top of page
The Silence She Carries
48" x 48" Each
Mixed Media on Canvas
What if silence wasn’t absence, but architecture? This series traces the inner lives of women taught to wear composure like armor. Beneath blank faces and grey garments lie riotous inner worlds—mapped in color, memory, and ancestral noise. These aren’t portraits; they’re X-rays of stoic resistance. Across cultures, each figure holds her storm quietly. No spectacle. Just presence. This is not erasure—it’s authorship. A visual rebellion whispered, not shouted. Because silence, when chosen, becomes its own language of survival.
Mixed Media on Canvas
What if silence wasn’t absence, but architecture? This series traces the inner lives of women taught to wear composure like armor. Beneath blank faces and grey garments lie riotous inner worlds—mapped in color, memory, and ancestral noise. These aren’t portraits; they’re X-rays of stoic resistance. Across cultures, each figure holds her storm quietly. No spectacle. Just presence. This is not erasure—it’s authorship. A visual rebellion whispered, not shouted. Because silence, when chosen, becomes its own language of survival.
The Theatre Within
48" x 48"
Mixed Media on Canvas
This work signals a tonal shift within the series - from restraint to reclamation. From holding back to holding power. It hints that the figure belongs to the African continent, not through cliché, but through presence: full-bodied, rooted, and rhythmically composed. Her profile, like the others, is calm and contained. But the world within her? Anything but.
This painting explores how the female body has long been framed, first as symbol, then as spectacle. But here, the body returns to its rightful owner. It’s no longer posed for permission. It performs for no one.
Inside her head:
A scene unfolds - fluid and theatrical. Intertwined nude figures stretch, recline, confront. One central form stands upright, her hand raised like a question, or an answer. She is powerful, sculptural, not waiting to be admired but insisting on being seen.
To her left, lips hover like memory, an echo of touch, desire, or shame. Another woman reclines, soft and exposed. Behind them, a figure sits in shadow, bearing witness. Is she the artist? The past self? Or the part of her mind still deciding if pleasure is allowed?
The choreography is unapologetically erotic, but never gratuitous. Every body part exists with awareness. Nothing is there for decoration. The colour palette -deep reds, pale greys, stark blacks -feels intimate and interior, like the tones of memory and skin.
Though the outer figure is still, even stoic, her interior pulses with agency. This isn’t chaos. This is choreography. A theatre where she writes every act, directs every role, and stars without apology.
This is not a confession. It is authorship.
A reclaiming of the inner stage long co-opted by others - religion, art, desire, shame.
In this work, silence doesn’t mean absence.
It is a curtain drawn between what she chooses to show, and what she keeps sacred.
And when that curtain lifts; she is not the muse.
She is the maker.
Mixed Media on Canvas
This work signals a tonal shift within the series - from restraint to reclamation. From holding back to holding power. It hints that the figure belongs to the African continent, not through cliché, but through presence: full-bodied, rooted, and rhythmically composed. Her profile, like the others, is calm and contained. But the world within her? Anything but.
This painting explores how the female body has long been framed, first as symbol, then as spectacle. But here, the body returns to its rightful owner. It’s no longer posed for permission. It performs for no one.
Inside her head:
A scene unfolds - fluid and theatrical. Intertwined nude figures stretch, recline, confront. One central form stands upright, her hand raised like a question, or an answer. She is powerful, sculptural, not waiting to be admired but insisting on being seen.
To her left, lips hover like memory, an echo of touch, desire, or shame. Another woman reclines, soft and exposed. Behind them, a figure sits in shadow, bearing witness. Is she the artist? The past self? Or the part of her mind still deciding if pleasure is allowed?
The choreography is unapologetically erotic, but never gratuitous. Every body part exists with awareness. Nothing is there for decoration. The colour palette -deep reds, pale greys, stark blacks -feels intimate and interior, like the tones of memory and skin.
Though the outer figure is still, even stoic, her interior pulses with agency. This isn’t chaos. This is choreography. A theatre where she writes every act, directs every role, and stars without apology.
This is not a confession. It is authorship.
A reclaiming of the inner stage long co-opted by others - religion, art, desire, shame.
In this work, silence doesn’t mean absence.
