I am only a bird. They think birds don’t understand the affairs of the heart. But I tell you, there are mornings so drenched in secrets which are not meant for the storybooks, that even the sky turns its face away. A goldfinch sees many things from his perch—things that would shrivel the innocence of daisies. That morning was different. The castle stood as it always had: indifferent, stately—its single spire cleaving the gauze of a pearl-colored sky. A bell in the tower rang

Close your eyes. You are sitting before a table—a real table, not the imagined one. There is fruit here: dewy strawberries still warm from the sun, grapes, a gleaming crisp apple. A slice of cake, rich with layers of raspberry cream, tilts delicately. A pale green pitcher anchors it all—classical in shape, curved like the neck of a swan, a vessel fit for myth. These are real. Tangible. You could reach out and touch them. But wait. You press a candle into a cupcake’s swirl of

There are dream figures who do not come and go like weather. They return. You wake remembering them. Their gaze lingers behind your eyes. For me, it is always the little yellow bird and the masked woman in black. They do not arrive together. One night, the bird lands on a branch just outside my window, glowing like gold leaf under moonlight. Another night, the woman appears in a corridor of half-light, her gaze both fierce and forgiving. She wears a mask shaped like a bird’s

What defines a painting as museum-worthy? Is it merely the technical prowess? The originality of its vision? Or is it the psychological depth that leaves us changed? Let us consider The Dream Within the Corridor as a living example: a surrealist composition where Renaissance elegance merges seamlessly with metaphysical intrigue. She sits at the threshold between worlds—poised, yet unreachable. Her stillness hums with hidden tension. Draped in vermilion silk and crowned

To stand inside the moment captured in this painting is to experience the metaphysical from within the angel's own essence. You are part of the painting and the painter, the sea and the salt, the question and the revelation. You are not visiting a dream. You are the dream, wearing the body of divinity like a second skin. It feels euphoric. There is no gravity here, only grace.The dress you wear is made of silk: green like forest shadows. It catches starlight and flickers opa

Every creative act begins not with clarity, but with a flicker in the corner of consciousness. A half-seen image, a feeling without language. For this painting, it began with a single closed eye —just a gesture in the upper corner of the canvas. Not literal. More a presence than a shape, the suggestion of something turned inward. The sensation of something watching from within. The creative mind, ever fluid, ever playful, asks: What if the closed eye became the moon? Suddenly

After many years of regular, deep meditation—thousands of hours spent wandering the quiet halls of my own mind—I discovered something...

Art has a way of transcending time and space. Paintings, in particular, serve as portals to different worlds, emotions, and even dimensions.