This series began with a fleeting moment: a child’s face, lost to war, glimpsed in the heart of a flower bouquet arranged earlier that day. The vision lingered, uninvited yet resolute, threading itself into these works. Flowers, symbols of fragility and fleeting beauty, are interwoven with the stark remnants of violence: artillery, rubble, burnt flesh. Together, they speak of contrasts that are impossible to untangle life amid destruction, memory shaped by grief.

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The paintings do not shout; they lure. The flowers invite a gaze, a pause, a step closer. But within their folds lie fragments that disquiet—a shattered truth lurking behind the veneer of aesthetic order. These works ask the viewer to linger in discomfort. The allure of color becomes a thread pulling one toward the overwhelming, the unbearable, the too-much-to-comprehend.

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These images are less a critique than a confrontation. They hold a mirror to sanitized portrayals of violence that cushion distant viewers, offering instead the blunt intimacy of grief and loss. The flowers are not merely flowers, and the rubble is not merely rubble. Together, they murmur questions about what it means to see, to turn away, to remember.

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