I grew from a quiet girl shaped by silence and memory,
learning to hold my light in velvet shadows.
Her mother’s garden was the beginning — the forefront —
where sunlight speared her imagination.
With vivid green eyes and a world wide open,
She felt warmth on her skin and sensed a hidden threshold opening:
a dark, shimmering door that appeared whenever she wished.
That door was her imagination —
a way into stories and memories not yet spoken,
a place inviting her to explore worlds that existed only inside her.
She entered that inner world without fear,
guided only by the warmth that drew her in.
This was the start of her growth —
the moment she found new worlds and the quiet truth of her own depth.
On peaceful nights, I feel angels draw near,
their presence brushing against the edges of my becoming.
One brought warmth into my darkness,
showing me that beauty is felt with the soul.
Another lit the hidden corners of my mind,
reminding me that kindness is a way of seeing what others overlook.
Led by these visitations, I moved beyond the familiar world.
I followed moments that felt sacred and alive.
Over time, I realized the light I sought was always inside me —
radiant, ready, and quietly softening the places where fear once lived.
My gown carries the quiet truths of my becoming.
Its dark velvet holds the shimmer of secrets,
invisible gems woven into the threads
like stars born from old wounds.
Beneath my pale skin, thin veins twist like ancient roots,
mapping the journeys that shaped me.
These marks are not flaws;
They are the wisdom written on my body.
On my head rests a halo gathered from my mother’s garden —
forget‑me‑nots floating above the red veil
that trails behind me like a lineage of love and ache.
I am both the wound and the healing,
both the memory and the growth.
Around my neck hangs a key inscribed with the letter G —
The first letter of my name is the mark by which everyone knows me.
Over time, the G has become more than an initial.
It stands for growth, for grace, and for the journey I have travelled.
In my art, I turn this letter into a key —
tucking it somewhere within every painting,
always in the identical font, black letter, always uniquely placed.
The G is my secret signature, but also an invitation —
a symbol that unlocks the worlds I create
and offers access to the stories I hold within.
It rests against my chest like a promise.
This key opens the inner chambers of my being —
the rooms where memory sleeps,
where sorrow softens into wisdom,
where love gathers its strength.
These chambers are not entered with hands,
but with courage,
with tenderness,
with the willingness to face what lives within.
Beside me stands the child who marks the first turning of my path —
the one who walks beside me in this story,
Though my heart holds all my children close.
She wears the skull and robe that speak of transformation and truth.
Her presence is a living reminder that every step I take
shapes not only my path, but hers.
Through her, I learned that love has the power to heal old wounds
and light the way forward.
Her steady gaze urges me to keep moving —
to become the mother she needs and the woman I am still becoming.
Near my chest, in the painted world, a Renaissance child lies quietly —
born of dreams, not of this world —
cradling a blue bloom.
She is wrapped in an ancient shroud,
her small form holding the gravity of years never lived.
Jewels shimmer around her,
and hummingbirds with trumpet beaks encircle her,
their flowers spilling from the folds of the shroud.
Life swirls around her — vivid, blooming, bright —
Yet she remains untouched by time.
In the shadowed corner, a skull keeps silent vigil,
while messengers in blue, holding a rosary, each bead with gentle reverence.
She is both present and absent —
a hidden heartbeat in the circle of life,
remembered in paint and spirit.
Above me, a scroll unfurls, echoing the ancient cross —
a symbol of sacrifice and endurance.
But here, I am not nailed to the wood.
Instead, I am wrapped around it, billowing in the wind,
My presence is both tender and unbroken.
From the wood, my hand emerges — detailed and alive —
not marked by blood, but by a wound from which flowers bloom.
Each blossom is born of pain and melancholy,
seeds sown in darkness and nurtured by sacrifice.
Where suffering once threatened to consume,
creation now takes root; from every cut, life grows,
scattering hope into the world.
This vision binds the mask and the cross as one:
sacrifice and self, pain and beauty,
all woven into a single image of becoming.
Across my face, I wear a mask — not to deceive, but to survive.
The mask is my sanctuary of peace,
concealing tears, sorrow, and the silent ache of disappointment —
The shield that hides every sacrifice I have endured.
It protects the tender places where fear and sorrow have lingered.
