my art is not decoration — it is a pharmacopoeia
i learned to heal bodies before learning to listen to my own.
from medicine, i kept the gesture: that way of scraping the scab until the blood bursts forth, of searching for life beneath the skin, within the invisible cellular realm.
for a long time, i lived in babel, that place where languages tangle, where one hides in order not to be uprooted. i made myself discreet there, folded into the walls, protecting my roots from the vertigo of repeated displacements. but silence became too narrow. so i began gathering my moving boxes, my diaries, my scraps of fabric to build a new framework.
i do not work matter to please — i construct antidotes, so that our shared wounds may finally find a space to breathe, outside the frame, within the very flesh of relief.