It is a curtain drawn between what she chooses to show, and what she keeps sacred.
And when that curtain lifts; she is not the muse.
She is the maker.
Within Her, The Bird Sang Once
48" x 48"
Mixed Media on Canvas
She sits composed - upright, silent, unshaken- the very image of stoic poise. One hand is raised, not quite in blessing, not quite in refusal. Her form, draped in a sari-like silhouette, and the vermillion split across her face hint at a woman from the Indian subcontinent - steeped in ritual, yet quietly resisting it.
But her mind is a storm disguised as a shrine.
Inside her skull:
A bird locked in a cage - fragile, restless, unsung.
A bride with braided hair — rigid, ceremonial, almost ornamental.
A goddess-throne hybrid — bare-chested, mechanical, half-Devi, half-statue — her hand frozen mid-mudra, her expression half-blaze, half-ash.
And below it all, her own seated body - burdened not by posture, but by inheritance.
The figures stacked within her are not memories - they’re inheritances. Roles she did not choose, stories she carries like heirlooms.
This is not a painting of fragility.
It’s a portrait of quiet pressure.
She has not been granted the freedom to scream.
So she turns stillness into resistance.
Silence into architecture.
Her hand says: this ends with me.
The bird may not sing yet-but it remembers how.
Mixed Media on Canvas
She sits composed - upright, silent, unshaken- the very image of stoic poise. One hand is raised, not quite in blessing, not quite in refusal. Her form, draped in a sari-like silhouette, and the vermillion split across her face hint at a woman from the Indian subcontinent - steeped in ritual, yet quietly resisting it.
But her mind is a storm disguised as a shrine.
Inside her skull:
A bird locked in a cage - fragile, restless, unsung.
A bride with braided hair — rigid, ceremonial, almost ornamental.
A goddess-throne hybrid — bare-chested, mechanical, half-Devi, half-statue — her hand frozen mid-mudra, her expression half-blaze, half-ash.
And below it all, her own seated body - burdened not by posture, but by inheritance.
The figures stacked within her are not memories - they’re inheritances. Roles she did not choose, stories she carries like heirlooms.
This is not a painting of fragility.
It’s a portrait of quiet pressure.
She has not been granted the freedom to scream.
So she turns stillness into resistance.
Silence into architecture.
Her hand says: this ends with me.
The bird may not sing yet-but it remembers how.
The Rooms in Her Head
48" x 48"
Mixed Media on Canvas
This painting gestures toward a woman shaped by American ideals where freedom is promised but performance is constant. Her profile is upright, expressionless, and immaculately still. She wears the mask of control. But look within her silhouette, and you’ll find a different story -fragmented, crowded, and quietly exhausted.
This is not a woman at rest. This is a woman at work, holding versions of herself in tidy compartments, keeping them from spilling into one another. Her silence is not emptiness. It is effort.
The cubist aesthetic inside her mind is deliberate. It mimics how women in the modern world often experience themselves: curated, compartmentalised, endlessly composed. She is composed, in every sense of the word.
Inside her head:
A nude figure sits tall in the centre, back arched, knees folded - a poised silhouette with a frame for a face. A performance piece, perhaps. Her sexuality is stylised, her identity flattened into image. She is body, she is brand. She is being watched, even in her own head.
To her left, another version bends inward - tender, heavy, maternal - crouched over a form that may be memory, may be a younger self. She is the caretaker who rarely appears in photographs.
Behind them stands a third - still, shadowed, holding posture. Not part of the action, but always present. The one who witnesses. The one who never interrupts.
Each woman stays in her corner, as if aware that collapsing would cause chaos. They do not speak. They maintain their lines.
There is no scream here, no climax, just an orchestrated calm that barely contains the weight of holding so much while showing so little.
This painting is not about one woman. It is about the architecture required to be many.
The careful geometry of restraint.
The emotional expense of polish.
And the cost of never letting anything spill.
Her stoic silence isn’t repression. It’s survival dressed in neutral tones and framed in performance.
Mixed Media on Canvas
This painting gestures toward a woman shaped by American ideals where freedom is promised but performance is constant. Her profile is upright, expressionless, and immaculately still. She wears the mask of control. But look within her silhouette, and you’ll find a different story -fragmented, crowded, and quietly exhausted.
