Sometimes I paint not to be understood,
but to cradle what words can’t hold.
These pieces were born in the hush of a moment,
when emotion needed wings more than language.
Each brushstroke is a breath.
Each figure—a trace of something fleeting:
a memory, a prayer, a home once imagined.
There are birds, yes—but they are not just birds.
They are what remain when silence settles gently in the heart.
This series is called “Whispers Between Wingbeats.”
May it meet you in that quiet place within yourself
where softness still survives.
🜂 The Firebird’s Lullaby
A bird rises not from ashes, but from a spiral of remembrance.
What once burned now hums softly, glowing in gold.
🜂 Home for the Unspoken
Two birds—one watching, one waiting—perch on the memory of a house.
A cage? A shelter? Perhaps just a dream remembered too late.
🜂 Rose of Silent Songs
Petals or wings—what’s the difference, when both open in vulnerability?
A bloom rises, not from soil, but from echoes of kindness once received.
🜂 Beneath a Tired Sun
Two souls float like sighs under a weary sun—
not broken, just resting from too much remembering.
🜂 The Window Remains Open
Inside the structure of silence, birds wait in crimson rows.
Each one a wish unfulfilled.
🜂 Flight Woven from Light
Golden dusk gathers into feathers.
Nothing escapes—but nothing stays caged, either.
Felt, Paint & Reflection 