The castle Painting

As an artist of Ukrainian and Syrian origin, I stand like an open umbrella under a rain of multiple languages, trying to catch droplets of meaning that slip through my fingers. My classical education propels me into a whirlwind of papier-mâché icons and invisible frescoes, where the majesty of stone collapses into the words. The monumental for me is nothing more than a memory, a great mountain of moss, fragile and ephemeral, wearing itself out with every attempt to climb its surface. I seek the horizon, but every time I think I've reached it, it turns into a giant snail, crawling and escaping me forever. I find myself stacking with letters on my legs and my hands, making words that have neither meaning nor direction. An alphabet walking backward, arms raised toward a sky no one looks at. My works? They are sitting there, like half-filled teacups, wobbling, waiting for a gesture, a breeze, or even an idea to tip them over. They tell nothing, yet they say everything.