The Quiet Wilderness
This collection brings together a group of quiet animal portraits—each painted with a gaze toward what lies beneath the surface. Some look confused, some resigned, some playful, some melancholic. But all of them—foxes, frogs, cows, squirrels and more—hold a hint of a story, a mood, a question left unanswered. Here, the wilderness is not loud. It is still, thoughtful, sometimes funny, always tender.
Some of these creatures were born purely from imagination. Others were inspired by real photographs—reimagined through my brush, with subtle shifts in tone and feeling. Each one carries a voice of its own.
These are not just illustrations. They are reflections. Of moods, of thoughts, perhaps of you.
She has woven webs for years not to catch, but to bring order to disorder.
And now, she sits beside her threads, a cup of tea in hand,
contemplating something beyond the flight and the fall.
Perhaps a connection more intricate than silk.
Perhaps a silence that even the leaves dare not break.
The rain doesn’t trouble me.
What lingers is the question—
Should I remain rooted,
or let myself fall
into whatever comes next?
It’s warm, and the grass still tastes the same .
Nothing new, nothing strange.
But as long as I live, I keep smiling
perhaps, one day, the human heart might soften
I lie hidden beneath the flowers—
not to hunt,
not to deceive.
Sometimes, just being
isn’t enough
when your name is judged
before your steps are taken.
There are moments when even a fox forgets its sharpness,
drawn not to prey, but to a flicker of grace.
To long for what is delicate,
to reach for beauty that was never meant to be yours,
isn’t that its own kind of hunger?
Describe your image
Milk and Chains
You’ve been milking me for as long as I can remember —
as if I were born only to give.
But today, I long to run like a wild horse.
Unless, of course… you plan to ride me too.
For a frog philosopher, salvation is but a distant tale
Each time I try to flee the pull of flesh—
some tempting feast finds me all the same.”
Some carve paths with intellect — and arrive at success.
Some follow their hearts — and find joy.
And then there’s me…
A little philosopher frog lives in my heart, constantly croaking.
More cowardly than a chicken — far from even a single leap.
Oh dear, did I say a chicken?
I don’t even lay eggs!
And all that remains of me is staring into space
and endless conversations with silence.
You might think I’m a thinker…
But maybe my legs have simply forgotten how to jump.
And here it is — the frog within me.
Who am I?
Perhaps a frog trapped in a human body…
Or a frog with the illusion of being human, floating in a pond.
And in the end,
with a longing for flight,
I take refuge
in the depth of the pond.
The Philosopher Frog Within
This image caught my attention and gently pulled me into the desire to paint it — once again, through the lens of my own emotions.
The black cat, quietly gazing at the fading colors of the sunset, reminded me of a green-eyed cat who lives in the garden behind my window. Kind, ever-present — and yet, utterly free. He doesn’t come just for food; in fact, many times he doesn’t even eat. He simply looks at me. And I… I’m drawn to that silent pride and unwavering loyalty.
Perhaps he sees me as a human, caged behind glass, and offers me a taste of his freedom through his gaze — through the moments he spends just outside my frame. I, too, have grown attached to his presence, and sometimes I find myself worrying when he disappears.
I believe that emotion — and love — has longer legs than we do.
It walks beyond the limits of language and form. Sometimes, with just one look, we can feel kindness. We can fall in love — without expectations — and bring color back into life.
Perhaps animals see the world more beautifully than we do.
Perhaps they live it more honestly, more freely — with less pain.
Should I survive the storm of these days — don’t worry, I’ll pretend I’m fine
Perhaps I am a little heavy, yet my longing feels like wings for flight.
The tree holds me with all its strength — perhaps its final attempt at love, or a last kiss before sleep.
No one has seen it yet, but I can sense its fragrance, hear the sound of its approaching steps, and I grow restless to behold it.
Autumn is on its way… and perhaps a deep sleep awaits me.
A warm love woven from the fabric of nature;
a hidden whisper among the autumn leaves,
a flame that even the cold cannot silence.
“Greetings to those who found something in us to love, something we ourselves were unaware of.”
— Mahmoud Darwish
