The works.

The child is silent, but the whole work screams — with colour, with broken forms, with light that breaks through the pain.

A grandmother’s embroidered prayer: her granddaughter’s face gathered piece by piece, where light breaks through the cracks — the light war cannot touch.

A child’s first steps, photographed on a birthday: a movement every one of us once made and no one remembers — the one living flame in a cold city.

A child sleeps pressed against a broken bear while warm windows glow outside: while she sleeps, we are still holding on.

A portrait of a child with quiet eyes and a bear like a wall behind her — and the seven things I would leave to the children born in war.

The fourth year of the war: every night she sits across from a black cat — the one listener who knows all her secrets. Their eyes speak in the silence.

Every stitch is a temperature, every colour a degree of pain endured: a portrait of a woman who did not choose to be strong.

A fragile life floats in a transparent sphere that is at once an eye and a universe, while two strelitzias spread their petal-wings around the child.

The sky is alive, it breathes — and it has grown a little tired of holding itself up. Beside her a bandura player plays his own tune, somewhere a war is going on, and she stands and holds, because someone has to.