ARTWORKS
Welcome to The Heart of My Practice!
What you see here might look like portraits, but for me, they’re something more personal than that. They’re not about how someone looks—they’re about how it feels to be them. Or even more honestly, how it feels to be human.
My work comes from the parts of us that are hard to explain. The emotions that don’t have clear names. The moments where you feel two opposite things at once. I don’t try to fix that or make it make sense—I just give it a place to exist.
That’s why the faces are fragmented. Because we are. We’re not one version of ourselves. We’re layered, shifting, sometimes calm, sometimes overwhelming. One part of us might feel everything deeply, while another part stays quiet just to keep things together. Both are real. Both belong.
When I paint, I’m not trying to create perfection. I’m trying to be honest. The colors, the lines, the patterns—they’re just my way of holding all those pieces without forcing them into one clear answer.
I think identity is like that. Not something fixed or easy to define, but something we carry, rearrange, and learn to live with.
So these aren’t just faces.
They’re pieces of something deeper.
A place where everything you are—confusing, contradictory, unfinished—can still feel whole.
PAINTINGS
Fracture
She was never meant to be seen without the costume.
They called her light. Laughter followed her, effortless, rehearsed, expected.
On stage, she divided herself with precision—one side vivid, playful, irresistible. The other quiet, distant, holding something no one was meant to see..
No one noticed that the smile didn’t reach both halves.
Every night, under the burning gold of the lights, she painted herself again.
Red for warmth she no longer felt.
Blue for calm she could not keep.
White to hide what was breaking underneath.
She learned to perfect the illusion—joy on one side, silence on the other. The audience clapped for the harmony, never sensing the fracture.
But the truth lived in the eye that didn’t shine.
The moment laughter stopped being hers.
The day she realized people loved the mask more than the woman she really was.
The night she tried to wipe it all off—and found nothing underneath.
So she stayed divided.
Because as long as one side smiled, the other could grieve in peace.
And if you look closely—past the colors,
past the performance—you’ll see that
She is not two faces.
She is one person,
trying to survive
between them.
—
Medium: Acrylic on textured paper
Dimension:
21×29,7cm
What Stayed
This face carries what could not be spoken at the time.
Some parts learned to be strong early.
Some learned to stay quiet.
Some stayed soft, even when it would have been easier to harden.
Nothing here is symmetrical, because life wasn’t.
Each color holds a different memory—moments of courage, confusion, tenderness, resistance. The lines are firm not to divide, but to protect what each part has survived.
The eyes do not look away. They have seen enough to know that hiding costs more than honesty. The mouth rests between holding back and letting go, choosing neither fully, because both are true.
The background is the feeling that lingers after everything has happened—the warmth, the ache, the calm that arrives slowly when you stop asking yourself to be someone else.
This painting is not about fixing what is broken.
It is about honoring what stayed.
A story told quietly,
in shapes and colors.
—
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Dimension:
40x50cm
Both Sides Exist
She stopped trying to become one thing.
Instead, she learned how to arrange the chaos—
to hold both the part that feels everything
and the part that stays still.
Not to fix it.
Not to explain it.
Just to give it space.
Because wholeness isn’t about being one—
it’s about letting every side of you exist
without asking any of them to disappear.
—
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Dimension:
40x50cm
Becoming Light
For a long time, I thought the light behind me was something I was chasing.
Something distant. Something ahead. Something I had to earn.
So I kept changing—shifting, breaking, rebuilding myself into pieces I thought would get me closer. I became who I needed to be in each moment, even when I didn’t recognize myself anymore.
But the light never moved.
It stayed—steady, quiet, patient—waiting for me to stop running.
And when I finally did, when I turned inward instead of forward, I realized something I hadn’t seen before:
The light wasn’t in front of me.
It was behind me.
It had been there all along—growing with every version I survived, every piece I put back together, every time I chose to continue.
Now it doesn’t guide me.
It holds me.
A reminder that everything I’ve been through didn’t lead me to the light—
it built it.
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Dimension:
40x50cm
Kissing
They don’t meet in the middle.
They meet in tension.
One side moves like waves—restless, searching.
The other circles inward—steady, contained, certain.
For a long time, they thought they were too different
to belong to the same face,
too distant to ever understand each other.
But somewhere between breath and silence,
they leaned closer.
Not to merge.
Not to erase the lines between them.
Just to touch.
A quiet kind of kissing—
where contrast doesn’t divide,
it connects.
Where chaos brushes against control,
and instead of breaking,
they recognize each other.
Because sometimes,
love isn’t about being one.
It’s about staying two—
and choosing, softly,
to meet anyway.
—
Medium: Print on Canvas
Dimension:
40x60cm
Layers
I was never one thing.
I’ve been softness and sharp edges, silence and noise, breaking yet surviving—all at once. Pieces of me have fallen apart, been questioned, been reshaped. Some I let go of, others I carried forward without even realizing.
I am layers.
The past I still feel, the present I’m learning to stand in, and the quiet observer within me—always watching, always aware.
I am contrasts.
Light and shadow, clarity and confusion, strength and vulnerability living side by side.
I’ve been disassembled more than once.
But each time, I rebuilt—differently, imperfectly, honestly.
And through it all,
I’m still here.
Still watching.
Still me.
—
Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Dimension:
40x50cm
Every Version It Took
These aren’t just faces—they’re all the versions of me I had to become.
Some were loud, trying to be seen.
Some stayed quiet, just trying to survive.
Some were lost, confused, or pretending to be okay.
Others were stronger than I even realized at the time.
I didn’t become who I am all at once.
I changed, again and again—shedding, rebuilding, learning as I went.
Looking at it now, it feels overwhelming.
But every version had a purpose. Every phase brought me closer.
This is what it took to get here.
And for the first time,
I’m not searching for another version of me to become
—
Medium: Print on Canvas
Dimension:
40X60cm
PRINTS
