My artistic journey has traversed the mighty ranges of the Himalayas,
reaching a path where it ceases to be merely a journey and transforms into
a living philosophy, a philosophy that exists beyond imagination, vibrant
and self-aware. Each step feels like a golden opportunity, inviting me to
descend ever deeper into its depths. Their vastness and texture seem to
belong to another realm. It feels as if one is standing in the house of the
divine, where all gods silently watch, and every prayer is received without
utterance.

The paths I walked were steeped in mystery—towering peaks on one side,
deep gorges on the other. Rarely in life does one encounter a moment that
feels essential, a moment everyone should experience. Some paths choose
us; others we choose ourselves. Forests, rivers, barren cliffs, silence, and
horizons stretching endlessly—such landscapes evoke a myriad of
emotions: fear, hope, courage, prayer, belonging, solitude and countless
questions, born at times from the past, at others from the future. In those
moments, the present simply observes us in silent grace.

A similar experience greeted me in the early days of my artistic journey. To
stand close to the mountains, to observe and understand them, has always
been an entirely different world for me—a calling that I knew I must answer,
sooner or later. Before encountering it, a silent summons rose from within
me, its timing known only to the one before whom we pray. My call was
heard. A sacred spirit came to guide me, one with a gentle heart and eyes
that shone with extraordinary light. I followed, and in that instant, it felt as
if I were walking with a messenger of the divine.

When I entered the highlands, I was embraced just as my every inner and
outer sensation was accepted. In front of the mountains, one is present yet
nothing; they assess you as a gust of wind briefly brushes past, yet they
meet you, see you, and answer your questions through their silent presence.
Every path I traversed was a world unto itself—its colors, forms, textures,
boundless expanse, and mysteries. Being there, it felt as though we had
known each other for centuries. I felt as if I were returning home after ages,
sitting among loved ones, sharing the untold stories cherished in my heart
for years. These encounters were like souls reuniting to feel completeness,
as if the vows of waiting had finally been fulfilled. Such was my experience
cradled in the highlands.

For me, the Himalayas are a subject alive with infinite possibilities—a
resonance of forgotten pasts and unborn futures. Astonishingly delicate,
yet resilient against time and change, they remain one of the enduring
remnants passed down by ancient civilizations—not in stones or soil, but
etched deep within the soul. And this is why they are entwined with the
memories of my childhood.

Childhood is perhaps the most delicate and beautiful fragment of one’s
memories, and mine was no exception. My journey from village to city, and
from city to the mountains, was made possible solely because of my
grandmother. Some days of my childhood still live within me, vivid and
unaltered.