My artistic journey didn’t start with a canvas, but with flour, sugar, and a need for peace of mind. Baking began as a form of therapy, something to help me cope with the noise of everyday stress. But somewhere between measuring ingredients and watching things rise, I discovered creativity. What started as comfort slowly became expression, and that’s where my story truly began.

Sometimes all of us go through periods when we don’t know what to do next, which path to take. We run out of ideas, and the things that once worked for us no longer do. It feels like being stuck in place.

At such a moment in my life, I had a dream.

There was a table set in a meadow. My parents, my mother and father, were standing in front of it. On their side of the table were plates filled with food. Behind them stretched an endless line of shadowy figures.

In the center of the table stood a plate. On it was a mixture of food from my mother’s and father’s plates and just a tiny handful of my own.

I knew I had to return home.

At the time, I didn’t yet know that a field like psychogenealogy even existed. The awakening of my left hand and painting in a state of flow came a few years later.