In the silence of trunks, the secret memory of time pulses.
Each groove is a trace of bygone eras, each hue a whisper of the sap that once flowed vibrant.
In this series, the lens draws close to textures as if listening to confidences: there are lines that ripple like tides, tears where light seeps timidly, crimson spaces that recall raw flesh — as if the trunk revealed not only its bark but also its entrails in intense red, opening breaches in the deep brown of the wood.
Each image is an invitation to reverie: faces insinuate themselves in the grains, eyes seem to emerge from the fissures, imaginary creatures lurk in the dance of colors.
It is living matter, woven from time, light, and shadow.
