With every part of our body, we communicate with the world and enter into a dialogue. In an effort to create primitive and singular forms that cannot be classified, this silent dialogue between the patterns I draw with the full control of my hand and the photographs taken with the command of the eye is actually the dialogue I have with the manifestations of existence. The fact that I noticed the similarity of the patterns with the old photographs in my archive made me realize that I was under the illusion of freedom in my perceptions. Neither my eyes nor my hands have never belonged to me, they have always been very impressed. I now know that this bridge built between the inner and outer world and between the present and the past will be a constant and familiar moment in everything I do and will do.

 

In the photographs, where coincidence and movement predominate, rather than a 'plastic' expression, and which make a moment of action visible rather than a moment of consciousness, the image captured under the guidance of the picture next to it also emerged from life itself, the image is indicative of the story reflected in the piece of time. Just as there are objects fixed to memories in our memory, signs that take us to that moment. In an effort to capture the poetic balance discovered in a fast-moving time period, photography chooses its limit, its point of view, but cannot enter the image it chooses. When the story, a part of which is made visible in the photograph, is matched with the picture, it seems to break away from the story it is in, and is now an image. When the image in the picture comes together with the photograph, it becomes the subject of a story, a detail belonging to it. As in a good dialogue, the exchange begins, one draws the other into her story, while the other gives the other an iconic quality.

​

Whispers are heard in the ears of the audience from the dialogue between the world and the photographer, the dialogue between the world and the painter, the dialogue between photography and painting, the dialogue between the recent and distant past, and the dialogue between the painter's hands, which she thinks are free, and her eyes, which she knows never belong to her.