About your art

The word

It starts with what you couldn't put down. I repeat it until it stops meaning and starts breathing.

A word carries a season, a room, a person. I don't choose the colors. I listen for them.

Letters become sticks, arcs and discs. The rhythm is how you say it when no one is listening.

Every word lives somewhere. Plaster, sand, dust — the ground is where it belongs.

Each stroke is one I once made with a brush. Thick paint, visible bristles, mistakes left in.

— Nina

An original oil painting of your word, painted by hand from your painting's palette, shape and letters.