For me, art is a form of expression—the most natural way of understanding myself and my surroundings. While questioning concepts such as memory, identity, and time, I strive to create a bridge between past and present. I see art as a space that provokes thought and evokes emotion, aiming not to tell a fixed story but to awaken a feeling, a memory, or a trace within the viewer. It is not only visual, but an experience built upon touch, sensation, and remembrance.
In my practice, I primarily work with textile-based techniques such as weaving, traditional carpet weaving, embroidery, and various fabric processes. I transform old fabrics into threads and reweave them into new compositions, using layered surfaces and subtle color transitions to explore memory and identity. Alongside textiles, I work with watercolor and printmaking, where flowing pigments and repeated carved lines become metaphors for the fluidity and persistence of memory. Recently, I have been exploring the relationship between photography and textile by printing archival images onto linen and intervening with embroidery.
Old objects—especially worn fabrics, photographs, and handmade textiles—allow me to establish a connection with the past. The traces they carry and the layers added by time deeply move me. I see materials as active storytellers, and my role is to listen and translate them into a new visual language. My practice is also a form of resistance and presence, reflecting on societal norms and perceptions of identity while searching for my own answers through processes of transformation and reinterpretation.
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This work is an exercise in translation—attempting to capture the rugged, shifting silence of the moorland using only the language of thread. I don't set out to replicate a specific photograph; instead, I let the weight of the wool dictate the slope of the hill.
The dense, dark chocolate browns are the shadows caught in the peat, while the looser, cream-colored roving at the top represents the low-hanging mist that feels almost heavy enough to touch. I chose to leave the edges frayed and 'unbound' within the frame to remind the viewer that the land itself is never finished; it is constantly being rewoven by wind and rain. In my hands, a landscape isn't something you just look at—it’s something you build, stitch by stitch, until the memory of the earth has a physical weight