Coils of Unspoken" arrived in one long exhale—oil on antique handwoven linen from around 1900 (100 × 70 cm), the surface already carrying its own quiet stories before the first stroke. I didn't plan the spirals; they rose instinctively from the canvas like something long held back finally twisting free. Layers of gray, pink, yellow, green, and deep blue collide and blur, thick impasto marks catching light where the coils loop and rise—fragile, insistent, alive.
This is not decoration. It's the felt shape of what we bury: questions of control, silence that screams, energy that refuses to stay knotted. The antique linen breathes with the paint, its weave adding grain and memory to every gesture. Painted raw, abrupt, honest—the way emotion actually moves when no one is watching.
Coils of Unspoken" arrived in one long exhale—oil on antique handwoven linen from around 1900 (100 × 70 cm), the surface already carrying its own quiet stories before the first stroke. I didn't plan the spirals; they rose instinctively from the canvas like something long held back finally twisting free. Layers of gray, pink, yellow, green, and deep blue collide and blur, thick impasto marks catching light where the coils loop and rise—fragile, insistent, alive.
This is not decoration. It's the felt shape of what we bury: questions of control, silence that screams, energy that refuses to stay knotted. The antique linen breathes with the paint, its weave adding grain and memory to every gesture. Painted raw, abrupt, honest—the way emotion actually moves when no one is watching.