In this difficult period of my life, marked by the grief of losing my beloved mother, I have found comfort and refuge in drawing flowers, both those in the garden and those on Persian rugs.

The rug is a silent companion, wrapping us in its embrace and welcoming us every time we step on it. It has witnessed many events with us that turn into memories, both beautiful and painful, and somehow, in its trampled floral designs, it preserves those memories. I take these floral patterns from the rug, which for me are like my memories: sometimes vivid, sometimes blurred, some wonderful, others bitter. It is a kind of therapy between me and the image of that rug.

Art is strange, but perhaps we humans are even stranger. We are subjective beings when it comes to preserving and recounting memories, shaping them to our liking. I, too, sometimes stick faithfully to the shapes of the flowers, other times I don't. Sometimes we tread on memories, other times memories tread on us, humbling or uplifting us.

Life is like a colorful rug, full of flowers (memories), and it is nice, every now and then, to observe it from afar to grasp the entire pattern.

In this rug, halfway through, there is a symmetry that represents memory. Memory is a duality: between me and another person, between me and another thing, between me and nature, and sometimes between me and myself; perhaps even the self is a dualism. The symmetry can be very faithful to the other side, sometimes less so, and at times not at all.