Before I turned to wool, there was always the brush. Painting became my first way of working through emotions—an instinctive response to feelings I couldn’t put into words. Especially during times of worry, longing, or homesickness, I found myself drawn to the rhythm of daily painting. It’s not always easy to explain, but the urge to express would often arrive suddenly, as if stirred by an invisible current in my mind. And when it did, I knew I had to paint.
These moments often gave life to quiet images: a group of birds, a cluster of tree trunks, a glimpse of nature. And sometimes, a portrait—silent and inward-looking—of a woman lost in thought. These figures often reflect myself, or a presence of my mother, both of us deeply entangled in memory and emotion.
Painting is intuitive for me. I don’t plan it, I follow it. Each brushstroke is a release, a way of grounding myself when the world feels distant or overwhelming. The act of painting—simple, quiet, repetitive—brings me a kind of peace, like marking time with colour and form instead of words.
Long before I discovered the world of wool and felting, it was the brush that taught me how to listen inwardly, to trust instinct, and to let my hand speak for my heart.
Felt, Paint & Reflection 