Soft as the hush before dawn, these strokes sing in silence—of birds in bloom, of fleeting dreams, of a face remembered not in detail, but in feeling.
There’s a kind of place we carry within us—one not marked on any map, not confined to walls or street names. It’s where we retreat when we need comfort, clarity, or simply to remember who we are. As a landscape architect and artist, I’ve spent years thinking about physical spaces, but lately, I’ve become more drawn to the emotional geographies we inhabit—the ones shaped by memory, longing, and imagination.
I live in a quiet, green corner of a European city—surrounded by trees, serenity, and the kind of stillness many people dream of. It’s a lovely place by most definitions. And yet, it doesn’t feel like mine. It offers a sense of peace, but not a sense of belonging.
Even after all this time, I find myself emotionally elsewhere. Rooted in a past that was far from perfect, but undeniably mine. The present, though comfortable, feels borrowed—something I dwell in, but don’t fully claim.
In my artwork, I often return to inner landscapes—places that exist only in memory or imagination. These aren’t literal recreations of where I’ve been, but abstract spaces that echo emotion more than geography. They’ve become a kind of homeland for me. Not fixed or physical, but felt.
Maybe we all have places like that. Inner sanctuaries where we feel more at home than anywhere outside ourselves. Maybe “sense of place” isn’t just about where we live, but where we truly are—in the moments we remember, imagine, or create from something deep within.
Felt, Paint & Reflection 