This is not a woman at rest. This is a woman at work, holding versions of herself in tidy compartments, keeping them from spilling into one another. Her silence is not emptiness. It is effort.
The cubist aesthetic inside her mind is deliberate. It mimics how women in the modern world often experience themselves: curated, compartmentalised, endlessly composed. She is composed, in every sense of the word.
Inside her head:
A nude figure sits tall in the centre, back arched, knees folded - a poised silhouette with a frame for a face. A performance piece, perhaps. Her sexuality is stylised, her identity flattened into image. She is body, she is brand. She is being watched, even in her own head.
To her left, another version bends inward - tender, heavy, maternal - crouched over a form that may be memory, may be a younger self. She is the caretaker who rarely appears in photographs.
Behind them stands a third - still, shadowed, holding posture. Not part of the action, but always present. The one who witnesses. The one who never interrupts.
Each woman stays in her corner, as if aware that collapsing would cause chaos. They do not speak. They maintain their lines.
There is no scream here, no climax, just an orchestrated calm that barely contains the weight of holding so much while showing so little.
This painting is not about one woman. It is about the architecture required to be many.
The careful geometry of restraint.
The emotional expense of polish.
And the cost of never letting anything spill.
Her stoic silence isn’t repression. It’s survival dressed in neutral tones and framed in performance.
Bas. (بس)
48" x 48"
Mixed Media on Canvas
She does not break her silence, she holds it like an heirloom. Her profile is still, almost regal, her face painted in deep red - the kind of red that isn’t blushing, but bracing. The curve of her garment and the veiled palette suggest a woman from an Arabic cultural lineage, one shaped by generations of expectation, elegance, and controlled expression.
But her mind is no longer obedient.
Inside her head:
A bride - scarlet-faced, upright, almost sacred, yet visibly burdened.
A scribe - hunched, writing feverishly, perhaps preserving the truths no one asked for.
A woman clutching her belly - eyes lowered, as if mourning something generationally lost.
And at the bottom, held not reverently but critically — a Cubist portrait of a woman. Fractured. Stylized. Made by someone else.
She does not inhabit that portrait.
She holds it now — studies it — as if to say:
“This was never me. This is what they painted when I had no brush.”
This painting is a negotiation — between how she is seen, and how she sees herself.
Her silence is not surrender. It is scrutiny.
Her stillness is not passive. It is power choosing its moment.
She does not perform rage. She archives it.
This is the Arabic woman they misread as muse, veiled, submissive.
But her mind contains a revolution — quiet, coded, and exacting.
The painting’s title is her only spoken word:
“Bas.”
Enough of the misrepresentation.
Enough of being the subject, not the storyteller.
She doesn’t step out of the frame, she rewrites it.
Mixed Media on Canvas
She does not break her silence, she holds it like an heirloom. Her profile is still, almost regal, her face painted in deep red - the kind of red that isn’t blushing, but bracing. The curve of her garment and the veiled palette suggest a woman from an Arabic cultural lineage, one shaped by generations of expectation, elegance, and controlled expression.
But her mind is no longer obedient.
Inside her head:
A bride - scarlet-faced, upright, almost sacred, yet visibly burdened.
A scribe - hunched, writing feverishly, perhaps preserving the truths no one asked for.
A woman clutching her belly - eyes lowered, as if mourning something generationally lost.
And at the bottom, held not reverently but critically — a Cubist portrait of a woman. Fractured. Stylized. Made by someone else.
She does not inhabit that portrait.
She holds it now — studies it — as if to say:
“This was never me. This is what they painted when I had no brush.”
This painting is a negotiation — between how she is seen, and how she sees herself.
Her silence is not surrender. It is scrutiny.
Her stillness is not passive. It is power choosing its moment.
She does not perform rage. She archives it.
This is the Arabic woman they misread as muse, veiled, submissive.
But her mind contains a revolution — quiet, coded, and exacting.
The painting’s title is her only spoken word:
“Bas.”
Enough of the misrepresentation.
Enough of being the subject, not the storyteller.
She doesn’t step out of the frame, she rewrites it.
