Beyond the Landscape — Reassembling Fragmented Memory

I do not paint nature.
I borrow the face of the landscape to suture torn memory.
Landscape is often understood as a representation of the external world.
But to me, it is a cross-section of the inner self.
I use forests as the architecture of memory,
mountains as the stratification of repression,
and the sky as a canvas of silence.

As a child, I was locked in a room without knowing why.
The door stayed closed. No one offered an explanation.
I watched people moving behind the glass,
but I could never go in.
I belonged nowhere.
Not inside. Not outside.
All I had was a small square of space,
and from that space, I had to imagine the world.

I turned the walls into landscapes.
I built invisible windows.
I arranged memories as geometric shapes
and translated emotions into color.
I covered the terrifying faces with animal masks.
I replaced their voices with invented rhythms
and taught myself how to vanish inside the image.

To protect myself,
I disguised my body in color
and turned my mind into an alternate story.
The room was small,
but within it, I constructed
an endless visual universe.