These paintings are not loud. They don’t shout their truths – they whisper them. In pigments and pencil lines, in textures and tension.

Each one a quiet fragment of something felt but not yet said.

Sometimes, they come from deep below: from longing, from shadows, from the split-second before I understand myself.

Sometimes, they rise like light – defiant, wild, or tender. But always… they are mine.

There’s a room where I meet my Muse.

There’s a phoenix that rises again after it almost drowned.

There’s a full moon that shines through – not above, not beyond – through.

And in her silver glow, I learn how to stay and speak.

This is not a gallery. It’s a soft rebellion. A diary with no dates.