I grew up in a greenhouse. My family had a two-acre nursery, growing houseplants. It was ruined by a hailstorm in the winter of 1991. I have a very strong Sensory memory of the greenhouse. We used to work there or in the mango plantation every weekend, depending on the season. I can clearly remember the sound of the frogs singing in the evening, the strong smell that struck the nose, and the green flash of color that hit the eyes as we opened the door.  this work deals with memories and with fractures. The glasses are memory themselves, broken pieces of something that used to be home, safe and protective, and now is broken and doesn't exist anymore. Despite the fact that it is a shard, it can still stand on its own as a complete piece. When I walk in the neglected greenhouse today, the memories from the past mix with present fractures. This dialog between the present and the past, between the broken and the complete, occupies me a lot in my work.

when I close my eyes, I can imagine the sound of the rain as it hit the greenhouse ceiling. Starting softly, and growing faster and stronger, turning into a downpour. I can see it in slow motion in my eyes. In a few minutes, the rain turns to hail that hits the glasses harshly and strongly, without mercy. The glass panels crack and break one after another. The sound of the smashing glasses echoes in the greenhouse. After a few minutes, the hail stops, and the sun comes out of its hiding place behind the clouds. The green plants are covered with a layer of hail and broken glasses. Beyond the sound of silence, one can hear the croaking of the frogs.

Sgraffito drawings of what's left of our family greenhouse, taken by a photo of the greenhouse, fused on shards of the greenhouse, and framed with iron.30X45cm, 40X56cm, 34X47cm, A Room of Your Own, 2020.