Works that carry the ground

After a fire, what remains is never the same as what went in. When the heat fades and everything goes quiet, something slowly begins to return.

These flowers don’t belong to gardens. They come from burned ground, from places shaped by loss and endurance at the same time. Ash becomes their soil. Leftover heat traces their beginnings.

They carry the memory of what happened here, and they remind me that beauty can exist even after damage.

Experience doesn’t come gently. It scalds, splits, leaves gold in its wake.

What stays behind is proof of mistakes, of survival, of becoming something textured, something true.

Like a heart — quiet, strong, and raw. Tied to everything that matters. It’s where it all begins.

There was a forest that watched me grow. Twelve summers in a row, I returned — first as a child, then as a mother. It held my laughter, my tears, my friendships, my first love.

Now, the place that shaped so much of me is gone. Unreachable, unsafe.

But I still carry the scent of pine, the feel of the earth, the hush of the trees.

This work is a memory in texture. A quiet longing. A piece of what I never want to forget.

There’s a moment between sleep and waking when the forest starts to feel like the sea. Leaves lift like small sails. Twigs and stems stand tall, almost like masts. Even the lace feels like foam — light, quiet, passing.

This piece came from that in-between state. It isn’t about direction or arrival, just drifting — held by memory and a sense of quiet wonder.

Some things really do bloom straight through the burn. This piece is about what quietly comes back after an ending — when something has been stripped down, scorched, undone, and still life finds a way to return.

The textures come from real petals and plants I collected, dried, and preserved. I placed them the way memories tend to settle — not perfectly, but intentionally.

The dark areas aren’t just shadow. They’re the kind of silence that stays after fire has passed. And the gold? It might be hope. Or it might just be the way light eventually finds its way in.

A place on Earth of my happy summers.

There’s something about stillness that feels important. These petals were once soft and open. Now they stand almost like markers — lifted upward, worn by time but not broken, set against a washed blue background. Quiet, but not passive.

This piece isn’t about dramatic survival. It’s about the kind that happens quietly — in small acts of holding on. In fragile things that keep their form. In decay that still leans toward the light.

Shadows stretch tall in the quiet between worlds. Golden threads drip like echoes, as if something just passed through. Not seen, only felt.

It lingers in the roots, in the rot, in the places where the veil is thin.

A quiet protest. Raw and restrained. Inspired by the weight of captivity pressed on creatures meant to roam the deepest blues. Their forms drift across pale currents, bound not by nature, but by hands that forgot how to listen.

The air feels thin and fragile. Bare branches stretch upward, almost tired, outlined against a sky that’s lost its warmth.

There’s no storm here, no drama — just a quiet stillness that settles in. Not emptiness, more like a pause. Not an ending, just waiting.

The cold doesn’t cut. It passes through gently, leaving behind something you can feel, even if you don’t have a name for it.

It begins with a whisper. Nature waking slowly, brushing off the last frost, dreaming of dandelions and light. Tiny first messengers move through the hush: a beetle, a melt, a yellow bloom.

And then the world splits open. A blaze, wild and vengeful, turning air to ash, green to black. Even the sky forgets how to hold still.

For a while, silence feels like loss. But beneath the burn, roots remember.

Life is patient. What seems lost is only waiting. And when it returns, it rises hungry, wild, and full of fire-fed strength.

This work holds part of that story - crafted around a redwood root from a centuries-old tree that did not survive the flames, but still speaks through form, colour and texture.

She wakes in a place where the land doesn’t quite know what it is yet — roots tangled with seafoam, thoughts drifting like seaweed.

There’s no name for her, no voice. Just the steady pull of the tide.

She collects small flashes from broken skies and bits of foam, weaves them into vines, lays them gently over rust-colored ground.

What she makes can’t really be held. It only stays with you — later, when the air smells like salt and rain.

This work is dedicated to the loss of Iryna Tsybukh — a figure whose courage, honesty, and love of life became a symbol for many in Ukraine.

Though she was taken by the war, the values she lived by cannot be erased. As Iryna wrote, “To have the strength to be free, one must be brave.”

The piece reflects the emotional weight of losing something monumental — something that should not have disappeared. Fragments of Iryna’s words appear in the background, carrying the strength and inspiration she shared with others.

The colors speak of hope and freedom — of what endures, and of what continues to live in our hearts. The textures reflect how deeply grief can tear through the soul.

Where battles end quietly. Where the sea holds no questions. Just space — soft, steady, and safe.

Not everything holds. most things shift, crack, move, disappear. but sometimes, something stays.

This piece is about that — a place untouched while everything else pulls apart. the quiet in the middle of the mess. the bark, the earth, the still green shape — they hold their ground.

It's not about peace, not exactly. it's about presence. about stillness that doesn't run.

An escape from pressure, guided by her own compass.

Here, movement is no longer a reaction — it becomes a choice.

A return, centered on what matters.

Still searching for light in a loud world.

Roaming through dreamlands, gathering fragments of clouds lost along the way from childhood.

When the world is not on her side, she holds her ground.

Gathering lost pieces of herself after the storm — and each storm is different.

Letting movement become lighter, no matter what she is told she should do.

Edges exposed, direction clear.

Raw, wild, but short Texas storm.

Magnet reflects the idea that opposites are not rivals, but parts of the same structure. They often share one origin, one field, one logic. Their difference is what keeps the system alive, creates tension.

Like a good old concert of yin and yang, these forces are defined by contrast, but neither exists on its own. They are in constant relation, drawn toward each other, shaped by distance, tension, and orientation. The movement between them never stops, even when they do not touch.

This work is about harmony as interaction, the balance between resistance and drawing. About how opposing qualities search for one another, respond, adjust, and remain connected through an invisible pull.