Marica's work isn't illustration: what she does is suck out the essence of the world and converts it into symbols of a higher order. Marica does not draw: she radiates primordial images into riddles that have the power of dreams. Marica does not colour: she brings the magic of colours down to our roots and we grow out of her visions like enchanted sequoias.
We recognize our origins in the lines of her works. Every observer of her illustrations crystallises a bud of secrets. For Marica, life grows out of nature, fire becomes divided by movement, the air yells in turmoil, the earth is the source of branching of the meaning, the water melts into flying candles. Marica, to put it simply, has taught the unknown to sing for us.