Trembling lines, figures that seem to recall something never spoken.
She drew on whatever was at hand, as if the paper, too, remembered.
Her gestures were quiet, but never timid, they carried the weight of what could not be said out loud. Her work didn’t shout, yet it never asked for silence.
It lingered in the space between memory and dream, where truth feels like a rumour.
It was intimate, raw, inevitable.
Like praying without knowing to whom and doing it anyway.