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“Some messages are too weightless for paper—so I send them in colour, form, and flight.”

Letters to the Sky is a phrase that came to me quietly, like a whisper during painting. It captures what my art often becomes—a way to speak across distance, across silence, across time. My paintings are not just compositions. They are messages sent into the unknown, offerings suspended between longing and hope.

In these works, birds appear again and again—not merely as decorative elements, but as messengers, carriers of memory, and spiritual presence. They glide across my canvases, sometimes solitary, sometimes in pairs or flocks, always moving toward something unseen. These birds are part of my inner world. They are free and weightless, yet rooted in something deeply personal: my past, my heritage, my journey through exile and solitude.

Alongside them, arches often emerge—soft, rounded, open. They echo the nomadic architecture of my childhood, forms that once gave shelter in impermanence. These arches are not grand or monumental. They are intimate, symbolic thresholds—spaces of transition, memory, and becoming. They appear like fragments of a home that no longer exists, but still lives within me.

When I paint, I feel these forms rising almost on their own. They become the visual grammar of a language I do not speak aloud. A language that says: I remember. I hope. I belong—even if not here, even if only in this painted sky.

Each artwork becomes a letter—wordless, weightless, and full of presence. I do not know where it will land. But I trust that somewhere, it will be seen, felt, received.