There once lived
a woman.
Maybe she wasn´t allowed to hear herself and to be in charge in her life.
Maybe he thought so, overlooking her life from the outside...
a woman.
Maybe she wasn´t allowed to hear herself and to be in charge in her life.
Maybe he thought so, overlooking her life from the outside...
At the exhibition “Where Daffodils Don't Grow”
a series of 11 works is presented, in which the same story —the story of a young woman—unfolds through the interpretations of two different narrators. One voice belongs to the woman herself, while the other is an external voice, offering its own reading of her fate. It is up to the viewer to decide whom to believe and which voice resonates in each of the paintings
a series of 11 works is presented, in which the same story —the story of a young woman—unfolds through the interpretations of two different narrators. One voice belongs to the woman herself, while the other is an external voice, offering its own reading of her fate. It is up to the viewer to decide whom to believe and which voice resonates in each of the paintings
"
"Today is the very first day of my marriage. We feel each other.
I know the value of such intimacy, and I remember its fragility. I hope and believe that we will be able to maintain this throughout our life together.
I believe that there will always be a place for each of us in our union"
I know the value of such intimacy, and I remember its fragility. I hope and believe that we will be able to maintain this throughout our life together.
I believe that there will always be a place for each of us in our union"
I read this and thought,
"How important it is to protect and preserve yourself, even when you are in a couple." I imagined her as a blooming flower that could be saved or trampled. And if trampled, it would inevitably stop blooming.
I knew that sooner or later the diary would contain the entry I was afraid of. Here it was:
"How important it is to protect and preserve yourself, even when you are in a couple." I imagined her as a blooming flower that could be saved or trampled. And if trampled, it would inevitably stop blooming.
I knew that sooner or later the diary would contain the entry I was afraid of. Here it was:
I was looking at a blooming almond tree. What could it have told me if it did not remain silent? What could I have told? I keep silent about the pain that does not leave but takes root together with me. My silence nourishes it, and with each year, with every new blossoming, the fruit grows more and more filled with bitterness. Only I can put an end to it—if I stop being silent.
Sometimes pain grows quieter. We stop speaking about it, we stop holding it in our hands every day. At some point, we even begin to believe that we have let it go, that everything is behind us. But in truth, it is still near. It just changes its form. It ceases to be a wound and becomes a trace. Thin, almost invisible, but still there.
I always knew he would come to visit me; every one of our partings felt like an eternity to me. But I was in his heart.
I had a dream… I was walking along the water when suddenly before me appeared a slender, noble tree with silvery leaves. It was an olive tree. But at its very top, a magnolia bloomed—pink, like the dawn. Its petals glowed in the dark. On a green hill stood a white, graceful peacock, as though waiting for me to come. And I stood in the water and watched. The world was silence. Like a sign. Like a promise I had not yet understood…
I remember how she stood there smiling, she was so happy. For a moment, she returned to the time when she was young, and she felt light and free. I looked at her, at the storks behind her, and I saw myself in her. And I saw in her—herself.
Years later, she found harmony and peace. She returned to herself, through stagnation and darkness, and saw herself once again. And on the surface of the water, the water lilies bloomed again.
The room was so cold. It felt as though everything around smelled of dampness. I was far away. I was lying down, tearing off each petal of a daffodil…
Gallery
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