Everything started with a suitcase; the essence of forty-three years of life compressed into a small box. Inside, there was no sign of souvenirs, only the tools for a painter's survival: folded canvases, brushes, paints, and a setar (lute) slung over my shoulder. As I stepped into the unknown, I felt a sense similar to my own funeral; as if I was burying the only things I loved in the world with me. This was not a trip; it was a complete uprooting, a stripping down to the boundary of art and sound.

The refugee camp was summarized for me in one color: yellow. Corridors painted bright yellow. Every time I looked out the window at the safe homes outside and asked, "When will you return to peace?", the glass only returned the reflection of my face, merged with the yellow walls. This "yellow status" became a filter over reality; an ambiguous, suspended state that followed me everywhere—in the forests, streets, and shops. I was not living in Germany; I was abandoned in a yellow halo of "waiting."

In that complete paralysis, the only decision I could make was to paint the halo itself. I took refuge in the basement of a Lutheran church. There, in the underground silence, I pulled that heavy yellowness out of my mind and splashed it onto the canvas. These paintings are not landscapes; they are documents of a "suspended existence." They are the exact image of the moment when a human being no longer belongs to any geography and only belongs to "color."