I live in a city where the air has lost its breath. The sky is rarely blue, the soil is tired, and water comes in drops, not streams. This is not a poetic exaggeration—it is the reality of my birthplace, where millions live under the heavy curtain of pollution and concrete.
My work is a silent conversation with this place. I do not paint the city itself—I paint the nature that my body remembers and my heart longs for. From my window, I see walls, cars, dust. But on my canvas, there are leaves, lakes, and light. This contradiction is not an escape; it is an act of care. It is how I carry the memory of earth, air, and water inside me and offer it back in color.
Through video, I record small movements: the walk from my door to the busy street, the hidden garden behind a tall building, the reflection of dusty sunlight on concrete. These fragments become evidence of a life lived in resistance to environmental neglect. I whisper through images what cannot be shouted.
My daughter is the quiet center of this work. She is the reason I stay, the reason I might leave. As a mother, my care extends beyond my own body—into the future, into the air she will breathe, the soil she might walk on. I do not claim to heal these elements, but through art, I hold them close, remind others of their fragility, and perhaps, their sacredness.
If shown, my work would belong on walls where people pass in a hurry—maybe even in the streets of my own city. It would wait there, patiently, like a small tree growing through a crack in the pavement.