The mask conceals my quiet battles,
the doubts I am still learning to name,
and the softness that could be wounded too easily.
Yet behind it, my longing and hope press fiercely against concealment,
demanding to be seen — unyielding, restless,
refusing to fade until the world is ready for their truth.
Behind it, my true gaze waits — steady and unbroken.
This is my universe — a sphere in perpetual motion,
revolving around me and sending out silent signals.
Angles and numbers shimmer within its orbit,
ever‑present and full of meaning.
It is my way of seeing the circle of life:
always turning, always glowing,
Each revolution carries new lessons and quiet revelations.
It is the life I built,
the love I protected,
the weight I carried with tenderness.
On the other hand, I hold a cathedral —
the sanctuary of my inner life.
Within this cathedral, messengers in blue robes move quietly —
rabbits who stand guard over the sacred space where my true self resides.
Their silent presence forms a protective shield,
honouring the integrity of my thoughts and the wisdom found in silence.
I have always regarded my boldness as a mark of strength,
refusing to let the world strip away the essence of who I am
or silence my voice.
In a world quick to stifle originality,
This sanctuary preserves the freedom to think,
to feel, and to be wholly myself.
Its arches rise from silence,
its windows glow with memory,
Its doors open only to truth.
And then, there is my offering.
From the folds of the robe draped over the skull figure,
a hand emerges — its palm marked by a sacred wound.
Within that hollow, blood and roses entwine,
their crimson flow streaming into a golden Renaissance chalice nestled below.
The skull, hidden within the robe, watches in silent witness as the offering pours forth.
On either side, two messengers stand guard,
each holding the stream as if it were a living rosary —
beads formed not only of pain, but of devotion and the promise of renewal.
In this vision, sacrifice and beauty, loss and hope,
are gathered and offered up,
transformed into something sacred and eternal.
This is the truth of my becoming:
beauty and pain intertwined,
creation born from sacrifice.
The roses carry the warmth of my devotion.
The blood carries the cost of every world I have shaped within me.
I do not hide the wound.
I let it speak.
I set it free.
And so, I step into this world I have created —
a universe spun from longing and memory,
seven feet high and seven feet wide,
too immense to hold in a single gaze.
I stand at its heart,
masked and crowned by a radiant halo,
my veil unfurling as blood‑red velvet drapes that billow and rise,
anchoring darkness and bearing the weight of sorrow.
The blue‑green robe sweeps the floor,
adorned with the faces of messenger rabbits —
guardians and witnesses, their eyes haunted and wise,
wrapped in moss‑green ribbons.
My velvet‑black dress absorbs the light,
while a bellowing drape of green‑blue wraps me,
ribbons trailing in the unseen wind.
Six rabbits gather: two in gentle pink,
four in blue‑green, each bearing the marks of time and devotion.
Some cradle the stream of roses and blood from my wounded hand —
a living rosary, each bead a memory, each petal a prayer.
Others raise golden trumpets,
chains of light swinging from their bells,
casting beams that illuminate the night within.
My skin is a landscape of tenderness —
soft greens and flesh tones woven together,
veins mapping the years of longing and endurance.
My breasts are exposed, a testament to vulnerability,
while my mask — part bird a beak sphere, wearing a helmet for protection —
blooms with flowers and the cross,
a symbol of protection, deliverance, and spirituality.
From my palm, where sacrifice is etched in fading script,
roses and petals unfurl — beauty born of pain and hope entwined.
Above, a scroll curls through the air,
inscribed with the words of the veil and il mondo — the world .
A rabbit messenger, a globe of soft green and gold floats,
glowing, in the sanctuary of my hand.
The cathedral and the world sphere nestle gently there,
held in the palm of becoming.
All around, the painting breathes: velvet, gold, moss, and blue—green
shimmers and swirls of ribbons dancing in unseen breezes.
At the base, a final scroll whispers in Italian,
Nasciamo e la morte ha inizio — we are born, and death begins —
reminding me of the unbroken circle,
The dance of life and loss spun endlessly beneath the halo’s glow.
I am all these selves.
I am every version of the woman who lived, endured, and transformed.
Only the two children stand apart — one born, one lost —
my lineage and my ache.
This offering is my truth.
This gesture is my becoming.
This is the moment where I give myself to the world.
And so, I step forward, transformed.
- G
