I consider watercolor a concentrated philosophy of life, balancing the sense of fragility with the illusion of control. Action is of less importance to me than the pause—a kind of presence that can’t be staged, only observed and held on paper.
These five works circle around such quiet states in different places: a mountain monastery at the edge of day, a theatre façade after the crowd has gone, two friends talking in the rain, a distant bell tower floating above a familiar hillside, and an old woman spinning by the window. All of them dwell in spaces where memory slowly accumulates, even when almost nothing “happens.” The motifs also carry symbolic resonances for me—the red light touching the mountains of Noravank, the shelter of umbrellas, a thread emerging from raw fibre—but I prefer to let viewers discover their own readings.
A characteristic feature of my paintings is that the people are usually absent, turned away, or shown with their eyes closed. This is to encourage the viewer to experience not only what is visible, but also to feel what is implied through other senses: the warmth of ageing hands, the echo of raindrops on wet stone, the sound of a disappearing car, the smell of wildflowers. Through the play of light and soft natural textures, I seek to preserve rare moments of harmony when outer reality and inner experience briefly align.