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Creativity, I have learned, is endless. It moves like a river through my life, changing its course, shaping new paths, sometimes rushing, sometimes still, but never ceasing.

I began with painting. Different types of paper and pigments, they were my first companions. I tried many media, searching, experimenting, curious about every possibility. Oil painting never spoke my language; it was not my animal. Instead, I found myself drawn to paper, to the way it absorbs, listens, and transforms.

Watercolours, especially, became my joy. In my early years at Hajm Sabz atelier, I learned a technique that still feels magical to me—pressing wax onto paper before letting the colours flow. The resist creates moments of surprise, white spaces where the pigment cannot go, luminous breaks where the paper itself shines through. The effects hit my heart every time, reminding me of how fragile, unpredictable, and alive creation can be.

For years, I immersed myself in monoprints, pressing layer upon layer of ink into paper, with more than sixty tubes of oil-based ink mostly black and blue, my faithful colours of depth and shadow. Those tubes, bought in 2009 on a trip to the US, are now mostly gone, and the few survivors sit like relics of another time, probably dried and silent. Still, I remember their intensity, how they allowed me to say things I could not paint.

Canvas came late into my life. Only this year did I paint on many different sizes, using acrylics, exploring their boldness and speed. But I soon set them aside—acrylics did not speak to me the way water and paper do. It was an experiment, a necessary detour, yet not a place where I could stay.

Alongside painting and printing, there was always knitting and felt-making, threads woven into my journey. Knitting, for me, is rarely about completion. I often begin a cloth and leave it unfinished, because I am impatient with myself. But that doesn’t matter. What I love is the process: the gentle rhythm of needles, the quiet dialogue between yarn and hand, the comfort of simply doing. Felt-making, too, offered me that same intimacy, a closeness to the material that felt almost like friendship.

For a while, I touched clay. Pottery opened a door to my roots: vessels, tiles, small objects formed by hand, earthy and elemental. Yet it was a brief passage, a year of shaping and learning, before the clay slipped away.

And then…. wool. Wool has taken hold of me, and I have surrendered to it. It is softness and patience, kindness and resilience. It listens to my hands. It bends, it yields, it accepts my direction, and yet it retains its own quiet strength. I am addicted to its presence—the way it invites me, never resists, always offers. Wool has become more than a material; it is my partner in creation, my most loyal companion.

Now, as I sit apart from it, I feel the absence deeply. I miss working, I miss touching, I miss that dialogue between hand and fiber. I hope my body heals, that recovery comes soon, so I may return to the practice that feels like breathing: return to the endless, flowing current of creativity that has always carried me forward.