Lines, Patterns and Pulses

Ink traces silence, paint opens colored wounds.
There are days when the hand escapes,
when lines become breaths, when a dot becomes respiration.
I love the grain of paper, the scent of old inks, the back-and-forth of the brush,
the sometimes furious impulse of the knife in color.
It is a work of gentle obsession, of repeated, almost ritual gestures.
Here, Chinese ink sketches worlds in patient pointillism.
There, oil paint cries or whispers, in vivid flats or endless layers.
Each painting is born in intimacy, carried by instinct or by memory.
They are talismans of paper or canvas, fragments of skin, emotions laid down.