Since that fragile day when everything changed, I've never stopped walking that tightrope between fragility and strength. And when my walls became empty, when my heart cracked, I searched for the material. Not just to paint. To put the pieces back together. To say what words couldn't.

I create with what has wounded and healed. With the egg, a symbol of the exclusion that broke me, transformed into a texture of rediscovered beauty, where fissures welcome stones and bursts of light. With the shaped stones, like jewels of light, each facet tells the story of women who, after darkness, found their radiance. These women, who also lost everything, survivors of war and rape, child soldiers, cared for by an extraordinary doctor and then trained by the association I co-founded to teach them to polish their pain until it reaches the light.

I also include the small stones that are entrusted to me, like my mother entrusted hers to me, witnesses of journeys and scattered souls.

And then there are the children. The street children of Congo. Their stories whisper in my pigments, so I invite them into my paintings. Silently. Through tiny phosphorescent figures, like them, awake at night, because the night in the street is too dangerous to sleep.

In my work, each material participates in a profound alchemy. Epoxy, with its strength and transparency, symbolizes reconstruction after the storm. Chameleon pigments, ever-shifting, create a changing light, recalling the ephemeral beauty of each moment. Gold leaf, thin and precious, symbolizes hope and the promise of a better future. Each of these elements, in harmony, gives form to a narrative of healing and freedom, where each touch of material becomes a new light in the darkness.

Each painting is a sanctuary. A living memory. A place where matter is never neutral: it is body, wound, offering.

It's no coincidence that a material calls to you. Sometimes, a crack in the artwork resonates with one we carry in silence. If this speaks to you, I invite you to join me.