Held in Pulse

It began in a basement during shelling, when life, as it was known, came to a halt. What remained was pulsation — breath, heartbeat, the intervals between explosions.

Time was no longer measured, but felt as repetition. Nothing moved forward; each moment returned in the same form, marked by fear and by the body’s response to danger.

In this state, we were like prisoners — confined, suspended in time, existing within repetition, with a constant need to prevent the self from dissolving.

Like prisoners marking time on a wall with notches, there was a need to fix and register the passing of time.

These notches transform into diagonal lines in my work, functioning both as counting and as a form of inscription.

Within a closed, dark form, color appears as a pulse — a sign of internal movement that persists under pressure.

This condition continues within the work, held in repetition, in pulse, in a state that does not move forward, but endures.