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“In silence, my hands remember what my mind forgets.”

My studio is a place of stillness—not just physical, but emotional and spiritual. It is where I return to myself, where I let go of language and let the materials speak. There is no noise, no audience, no distraction—only the quiet rhythm of hands moving across wool, the pause before a brushstroke, the breath before a stitch.

Silence is not emptiness. It is presence. In that silence, I begin to reflect—on memory, on displacement, on belonging, on beauty. It is not always easy. Silence makes space for uncertainty, for sadness, for longing. But it is also where clarity appears, where intuition is strongest, and where the deepest parts of myself can surface without fear.

In this space, art becomes a form of reflection—a private meditation made visible. I do not create in front of others, not because I am hiding, but because the act is too intimate. Like prayer, creation demands a sacred solitude. It is a ritual of quiet listening—of letting the inner world unfold without explanation or interruption.

A Studio in Silence is not only a place. It is a condition of working that holds everything I cannot say in words. It is where I make sense of the world, where I reconnect with time, memory, and meaning—one quiet gesture at a time.