In the glow of a solitary desk lamp, the room feels suspended in a quiet timelessness. The rhythmic clatter of my typewriter punctuates the stillness, each keystroke carving out fragments of thought onto crisp, cream-colored sheets. Nearby, a pen rests on the edge of my desk, its ink well nearly spent from the hours spent scribbling notes in my leather-bound journal. The air is heavy with the smell of ink and paper, mingled faintly with the scent of burnt coffee lingering in a chipped porcelain mug.
Painting feels like an extension of this process—a different language for the same ache. My brushes are worn, their handles smoothed by time and tension. Each stroke on the canvas feels deliberate, like the careful forming of letters in a love note or the revision of a sentence that must carry the weight of everything unsaid. My reds hold the passion of unsent letters, my blacks, the finality of a period at the end of a page.
When the world is quiet and the lamp’s glow softens the edges of reality, this is when creation finds me. Each piece, whether painted or typed, feels like an artifact of my existence—a love letter to the fleeting beauty of imperfection, preserved in ink, paper, and color.
After completing several writings and paintings, I gathered the courage to participate in the UNS Art and Psychology Exhibition, Archetype 7.0, in 2023. I viewed what I showcased there as an extension of my novel, Taman Sunyi Sekala. Alongside my works, I wrote extensively and offered a small teaser about the story I intended to tell—one that revolves around Jeremiah. I felt an undeniable urge to document all of this, to etch it into a blog or a journal so that the process I lived through could linger, even if just momentarily, in the realm of permanence.
Isn’t that a delightful thought? I am an artist, weaving my existence and creations into a tapestry where they merge and overlap, inseparably. However I choose to narrate this journey, I hope you understand, even if only in fragments.
It felt like the universe paused for a moment, holding its breath, as I stood there in the midst of my paintings, watching my daughters’ eyes light up with awe and pride. Their gazes roamed across the canvas, sparkling with a joy that mirrored my own—an unspoken connection bridging the years I had abandoned this art form.
Decades ago, I had turned my back on painting, my brushes left to gather dust, my teenage self too uncertain to continue. More than thirty years passed before Archetype 3.0 gave me the courage to reclaim that part of me. It wasn’t just about returning to the canvas—it was about rediscovering a voice I thought I had silenced forever.
And yet, it wasn’t the applause or the acknowledgment that moved me most—it was the way my daughters, these brilliant lights of my life, looked at me. In their shining eyes, I could see a reflection of all the risks, the hesitations, and the courage it took to stand here, baring my soul through my art. They didn’t just see the paintings; they saw me—the mother who had dared to be herself, unapologetically "nyleneh," unafraid to show her heart to the world.
In their pride, I found my own. In their joy, I found a kind of healing I never expected. And in that fleeting moment, as I stood surrounded by my work, their presence made everything—every doubt, every struggle—worth it. I was no longer just an artist rediscovering her craft; I was a mother, leaving behind a legacy of courage and creativity for her daughters to carry forward.
Art had become my sanctuary, a space where pain could flow freely and transform into something tangible, something beautiful. The act of painting was more than just creating—it was unraveling, releasing, and rebuilding. With every canvas I touched, I found a piece of myself that had been buried under the weight of time, of doubt, of life’s relentless trials. It wasn’t simply about beauty or expression; it was about survival. Art became my therapy, a means of confronting emotions too overwhelming to carry alone. It allowed me to breathe again, to process grief, joy, and everything in between.
Standing there, surrounded by my daughters and the works that had emerged from years of silence, I realized something profound: art doesn’t just ease the pain—it transforms it. It takes the raw edges of hurt and shapes them into something meaningful, something worth sharing. In that moment, I wasn’t just a mother or an artist; I was a testament to the power of creation, proof that healing is possible, even after decades of separation from the things that once brought life.
Art is more than therapy—it is reclamation. It is the courage to face your pain, to make peace with it, and to use it as a foundation for something new. In my daughters’ eyes, I saw that courage reflected back at me, and I knew that this journey—this art—had not only healed me but had become a part of them too.
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