Fields of Time

Most of my childhood lives between two worlds: a quiet town in the northern Beqaa and the bright rush of cities we visited on rare, cherished trips. In that space in-between—under willow trees by the river, in crowded kitchens filled with recipes and laughter, in churches across a shifting border, in fields of apricot blossoms and planted rows—my family became the landscape of my memory. Aunts who turned every visit into a feast, a father who believed in bridges more than borders, a mother whose tenderness carried us through ceremonies and ordinary days, grandparents whose hands shaped the soil that fed us—all of them are the roots of who I am.

These paintings are my way of returning to them: to the unposed moments caught in old photographs, to the small rituals of our days, to the faces that anchored a life lived between uncertainty and warmth. Time does not erase these scenes; it refines them. It strips away the noise and leaves what truly mattered—the gestures of care, the shared meals, the quiet faith, the seasons of harvest and celebration.