile of ashes had to shine before my eyes like a lighthouse, to keep me from ever, ever losing my way.) Stability and public approval were to be my only goals for the next ten years.

Until I exploded, that is.

By the late ’90s, the illusion of creating something meaningful on the chessboard had evaporated. I was flailing — scratching an itch rather than seeking a conscious path. I tried all sorts of things, mostly connected to the computer. (By then, I had become fairly skilled at solving technical challenges, and my work in Germany combined technical expertise with inventive uses of visual elements — I worked in book design, specializing in design and typography.) In one of these chaotic impulses, I began experimenting seriously with 3D computer graphics — still a very exotic field at the time.

That’s how I found my way to the Ghost Forest. Its earliest, most embryonic form was actually an idea for a computer game, sparked by a few conversations with an acquaintance who had already dabbled in game development. Some motifs emerged: an anthill, a hedgehog, an owl. I started developing them in my imagination, turning them into fragments of a playable story. But it was still so underdeveloped and fragile that, if it hadn’t been for the next miracle, Firecurl would probably never have been born.

And the miracle was this: a series of unexpected meetings and events that, without my realizing it at first, pushed me dangerously close to breaking the biggest taboo in my life at that time — the ban on writing.

The first important catalyst came from… Ivan Kostov (then Bulgaria’s prime minister) — or rather, from his government team, who in 2000 organized that strange gathering in Sofia for Bulgarian emigrants around the world, called “Bulgarian Easter.” I no longer remember exactly how it happened, but I found myself among the invitees. I spent about ten days in Sofia, mostly watching endlessly boring discussions (there was no shortage of empty talk, no surprise there), but at least the snacks were good, and the evenings offered some vaguely remembered entertainment.

It was here that the cosmic spheres shifted again. Through a series of unpredictable events, I suddenly found myself in contact with a prominent Bulgarian director and animator — whose name I won’t mention — and with him began a long, painful pattern. Again and again, I would throw myself headfirst against the wall, investing huge efforts and expenses to realize the story of Firecurl — and again and again, I would end up with no significant success or recognition.

Or maybe… I just refuse to recognize success when it’s right under my nose. Who knows.

In any case — it had begun.