If These Walls Could Talk
𝗜𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗦 𝗖𝗢𝗨𝗟𝗗 𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗞
Rooms remember what we forget.
They absorb the traces of everyday life—the shifting of light across a floor, the scrape of a chair, a garment draped in passing. In If These Walls Could Talk, I explore interiors as quiet containers of memory, shaped as much by the furniture within them as by the stories that once moved through their walls.
The chairs in this series act as vessels for those unseen narratives. A bentwood chair that belonged to another era, a kitchen chair that might have heard decades of family stories, a studio chair that held moments of pause or reflection. Much like Van Gogh’s iconic chairs, these objects become portraits through absence—suggesting the people who once sat, worked, waited, hoped, or simply rested there.
I’ve been thinking about The Poetics of Space—how a room is never just a room. It is psychological as much as physical, metaphorical as much as literal. A chair becomes a place to be held. A window becomes a threshold between what is inside and what is yet to come. Curtains shift with the seasons, and time becomes something you can almost see moving through the edges of the frame.
Each painting offers a small stage where memory and imagination meet. Some stories may have unfolded long ago; others only reveal themselves when someone steps into the room and recognises something familiar. The objects invite us to wonder:
Whose stories do they carry? What traces remain? What echoes still hum beneath the surface?
This body of work is a meditation on stillness, presence, and the emotional weight of the everyday.
Rooms remember what we forget.
They absorb the traces of everyday life—the shifting of light across a floor, the scrape of a chair, a garment draped in passing. In If These Walls Could Talk, I explore interiors as quiet containers of memory, shaped as much by the furniture within them as by the stories that once moved through their walls.
The chairs in this series act as vessels for those unseen narratives. A bentwood chair that belonged to another era, a kitchen chair that might have heard decades of family stories, a studio chair that held moments of pause or reflection. Much like Van Gogh’s iconic chairs, these objects become portraits through absence—suggesting the people who once sat, worked, waited, hoped, or simply rested there.
I’ve been thinking about The Poetics of Space—how a room is never just a room. It is psychological as much as physical, metaphorical as much as literal. A chair becomes a place to be held. A window becomes a threshold between what is inside and what is yet to come. Curtains shift with the seasons, and time becomes something you can almost see moving through the edges of the frame.
Each painting offers a small stage where memory and imagination meet. Some stories may have unfolded long ago; others only reveal themselves when someone steps into the room and recognises something familiar. The objects invite us to wonder:
Whose stories do they carry? What traces remain? What echoes still hum beneath the surface?
This body of work is a meditation on stillness, presence, and the emotional weight of the everyday.