So, my idea was also that, of course, I can’t be present at every exhibition. And when you write a description, it tends to be more factual, even though people can see the work when they go to the exhibition.

But when I look at my own paintings and am asked to describe them, I tend to become emotional and more poetic. So I thought: if someone couldn’t see the painting and I had to explain it to them, I would do so in my own words—talking about the shapes, actions, energy, and backgrounds, as well as the technique and its effect. It would be a mixture of poetry, feeling, and a genuinely technical description.

Ultimately, I think it could be interesting for everyone to hear about the painting in the artist’s own words, since most people probably won’t meet or get to know the artist personally.

Thanks for..... @Nora Beckett I can share the text for you can read it. I am also musician so i put some music soft behind it from our own performances.

The Dream Garden

Imagine two figures standing close together, surrounded by a garden that seems to be woven more from memory than from earth and leaves.

On the right side of the painting, slender and upright, a bare tree sways gently. Its branches carry round, golden-brown blossoms or berries, like small moons suspended among the limbs. Behind it, the sky stretches upward in fine red streaks, almost like plucked threads of silk—a light that seems to come not from this world, but from a remembered one.

On the left stands the woman. Her hair is dark and wild, blowing to the side as if a warm breeze has just swept through the garden. She wears a deep-red dress that falls in heavy, soft folds to her feet—red like a heartbeat, red like something that cannot be concealed. Her face is lowered, turned toward the ground and toward the child.

For in front of her, facing her and looking up at her, stands a little girl. Her dress is light, a warm yellow like buttercups, and her reddish-brown hair falls over her shoulders. She looks up at the woman—a gaze full of trust, the only gaze in the painting that is open and direct.

This woman is me. This little girl is my daughter. At the time, we were in Tenerife. She was about three years old, and we were standing in a garden that has remained in my memory like a dream. The dresses we are wearing in the painting are made of silk—I sewed them myself, back when I was still working as a designer and designing my own clothes.

It is one of the first paintings I created using this technique, and I never painted it for anyone else—only for myself, to preserve that moment: the magic of my red dress, the steady gaze of my little daughter, and the garden that enclosed us both for a brief breath of time.

At the bottom, on the ground, dark, blooming forms gather into a carpet of gold and black—as if the garden itself were carrying us both, just as mothers carry their children, for a lifetime.