While in hiding, the artist made canvasses of bed linens and clothing. On these, she penned poem prayers. Trying to escape from war, she said, is like trying to protect yourself with paper against tanks.
Her subject had been landscape. Now the landscape is war. You live moment to moment long enough, one risk is losing memory. Whose right is memory? There are monumental works in ornate halls to glorify the history of war––and then there are these small sketches on paper and textiles, the cries of those living under the impact.
She prayed for strength and remembrance. That her soul would not be poisoned by pain, yet retain enough rage to keep fighting for the right to a history.
As soon as your skin is totally hardened, she says, it becomes easy to break. I am trying to learn from the flower, she says, on how these get trampled by the boots and stand again.