She who Silences the Storm
Mixed Media on Canvas
36" x 24"
A face emerges—not from chaos, but from calculated silence. She does not scream. She does not plead. She simply is. Set against a tapestry of muted geometries—white like resignation, beige like fatigue, grey like the in-betweens we’re taught to swallow—she glows. In shades of orange and scarlet, her presence is not loud, but luminous. She is the still point in a world that won’t stop watching. Look closer. The eyes are everywhere. Minimal. Symbolic. Suspiciously quiet. Not hers—but theirs. The ever-buzzing, ever-blinking gaze of society, polite in tone, brutal in consistency. She’s learned the gaze does not rest—it categorizes, moralizes, sterilizes. And yet, she is unfazed. Near her cheek, textured clay bars emerge like a whisper of rebellion. Not a wall, but a veil. They don’t cage her—they filter the noise. These bars are not silence forced; they are silence chosen. She has turned scrutiny into sculpture, judgement into gesture. She blocks not to hide, but to hold her own peace. This painting is not a portrait. It is a ritual. A visual incantation to mute the world and listen inward. It is not resistance in the streets—it is resistance in the self. It asks: When the world demands a thousand performances from a woman, what happens when she offers only presence? When the eyes remain, but the noise is no longer hers to carry? She is not hiding. She is hushing.
36" x 24"
A face emerges—not from chaos, but from calculated silence. She does not scream. She does not plead. She simply is. Set against a tapestry of muted geometries—white like resignation, beige like fatigue, grey like the in-betweens we’re taught to swallow—she glows. In shades of orange and scarlet, her presence is not loud, but luminous. She is the still point in a world that won’t stop watching. Look closer. The eyes are everywhere. Minimal. Symbolic. Suspiciously quiet. Not hers—but theirs. The ever-buzzing, ever-blinking gaze of society, polite in tone, brutal in consistency. She’s learned the gaze does not rest—it categorizes, moralizes, sterilizes. And yet, she is unfazed. Near her cheek, textured clay bars emerge like a whisper of rebellion. Not a wall, but a veil. They don’t cage her—they filter the noise. These bars are not silence forced; they are silence chosen. She has turned scrutiny into sculpture, judgement into gesture. She blocks not to hide, but to hold her own peace. This painting is not a portrait. It is a ritual. A visual incantation to mute the world and listen inward. It is not resistance in the streets—it is resistance in the self. It asks: When the world demands a thousand performances from a woman, what happens when she offers only presence? When the eyes remain, but the noise is no longer hers to carry? She is not hiding. She is hushing.
Conversations with My House
36"x 36"
Mixed Media on Canvas
This painting reimagines the home as a metaphor for the emotional architecture of womanhood. The female figure is not just within the structure — she is the structure: the silent beam, the unseen room, the one who absorbs, contains, and carries.
Through abstract geometry, floating forms, and fractured space, the work reflects the quiet labor of holding space for others — of becoming the house, while risking disappearance within its walls.
The palette of red, beige, grey, and white speaks in coded emotion: urgency, stillness, memory, containment. The figure does not cry out — but she anchors the entire composition.
Conversations with My House invites us to reconsider silence not as absence, but as endurance. A form of presence too often overlooked, yet foundational.
Mixed Media on Canvas
This painting reimagines the home as a metaphor for the emotional architecture of womanhood. The female figure is not just within the structure — she is the structure: the silent beam, the unseen room, the one who absorbs, contains, and carries.
Through abstract geometry, floating forms, and fractured space, the work reflects the quiet labor of holding space for others — of becoming the house, while risking disappearance within its walls.
The palette of red, beige, grey, and white speaks in coded emotion: urgency, stillness, memory, containment. The figure does not cry out — but she anchors the entire composition.
Conversations with My House invites us to reconsider silence not as absence, but as endurance. A form of presence too often overlooked, yet foundational.
When Silence Wears Heals
36" x24"
Mixed Media on Canvas
is a surreal and poetic reflection on how women move through noisy worlds with quiet power.The city pulses—steel veins, glass towers, neon
sighs. Amid the chaos, a woman stands.,
face is composed, becoming; her bodyfragmented—a glimpse of bosom, curve of thigh. In this metropolis, it's not her voice they hear
but her flesh they see.The Big Apple
appears—not as fruit, but a meatophr, She
walks among titans, admired for silhouette,not brilliance.
