Reset Vl - 1/1 Painting

I don’t paint for decoration. I don’t paint to please. I paint because I would not survive otherwise. For years I tried to live the way the world expects: to study, to build, to present myself acceptably. I wore the mask, played the role, endured the silence inside me. The longer I lived like that, the more I collapsed. Isolation, depression, the weight of life — it didn’t let up. That collapse wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t romantic. It was raw survival. And in that place, I found something: painting. It didn’t start with oil or canvas or tools of tradition. I didn’t have money. I started with what I had — an iPad. I had no plan, no sketches, no style. I let my hand move. Color after color, figure after figure, storm after storm. My subconscious took over. The grief, the pressure, the silence finally had a place to go. Painting became more than expression. It became the only way I could breathe. I created hundreds of works in a few months — not to be prolific, but because something inside me refused to die quietly. Before painting, I explored architecture, calligraphy, theater, photography. Each gave me fragments of language, ways to see. Painting brought it all together — for the first time, I felt those pieces connect, and I felt home. I don’t follow formulas. I don’t repeat compositions. I let the canvas pull me in. Sometimes through chaos, sometimes color, sometimes a figure refusing to fall apart. Always, it comes from the same wound, the same refusal, the same inner fire. I don’t believe in art as a mask. I believe in art as proof: proof that I survived another day, that what hurts can transform, that silence can speak. My paintings may look different — in texture, tone, composition — but they are echoes of the same thing: something inside me trying to stay alive. Painting is not a career step, not a hobby. It is a purpose. I’m not here to entertain. I’m here to stand as a vessel, a bridge between what wounds us and what heals us, between the inner and outer world. I refuse the illusions this world runs on: endless desire, masks of perfection, shallow performance. I’ve seen behind the curtain and I don’t want to play that game. What I offer is truth: raw, unpolished, real. When you stand before my work, you see evidence, memory, a piece of what it means to be human when illusions fall away. Collectors ask: why so many works, so fast? Because the storm does not stop. The wound keeps echoing.