“As a filmmaker, the most important stories I can tell are about helping people understand their bodies before crisis forces them to—translating complex research into accessible knowledge and bridging the gap between what science reveals and what people actually know” - Nina Kalandia
My Filmmaking Journey
For as long as memory reaches backward, I have been drawn to the quiet miracle of creation—in every form it chose to reveal itself.
I learned the magic of story in my grandmother's arms. At night, we would nestle into bed—my small head resting on her shoulder, one arm cradling me close, the other holding hardcover storybooks that had served the generation before me. As she read aloud, her voice became a bridge to distant worlds. With each turn of the page, faraway lands unfolded in my mind—lush jungles, candlelit castles, wind-swept deserts, and exotic markets heavy with the scent of spice and the shimmer of silk.
We would laugh together at the funny parts, our joy spilling into the quiet night. When the stories turned sorrowful, I would try to hide my tears, stealing glances to see if she was tearing up too. My heart felt porous—easily pierced by beauty, by loss, by the ache of imagined lives.
The words came alive behind my closed eyes, blooming into scenes that danced in full color and sound. I didn't just hear stories. I saw them. I felt them. Long before I understood it, I was already dreaming in images.
As I grew older, those dreams found a new canvas: the spell of cinema—those flickering portals that appeared through the narrow crack of Soviet television. Some movies I was allowed to watch, others I only glimpsed—stolen moments that felt like treasure, seared into memory by their rarity.
I grew up immersed in French New Wave cinema of the '70s and '80s. I was captivated by the tender irreverence of commedia all'italiana—films that breathed in silence and color, that lived in melancholy and rebellion, where humor danced hand in hand with heartbreak. They were deeply personal, unapologetically bold, stylistically unique. Their emotional honesty lodged itself in my heart and stayed there.
And then there were the Soviet-era comedies with their clever wit, well-timed gags, and often layered plots. Wholesome, yes, but far from simple. They reflected the rigidity of ideology, yet carried beneath their surface a quiet satire—a defiant creativity that managed to blossom despite it.
Yet the lens widened further.
Bollywood swept through my childhood like a monsoon——vibrant, thunderous, full of emotion. On summer nights, the dramatic music would drift from the open-air cinema nearby. Those echoes—half lullaby, half storm—folded into the fabric of my sleep, blurring the line between waking and wonder.
And then there were those films which lived in the hush of night, airing well past my bedtime. But I was not so easily deterred. I would slip quietly from my blankets, crouch behind the door or catch glimpses of these distant worlds reflected in the lacquered surface of a dresser. They shimmered like visions—haunting and beautiful. Perhaps it was that towering lizard creature that wreaked havoc across the screen, or the clear waters and exotic island of The Blue Lagoon—the story of survival unfolding in sunlight and silence. Images so foreign to my young eyes, yet already etched in the folds of imagination.
At eight years old, language became my first magic trick. Already fluent in two tongues, I began translating children’s books from Russian to Georgian—not out of duty, but out of joy. The joy of shaping something familiar into something new and alive.
I found joy in teaching. My stuffed toys became students, lined up in obedient rows like wide-eyed disciples under the watchful gaze of their strict little teacher—me, pointer in hand, conducting lessons with great seriousness and theatrical flair. They watched me reenact dramatic scenes in the mirror, one hand clutched to my chest, the other raised to the heavens, delivering tearful monologues to imagined applause.
What began as make-believe soon revealed something real: I didn’t just love stories—I loved sharing them. There was magic in the way a tale could ripple outward, stir a laugh, or open a window into understanding. Even then, I was finding my voice—not just as a listener, but as a storyteller.
Later came poetry—verses wild and tender, about love, about friendship, about spring flowers blooming and autumn leaves falling. Then came stories, and with them, characters who, much like me, were searching for their way through the world. I was fascinated by their becoming, their evolution.
I kept journals, filling pages each day with thoughts and wonderings. On sheets of graph paper, I drew the house of my future—complete with winding staircases and hidden doors. I let my imagination spill freely into fantasy, giving it space to soar. Even then, I was building something—staging scenes, shaping lives, drawing blueprints toward the unseen.
Years later, my first journey back to my homeland after a decade of absence became a turning point. With each step on familiar soil, something within me unfolded. The scattered fragments of my childhood began to align, no longer random but essential.
I remembered what I had always known: I had always been a storyteller. I had simply returned home to it.
But storytelling could do more than entertain—it could illuminate. The question became: what stories mattered most?
The answer came through loss.
My grandmother, whose laboratory sparked my first scientific curiosity, declined rapidly. The healthcare system that should have supported her instead failed her.
In those moments of loss, I saw with aching clarity the fractures in healthcare—the gaps where lives slip through. And the void where vital stories fade into silence, never to be told.
These experiences rekindled that childhood spark—a deep devotion to learning, a fascination with the forces that influence human vitality and longevity. But now it had direction.
I understood: the most important stories I could tell were about helping people understand their bodies before crisis forced them to. About translating complex research into accessible knowledge. About bridging the gap between what science reveals and what people actually know.
Filmmaking met science. Cinema met evidence. And I found my subject.
I envisioned narratives rooted in wellness and vitality—not lofty ideals, but grounded truths. Stories that don't just inspire, but teach. That reach into the marrow of what it means to find balance and thrive amidst the chaos of life.
Not to distract, but to illuminate. To offer a lantern and walk alongside others on this journey, sharing what I continue to learn:
That thriving is not a miracle, but a daily choice—an act of presence lived with reverence, curiosity, and courage.
This is why I create. This is the story behind the stories I tell.