A Portrait of a Gift: Katrina Aleksa on Class, Intimacy, and the Quiet Revolution of Gifting Art.

The art world has long been an architecture of exclusion. Its walls, often literal, often ideological, divide access not only to beauty but to belonging. There are definitely entry points, but they are narrow, guarded by codes of language, and the esteem of wealth and inheritance. To walk into a gallery without prior instruction is, for many, to walk into a room already halfway through its conversation.

For Katrina Aleksa, the conversation began in silence. It wasn’t textbooks or institutions that first made her feel permitted to participate in the visual arts, but a painting, Mark Rothko’s Black on Maroon, viewed at the Tate Modern in London. She was growing up in Latvia when she discovered Rothko, a name spoken with reverence, but more importantly, a name connected to her own geography. Rothko had been born in Daugavpils, a town not far from her own. The connection wasn’t grand, but it did feel grounding. The artist’s birthplace mattered; it rooted something deeply abstract in the tangibly intimate.

At the Tate Modern, Aleksa stood before Black on Maroon and felt, not that she understood it, but that she was permitted to stay. “Those deep, velvety layers of crimson and ebony seemed to envelope me in a contemplative silence. Here was an artist born in the same place I was, yet whose bold gestures redefined how colour itself could speak.”

Art, in that moment, became less about prestige and more about proximity.

This sense of being grounded in place and emotion continues to shape Aleksa’s work. As an art advisor and co-founder of the Association of Women in the Arts (AWITA), she moves fluently between structural knowledge of the markets and an instinct for tangible and intangible beauty, cultivating not just collections but relationships. Aleksa facilitates not simply the acquisition of objects but also the articulation of values such as, intimacy, love, self-identity. And her clients do not just purchase art, they learn the best way to love it and share that love with others.

Much of her philosophy is shaped by her sensitivity to class. “Class casts a long shadow over the art world,” she explains. “Before people even walk into a gallery, [they’re often negotiating a sense of inadequacy, of not knowing the right words, or fearing they’ll be found out.]” She likens it to walking into a private members’ club. “It shouldn’t be like that. Buying a piece of art should feel as casual and welcoming as grabbing your daily [coffee].” What she’s describing is not just an economy, but a culture. A set of beliefs that tell people art must be expensive to matter, and exclusive to be real. It’s a logic that collapses quickly under pressure, but still manages to keep most people on the outside looking in.

What’s radical about Aleksa’s thinking though, is her insistence that the purchase of beauty can be democratic. It does not need to arrive via auction or inheritance. A ceramic from an independent studio, a print from a local artist; these, too, are artefacts of taste and anchors of legacy.

Her reimagining of access in the art space finds its most profound expression in the idea of art as a gift. Gifting, in Aleksa’s practice, is not purely decorative. It is formative. “When someone commissions a bespoke work, it lets me tailor every detail to the recipient. Each custom creation carries a personal story you simply can’t replicate. And supporting independent studios ensures those creatives can keep doing what they do best.” The gift of the art piece becomes an extension of the client’s language, a way of saying something too large or too delicate for speech. And the best gifts, in Aleksa’s view, are not chosen for their price but for their resonance; the most meaningful commissions are those that echo across time. “They carry stories. They’re not interchangeable.”

A beautiful example is her love for Ed Ruscha text-based prints: “If I could give every young woman turning twenty-five a work of art, it would be a text-based Ed Ruscha print. Something like ‘Jet Baby’ for its optimism, or ‘The Girl Always Did Have Good Taste’ for its cheeky self-affirmation. Ruscha’s genius lies in showing that language itself can be sculptural: colour, composition, and context all work together to elevate everyday words into visual poetry... Gifting one of these prints is a reminder that the simplest phrase, boldly presented, can become a daily source of inspiration and confidence.” 

There is a candid nature to Aleksa’s reflections on the concept of taste. It feels fresh how she resists the impulse to universalise, moralise, or mystify it. “One of the biggest misconceptions is that good taste is measured by price tags or brand names,” she says. “True taste is about authenticity and personal resonance, choosing objects that speak to your story rather than simply displaying your budget. [It] comes from curiosity, thoughtfulness, and a willingness to explore beyond the spotlight of luxury labels.”

Through AWITA (the Association of Women in the Arts), she’s helped build a platform that reflects those values. “Looking back, I can honestly say it’s the best thing we’ve ever started,” she says. “But the real legacy of AWITA isn’t the founding trio. It’s in the members: the advisors, curators, and entrepreneurs who carry the work forward.”

The idea of soft legacy runs through everything Katrina does and this touch can be seen in Roxy Wraps, a new venture she’s nurturing into being, designed to rethink gifting itself. Described as “the first stop for anyone who wants to give with intention,” it combines artfully designed papers with concierge-level curation, reimagining how people approach gifting altogether. “We want gifting to feel effortless and inspiring. Like sipping your favourite latte - accessible, personal, and unforgettable.”

There is, nonetheless, a distinct rigour in her approach. Her aesthetic instinct is always balanced by structural knowledge. “For me, the instinct for beauty and the structural knowledge of investment are inseparable, each informs the other. My passion for an artwork’s aesthetic qualities naturally leads me to study its provenance, edition, and market trajectory. I feel incredibly privileged to have built a career that allows me to live at this intersection, supporting artists, working with clients, and honouring art as both emotion and asset.”

To collect art this way, not out of obligation, but recognition, is to allow it into your life without needing to decode it. It becomes a companion and a challenge, and, maybe sometimes, a mirror.

And to give art, Aleksa believes, is to let someone else feel seen, in colour, in shape, and in texture. “That’s the whole beauty of art, it transcends languages and it transcends time. A painting, a sculpture or a photograph can speak to you in ways no price tag ever could, evoking memories, stirring emotions, opening a window into another perspective. Its true worth lies in the conversations it sparks, the moments of reflection it invites, and the connections it forges between creator and viewer. Art reminds us that some of life’s richest experiences can’t be bought - they must simply be felt.”

To gift art is not merely to give an object, it is to offer someone an encounter. A version of themselves they haven’t yet named. A reflection, a rhythm, a new vocabulary for feeling.

Art can belong to anyone. But perhaps its highest calling is not to be owned at all.

It is to be shared.