About

Since I was little, my father spoke to me as one speaks when handing over a key without saying which door it opens. Before falling asleep, he would tell me, you will enter alpha waves, and there, in that invisible territory where reason removes its shoes, you will find the answers and creative solutions to everything you need. He said it with a solemn naturalness, as if he were speaking about the weather or the bread of the day, and I believed him because there was no doubt in his voice—only an ancient faith, inherited from a place where time does not move in a straight line

That was how I learned that sleep was not rest, but to travel.

As soon as I closed my eyes, the world overflowed. My dreams were wild, untamed like jungles absent from all maps. Everything happened in full color: blues that rang like submerged bells, reds that smelled of ripe fruit, warm yellows that left on the skin the memory of sunlight. There were sounds not heard with the ears and aromas that belonged to no known flower, yet upon waking they lingered stubbornly in the air, like visitors unwilling to leave.

In that nocturnal kingdom, ideas did not ask for permission. They arrived wrapped in impossible images, sat beside me, and spoke with the certainty of those who know they will be remembered. At dawn, when the world returned to its familiar shape, I woke with the feeling of having been elsewhere—somewhere more real—where answers were not sought, but simply appeared.

In time, I understood that my father was not teaching me how to sleep, but how to listen. For in the alpha waves—that secret murmur between waking and dreaming—the universe lowers its voice, and if one knows how to remain still, it tells you everything.

One early dawn, I had a dream so real that I was convinced I was awake. The kind of hour when the world holds its breath and even time seems unsure of itself. The air had weight, the silence had texture, and nothing felt invented.

In that state of lucid astonishment, my great-aunt Hilda came to visit me. She had been one of my grandmother’s closest friends, bound to her by a loyalty so deep that not even death had managed to loosen it. Both of them had passed away more than ten years earlier, and yet she appeared before me with a presence so vivid that it startled me, as if she had merely stepped out for a moment and returned exactly as she had always been.

I asked her—almost apologetically, almost in disbelief—why she had come.

She looked at me with gentleness, the kind that does not hurry explanations, and said only, “Come closer.”

As I approached, I noticed that resting on her lap was a cradle. Inside it lay one of her grandchildren, a child who had died tragically. She was caressing him, rocking him with an infinite tenderness that did not belong to grief, but to something older and more enduring, as if sorrow had already fulfilled its task and withdrawn.

What moved me most was that the cradle itself was alive. It shimmered with motion, breathing softly in her arms. At first, I thought I could see the atoms that composed it, vibrating gently, obedient to some hidden law of the universe. But as I looked more closely, I realized they were not atoms at all.

They were Hebrew letters.

Living letters, restless and luminous, constantly moving, gathering, expanding. Words that refused to remain still. Words formed from Tehillim—Psalms spoken, whispered, prayed across generations by countless loving souls. Those words sustained the child, held him gently, cradled him in light, while Aunt Hilda watched over him with a serenity untouched by time.

In that moment, clarity arrived without noise, without effort, like a truth that had always been waiting.

Words are not inert.
Prayer is not abstract.
Love continues.

In that moment, I understood the true importance of reading the Psalms. I realized they are not merely poems meant to exalt God, but a living portal of divine communication.

Each Psalm is like a bubble of energy, infused with a directed intention:
healing,
the search for wisdom,
success,
help,
hope for new life,
trust in a miracle yet unrevealed.

When I create a piece, I feel as though I gather that living energy and concentrate it into ink—without force, without control.
The work remains still, yet alive.
Latent.
Waiting to be activated each time it is observed with awareness and intention.

My artistic practice is not about illustrating sacred text, but about holding space for it.