The hum of my projector fills the studio, casting fragmented shapes onto the blank canvas. I adjust the scale, shifting the composition—a peony unfolding beyond recognition, a wine glass teetering on an unseen edge, grapes swollen to impossible proportions. Sometimes I refine my vision in Procreate, arranging forms before committing to paint, but once my brush touches the canvas, the image begins to breathe on its own. I think about light and shadow, color and contrast—not just as visual elements, but as a language. What does it mean to illuminate? To obscure? To take up space? These choices are never just aesthetic; they are deeply intentional.

Feminism in art does not always arrive in neon protest signs. Sometimes, it blooms in the slow, deliberate act of refusing to shrink. The world teaches women to make themselves small, to be decorative, to be palatable. But my paintings challenge that expectation in subtle ways—in the scale of a flower that refuses to stay confined, in a table that tilts just enough to feel unstable, in objects that seem familiar yet are impossibly distorted. Still life has long been dismissed as a "feminine" art form, but what if still life is its own quiet rebellion?

Light is never neutral. It tells us what to admire, what to ignore, what to see. In my work, light bends and shadows loom, playing with perception—challenging the notion that beauty must be delicate, obedient, easily understood. What happens when beauty is unruly? When it overwhelms? When it refuses to be contained?

This is the quiet power of feminist art. It does not always scream. But it disrupts, unsettles, reclaims. It asks the viewer to pause, to reconsider, to see. And in that space of reconsideration, there is room for change.