No Rain No Flowers

With my exhibition, I wish to draw attention to the ebb and flow of water, in which I see a metaphor for the streams of thoughts. The artificial water sources depicted in my paintings allude to a guiding hand setting the rain in motion, evoking the ancient belief that, through the personification of natural phenomena, our earliest gods were born. I gladly take on the role of tired clouds when I water my plants at home; observations connected to these moments have also brought forth new shoots within me.
My dearest motif is the rural blue well: as an idol of the fountain of wisdom, it pours out the truths of the deepest layers. Letting the celestial blessing fall upon the garden of our spirit, the ceremony of vegetation begins. The ritual opens with the drumming of raindrops, then the flutes of the wind urge the leaves to dance, so that their life- affirming celebration may reach the trees towering above them like temples. The cascade of melodies poured from the bucket sometimes hides the rhythm, whose transcription I see in plant ornamentation. By highlighting a fragment from the cacophony, perhaps we may more easily discover the musical aspiration within it.
The decorative patterns never completely detach from nature which serves as their model, for they share the same roots. Perhaps they even demand water. This connection is what I wish to nurture with an alphabet I created by tracing the outlines of leaf shadows. Using these plant-like symbols, I inscribed the lyrics of the ceremony onto the paintings, where they serve a function similar to prayer books.The highlights of the meadow ritual are the flowers, which I regard as the smile of vegetation. Within them, spiritual nourishment reaches fulfillment, and through their ostentatious attitude the event becomes a festivity. Their petals, opened to the sky, exude the fragrance of victory, such as the overflowing joy that raises our hands at a concert. Immersed in the triumph of existence, we strive to fill as much space as possible with ourselves, so that our posture rhymes with the experience. Flowers attract painters inasmuch as insects. Claude Monet speaks beautifully of this attachment when he declares: “I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.”

At the end of the carnival, once stillness sets in, I try to gather my thoughts into a bouquet. The colorful trophies remind me of the dark fields my consciousness wandered through before finding them.