Sono Seta

This is the moment I work toward.
Not the fur. Not the composition. Not the silk — though the silk makes it possible.
The eye.
A wild animal doesn't soften its gaze for you. Doesn't perform calm. Doesn't pretend you're safe.
When I finish a painting, I always stop at the eye last. I look at it for a long time.
If it looks back — the work is done.

People expect silk paintings to be fragile.
They're not.
Pastel, charcoal, watercolor —
controlled humidity, glass protection, careful handling.
Constant caution.
But silk remains silk.
Colors fixed into the fabric itself.
No cracking. No heavy layers waiting to age.
And the part that surprises everyone:
my silk paintings can be carefully washed.
Silk looks delicate.
But it has already survived centuries.
It knows something the other materials don't.
Handle it like the living thing it is —
and it will outlive us all.

The word “painter” doesn’t always fit this kind of work.

Painting is usually about applying color or reproducing an image.

But some work goes beyond that — when every decision is irreversible and the material holds it permanently.

In that case, “artist” becomes a more accurate term.

Not repetition.
Something unrepeatable.