AVATARS, 2025

continuation of PORTALS OF REMEMBRANCE

This series is a story about returning to the core, to the essence we carry within ourselves, and that we often forget. It started with the return of a trauma that struck my body with new force. A diagnosis from years ago returned, along with the need for more surgeries. Then, in an act of desperate faith, I turned to deep introspection, which led me to the method of Quantum Healing Hypnotherapy. During this journey, I met them: the blue people, my star family. They came, bringing with them joy, peace, and a sense of belonging that extended beyond the borders of our world.

The "Blue Avatars" series is a visual testament to this journey. Each painting is a portal to the understanding that our bodies, though marked by scars and illnesses, are vessels that hold a spiritual memory. Painting these figures has become a form of healing for me, an expression of unconditional love, and a reclaiming of my agency. The blue that fills these figures is not only the color of the sky and holiness but also a universal skin that erases divisions related to race, gender, or trauma. It is the color of eternity, spirituality, and solace.

The series will evolve dynamically. Although it began with blue, over time, the avatars will appear in other colors, representing different aspects of the human and cosmic condition. This is an invitation to contemplation and a journey deep within, to a space where trauma becomes a portal to transformation, and the memory of who we truly are becomes the medicine for our souls.

Bloom of Memory

Do you remember these bodies? Not human, other, temporally displaced, foreign-close. These are maps of the soul and its wanderings, not maps of the earth. Blue body, not a whole, but a collection.

Blue skin, a sign, a trace of a lost tribe, a sea turned into memory. Color, you say, is meaningless.

Blue skin - a fallacy, a sign of a tribal index. Or a cartographic trace of origin? Do you remember these bodies, not quite human, belonging to a time past? Bodies: pre- and post-human.

Hey, do you remember? Flames, landmarks. End or beginning?

Flames, not fire, signs. Do they burn, are they reborn? Flames creeping over them and between them, marking territory, delineating boundaries of telepathic communication, climbing like ivy, signs of transformation.

 Do they burn, or are they reborn in an endless cycle of becoming? Flames, not igneous, but semiotic. Landmarks of earthly sensations, both pleasure and pain. Is it the end, or just the beginning of another journey? Scattered narratives

TEAR CATCHERS, Taxonomy of Absence

 Unguentarium: a vessel, a form signifying absence silent witnesses to the passage of time

A tear, a distilled essence of loss, trapped within glass walls

Its structure changes depending on the mood during its production

They say tears have various functions, various use

Our whole world, one of its moments contained within each tear relics of joy, the syntax of sorrow

the enduring power of absence. This glass holds the salt of a thousand departures

The body, a vessel, like these ancient bottles, filled with the ghosts of what was

Tears are just a language spoken in the silence between words

Hey, imagine the hands that held these vessels, the eyes that wept into them

The weight of their grief became my weight. Their joy, mine. a tangible presence of those long gone

life in a fragile container, their negative space defines the shape of what is lost

The salt of tears, the sea of the vastness of the space between us

Anatomy of Departure, Firefly Rear

That evening, blue slowly leaked from these remembered bodies and their surroundings. They emerged one by one from the violet core, sediment from long-gone tides, a map of a home we never knew.

This body, its wrinkles, its fingerprints, became a map of longing, a river of cobalt returning to the earth's throat. Will I ever find peace? Solace, peace you ask? What is a body, if not a vessel for the unspoken, a rear for the ash we carry?

Firefly, not an insect, but a flicker, a stutter in the dark. Spiritual guides, they lead us with these starlight wounds.

Funny, you say, light from the rear, from hidden corners, from shameful places. As if beauty, to exist, had to be stained, had to carry the mark of humiliation. Like my own light, leaking from the places I bury, from the silence I wear.

Dung, you see, is the best fertilizer. Because it's from rot, from the body's decay, that we bloom. We bloom, not with innocence, but with the remnants of memory and longing for who we once were. We bloom, like fireflies, from the darkness, from the very places we try to forget.

Morphology of Loss and Gain

ON THAT SUMMER MORNING The world congealed into the singular shape of a tear. Whose tear? Someone asked. It is a Tear of universal grief, mine and my ancestors', holding the incomprehensible. A tear of perfect moments.

The world congealed, condensed into a single, solitary drop. This drop was once a vessel of our love. Now condensed into your absence, a symbol of longing for what we once had in that timeline.

You see, I didn't know that all our love could be contained within the single shape of a tear.

A tear, so small, yet monumental in what remains unsaid. To hold this tear, even in my imagination, is to bear the weight of all that I lost and what I gained.

We hold the sky the way a child holds a secret, 300x300cm, silk paint, oil paint, soft pastel on silk

We hold the sky the way a child holds
a secret:
tight, trembling,
holy.

Above us, orbs spin—
joyful, weightless—
carrying the forgotten memories
of galaxies that once
dreamed of us.

And for a moment
we shine—
not alone, but as one.

You are the calm in my storm 

The air, a vortex spellbound, rises with breaths, whispers, the unspoken.

A different kind of magic, you know? We fell from the stars, do you remember that rustle?

Water wraps around us, a crown of eight years, wet and silent.

I – a bird, you – a blue avatar, light on your palm