The river shifts, its flow uncertain, carving new paths through the familiar. I follow the traces, though they may lead nowhere, and still, they pull me deeper. Its shape becomes different each time, like a story retold through generations: a shared history.
Land, sky, and water appear sometimes in fragments, sometimes as whispers. They speak in a language of memory, time, and feeling—of things that change, endure, or vanish without a trace. I paint them in thin, quiet layers, letting the scenes surface slowly, like something half-remembered, just out of reach.
These aren't descriptions of nature. They evoke a feeling—a moment of recognition, something you can’t quite place. A landscape that feels like it belongs, but to whom? To no one. Feeling uncertain yet familiar, as if you’ve stood there before. You can feel it, but question it at the same time.
A rock? Or a mountain? A river or a mirror?
