When I began working on my self-portrait, the memory surfaced unexpectedly. Not as a narrative, but as a sensation, as if the body remembered before the mind did. The scar became a point of entry, a place where the past meets the present.
From there, the work expanded beyond my own story. I asked friends about their scars, not as marks, but as moments. What emerged were fragments: falling, slipping, colliding, followed by silence or confusion. Some spoke of fear, others of something closer to recognition, a sudden awareness of themselves they hadn’t noticed before. Each story held a similar structure, an interruption, and a trace that remained.
The paintings are built in layers. The base resembles skin, a surface that is both intimate and impersonal. Over it, I draw with acrylic pencils, tracing fragments of remembered scenes: incomplete figures, suspended gestures, outlines that resist full reconstruction. The drawings do not illustrate the scars; they circle around the moment of their origin.

I think of scars as points of recall. Like a sound or a smell, they can return you to a specific time, even if it cannot be fully retrieved. They are not images of the past, but connections to it, physical links between who we were and who we are.
This series is not about trauma, nor about the visibility of the mark itself. It is about the persistence of experience, and the quiet way it remains. About the impulse to erase, and its limits.

Each work holds a fragment of a story. None of them are complete. What remains is the trace, and the act of remembering.