Set against a fractured cityscape of vertical lines, industrial textures, and boiling points, the painting juxtaposes domestic symbols — a kettle, a face, a looming red sun — with the rhythm of an urban sprawl.
The female figure is part observer, part architecture — watching but unreadable, composed but burning quietly. The “heels” in the title are not literal, but symbolic of the balancing act women perform daily — elegance over exhaustion, silence over rupture. The teapot, mid-steam, becomes a metaphor for internal pressure: what simmers just beneath the surface.
This piece speaks of invisible labor, emotional containment, and resilience dressed in restraint.
Silence here isn’t soft — it’s structured, elevated, and unapologetically present.
Mixed Media on Canvas
is a surreal and poetic reflection on how women move through noisy worlds with quiet power.The city pulses—steel veins, glass towers, neon
sighs. Amid the chaos, a woman stands.,
face is composed, becoming; her bodyfragmented—a glimpse of bosom, curve of thigh. In this metropolis, it's not her voice they hear
but her flesh they see.The Big Apple
appears—not as fruit, but a meatophr, She
walks among titans, admired for silhouette,not brilliance.
Set against a fractured cityscape of vertical lines, industrial textures, and boiling points, the painting juxtaposes domestic symbols — a kettle, a face, a looming red sun — with the rhythm of an urban sprawl.
The female figure is part observer, part architecture — watching but unreadable, composed but burning quietly. The “heels” in the title are not literal, but symbolic of the balancing act women perform daily — elegance over exhaustion, silence over rupture. The teapot, mid-steam, becomes a metaphor for internal pressure: what simmers just beneath the surface.
This piece speaks of invisible labor, emotional containment, and resilience dressed in restraint.
Silence here isn’t soft — it’s structured, elevated, and unapologetically present.
Alter Ego
10"x 12" Each
Mixed Media on Canvas
Alter Ego is not a split — it’s a dialogue. Two faces, two forces. One composed in muted contrast, the other lit with unapologetic color. Together, they reveal the choreography between visibility and concealment.
This is not about masks versus truth — it’s about how both can be true.
One painting withdraws; the other declares.
One whispers; the other claims space.
In between them is the self — not torn, but layered. Designed. Lived. Chosen.
Mixed Media on Canvas
Alter Ego is not a split — it’s a dialogue. Two faces, two forces. One composed in muted contrast, the other lit with unapologetic color. Together, they reveal the choreography between visibility and concealment.
This is not about masks versus truth — it’s about how both can be true.
One painting withdraws; the other declares.
One whispers; the other claims space.
In between them is the self — not torn, but layered. Designed. Lived. Chosen.
Whimsical Moods
12" x 12" Each
Mixed Media on Canvas
Whimsical Moods is a study in emotional plurality — a visual assertion that a woman need not be reduced to a single expression, a single role, or a single tone.
Rendered in compartments of ochre warmth, blue silence, red unrest, and white refusal, each face in the series holds multitudes. The closed eyes do not signify blindness, but introspection — a gaze turned inward, toward the self rather than the spectator. These are not whimsical women. They are composed, disassembled, and reassembled — not for your pleasure, but for their own presence.
In a world that demands women be digestible, consistent, and clear, Whimsical Moods insists on her right to complexity. To shift. To contradict. To feel everything, all at once — without explanation.
Whimsy is what the world sees. Depth is what she contains.”
Mixed Media on Canvas
Whimsical Moods is a study in emotional plurality — a visual assertion that a woman need not be reduced to a single expression, a single role, or a single tone.
Rendered in compartments of ochre warmth, blue silence, red unrest, and white refusal, each face in the series holds multitudes. The closed eyes do not signify blindness, but introspection — a gaze turned inward, toward the self rather than the spectator. These are not whimsical women. They are composed, disassembled, and reassembled — not for your pleasure, but for their own presence.
In a world that demands women be digestible, consistent, and clear, Whimsical Moods insists on her right to complexity. To shift. To contradict. To feel everything, all at once — without explanation.
Whimsy is what the world sees. Depth is what she contains.”
bottom of page