The Imperception of Memory
"The Imperception of Memory" is a mixed media painting series exploring the fragile, layered nature of memory. Through textured surfaces and abstract forms, the works reflect how we recall the past not with clarity, but through fragments and distortions shaped by time, emotion, and forgetfulness. This evocative series invites viewers to contemplate the imperfections of memory and the shifting boundaries between what is remembered and what is lost.
I remember...at least, I think I do...
Acrylic on canvas
70 x 50 cm
Erasure of The Things That Once Were
Mixed media (acrylic, watercolor, crayon & oil pastel) on board
30 x 30 cm
Who I was, who I am, what I will be...
Mixed media (acrylic, charcoal, crayon) on canvas
100 x 30 cm
Making sense of memory and being, the journey from then to now.
In the Quiet Between
Mixed media (acrylic, oil pastel & crayon) on canvas
30 x 30 cm
a breath held -
color thins
into silence
marks drift
like distant footsteps,
waiting.
A moment adrift, unanchored (from The Imperception of the Memory)
Mixed media (acrylic & crayon) on canvas
24 x 18 cm
a feather caught in a still room
it hums with an echo
a glance,
a scent,
a shimmer of light.
A trace without a tale,
floating in quiet space
between forgetting and knowing
memory is not a story -
but a sensation
half-felt,
fully haunting.
Telling a Story on a Summer’s Night (from The Imperception of the Memory)
Mixed media (acrylic & oil pastel) on canvas
24 x 18 cm
In this intimate piece, I return to a single, golden-lit evening—a summer night suspended somewhere between dream and recollection. The work captures the moment my husband, in a low, voice, recites passages from The Little Prince. His words, familiar and beloved, fall gently into the warmth of the air, like fireflies blinking in and out of time.
As he speaks, I remember the fox—the grain fields swaying with the breeze, each stalk golden like the fox’s fur, each movement a memory stirred. It is here, in this layered remembrance, that the emotional core of the piece lies. Not in the literal events, but in how they are carried—imprecisely but vividly—within the heart. The story, the field, the fox, and my husband’s voice blend into a single sensation of presence and loss, of knowing and forgetting.
The visual or material form of the piece echoes this fragility: soft textures, diffused light, and layered surfaces that never fully resolve into clarity. Like memory itself, the image flickers. At its center, a quiet echo of the fox’s whispered truth: “One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Through this work, I question what we retain and what fades, and suggests that memory—like love—is not about precision but about emotional resonance. What remains is not the exact field, the exact night, or even the exact words, but the feeling of being there, together, in the hush of summer, beneath stars and stories.
Acrylic on canvas
70 x 50 cm
Erasure of The Things That Once Were
Mixed media (acrylic, watercolor, crayon & oil pastel) on board
30 x 30 cm
Who I was, who I am, what I will be...
Mixed media (acrylic, charcoal, crayon) on canvas
100 x 30 cm
Making sense of memory and being, the journey from then to now.
In the Quiet Between
Mixed media (acrylic, oil pastel & crayon) on canvas
30 x 30 cm
a breath held -
color thins
into silence
marks drift
like distant footsteps,
waiting.
A moment adrift, unanchored (from The Imperception of the Memory)
Mixed media (acrylic & crayon) on canvas
24 x 18 cm
a feather caught in a still room
it hums with an echo
a glance,
a scent,
a shimmer of light.
A trace without a tale,
floating in quiet space
between forgetting and knowing
memory is not a story -
but a sensation
half-felt,
fully haunting.
Telling a Story on a Summer’s Night (from The Imperception of the Memory)
Mixed media (acrylic & oil pastel) on canvas
24 x 18 cm
In this intimate piece, I return to a single, golden-lit evening—a summer night suspended somewhere between dream and recollection. The work captures the moment my husband, in a low, voice, recites passages from The Little Prince. His words, familiar and beloved, fall gently into the warmth of the air, like fireflies blinking in and out of time.
As he speaks, I remember the fox—the grain fields swaying with the breeze, each stalk golden like the fox’s fur, each movement a memory stirred. It is here, in this layered remembrance, that the emotional core of the piece lies. Not in the literal events, but in how they are carried—imprecisely but vividly—within the heart. The story, the field, the fox, and my husband’s voice blend into a single sensation of presence and loss, of knowing and forgetting.
The visual or material form of the piece echoes this fragility: soft textures, diffused light, and layered surfaces that never fully resolve into clarity. Like memory itself, the image flickers. At its center, a quiet echo of the fox’s whispered truth: “One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Through this work, I question what we retain and what fades, and suggests that memory—like love—is not about precision but about emotional resonance. What remains is not the exact field, the exact night, or even the exact words, but the feeling of being there, together, in the hush of summer, beneath stars and stories.
