Explore Naive-Expressionist and Surreal Dreams
I was 14
When an accident changed my body forever. I couldn’t move — but my imagination kept moving. In silence, I saw swirling colors and emotions trying to speak.When I first held a brush, I found a voice. It whispered what I couldn’t say.Art became my breath. I studied, I grew. I loved, I laughed. Then I lost him. My husband. And the pillowcase that held my grief — finally burst.
Now I live with my 7-year-old daughter. In her, I see both my past and my future.That’s why these figures are as they are:
Simple faces — not everything needs explaining.Large heads — thoughts that had no room.Faraway eyes — stuck between memory and hope.Silent lips — because pain is quiet.Red cheeks — because the heart still bleeds… and still loves.
This is me.
Not just brushstrokes — layers of soul.
And my pillowcase now holds not only sorrow, but hope.
