It took me time to give art the place it deserves in my life. And art, in its graciousness, waited patiently and forgivingly. Most of the time, it was there in the background—a kind of refuge or anchor, a gentle way to express what had no words, to hold difficult days, and to open a window when there was no air.
From a very young age, I mostly worked in art journals (back then they were simply “journals”). I loved blank notebooks—they felt like a foldable, personal studio. I often combined writing and visual imagery, and I’m truly glad I had the sense to keep those works. They hold so much of who I am today. They also help me remember what I somehow already knew back then—without knowing I knew it. I also loved painting on walls, and to this day, I still enjoy jumping at any opportunity to work on a large, high, and challenging scale, always considering how the work inhabits its space.
As I grew older and time went on, I learned new techniques and became familiar with new materials—first the basic and classical ones, and later I allowed myself to expand. Alongside more traditional studies of academic drawing, painting, and the theories of line, shape, form, and color—I began searching for my own voice.
It wasn’t easy, and I don’t believe the search has ended (I don’t think artists ever truly stop searching), but the process—the searching and all the stages along the way—has more space now. At times, it saddens me a bit and makes me feel like a “late bloomer,” and I try not to be overly apologetic (especially toward myself) about the fact that for over a decade of clinical work in mental health, art didn’t have its own rightful place. I didn’t always feel it was worthy or good enough, and so it served mainly as a tool—a language and means to support the souls of others, and also myself.
Of course, art created in everyday, non-therapeutic contexts is also deeply tied to the soul that inspires it. And here I am again—speaking of the soul instead of the art itself. Looking back, I can now say—with a slight hesitation, but also with honesty—that perhaps I was too quick to assign art a purpose, before I allowed it to simply exist. Or before I allowed myself to stand behind it, to look at it and say: here I am. Maybe so much had to happen in life for me to understand that, in the end—and really, all along—art is an essential part of who I am.
The one who perhaps helped me understand all this, and who has been a dear friend for many years, is writing. Maybe writing is the foundation of it all, an important connecting link that grants me permission to create. Since 2017, I’ve also been writing “outwardly”—on a blog and social media—and it means a lot to me to know that the words reach others, and at times even resonate and evoke responses.
In recent years, I’ve been creating mainly collage and embroidery works. I’m interested in using unconventional materials as surfaces and elements that can be connected, as well as in weaving text into the pieces. I often create portraits and place human or anthropomorphized figures at the center. I also draw inspiration from old family photographs. I search for the gaze, for a reexamination of what lies behind it, trying to remember or understand what was there—and how I now perceive what reflects back from those past images. Choosing embroidery or collage allows me to express that inquiry in a layered way, giving room to texture and depth.
I truly hope that just as I’ve learned to dare to write outwardly, I’ll also soon feel ready to share and exhibit my art with a broader audience. I would also love to connect with collaborators and creative partners in community-based, broad, and new contexts—just as I’ve done until now in therapeutic, cultural, or museum settings.
