This collection began where I never intended it to: in silence. The surgery on my right hand—the hand I had painted with my entire life—forced upon me a heavy, necessary success. A month passed in stagnation, and my attempts to work with the remaining fingers of my right hand were futile. I had only one way: surrender or trust the "wrong hand." I decided to pick up the brush with my left hand; a hand that had been silent for fifty years and had never touched color.

The first attempts were unbearable; I couldn't even look at them. But I made a vow: at least one piece every day. Gradually, those clumsy movements gave way to a kind of free dance. I discovered that my right hand is the "judge" and cautious, but my left hand? It was bold, fearless, and free from all academic rules. It didn't know how to lie because it didn't know the rules of "drawing correctly" at all.

Now that my right hand has healed, I feel that something fundamental has changed within me. These paintings are not merely skill exercises; they are a meeting with my "other self." The person who sat silently within me for fifty years, only watching, has now found a voice. When I watch the videos of my left-hand painting, I don't feel like myself; I feel like I'm looking at the work of a strange, fearless painter who finally found a way to shout onto the canvas without the censorship of my mind.