Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Oil on canvas, 80x88cm, 2024.
The kitchen smelled of fabric and memories. As my granma’s hands stitched my graduation cord with the colours of a home we left behind, I painted her, the weight of her sacrifices brushing each stroke. Her heart, still wandering the streets of Tuluá, kneeling before El Señor De Los Milagros, never fully settled there in Spain. Twenty years in Andalucía, yet her devotion remains tied to that distant church we visited on small family trips, its image now painted into this portrait.
Our conversations lingers between then and now, stitching together the fragments of a life split across continents. The tiles I sketched later, inspired by the walls of our home in Sevilla, frame every moment with cool, intricate beauty, but never quite held the warmth of a home.
Oil on canvas, 80x88cm, 2024.
The kitchen smelled of fabric and memories. As my granma’s hands stitched my graduation cord with the colours of a home we left behind, I painted her, the weight of her sacrifices brushing each stroke. Her heart, still wandering the streets of Tuluá, kneeling before El Señor De Los Milagros, never fully settled there in Spain. Twenty years in Andalucía, yet her devotion remains tied to that distant church we visited on small family trips, its image now painted into this portrait.
Our conversations lingers between then and now, stitching together the fragments of a life split across continents. The tiles I sketched later, inspired by the walls of our home in Sevilla, frame every moment with cool, intricate beauty, but never quite held the warmth of a home.