I did not turn to art only in search of beauty,

but because I was searching for a space.

A space where no explanations are required,

where exhaustion is not questioned,

and pain is not measured by how reasonable it sounds.

Art was never something I did in my free time,

nor a skill I used only when I felt well.

It was a place I returned to when I didn’t know how to be.

I enter the work as I am:

tired, uncertain, or sometimes without a clear desire.

I don’t need to organize my thoughts,

or find the right words.

In this space, movement is enough.

Touching the material,

repeating, making mistakes, stopping, then returning.Art does not demand strength from me.

It does not rush me to produce.

It does not make slowness feel like failure.

Everything is allowed here:

mistakes, hesitation, slowness, even silence.

And when language becomes heavy,

when words no longer help me understand myself,

art remains — simple and honest.

I do not leave this space “healed,”

but I leave calmer,

and closer to myself.

Art does not promise complete healing,

but it offers temporary shelter,

and on some days, that is more than enough.

That is why I return to it every time —

not only to create something beautiful,

but to stay connected to myself, quietly