This body of work emerged from the lingering shadow of One Hundred Years of Solitude,
a novel I returned to in 1997 during the early days of my student years.
It was a time of searching—for identity, for vision, for meaning. A space suspended outside of memory,
without past or future. A time when longing seemed meaningless, and silence carried an uncanny depth.
In that silence, I turned to painting—not just as expression, but as a way to find myself.
A way to question the role of art in life, and life through art. These were years of persistence,
introspection, and quiet resistance.

I was alone—
in a place where loneliness was imagined not as a condition,
but as a fate from which there was no escape.