It was once in the heart of a little girl of color, overflowing thoughts but emotions still very fuzzy. She initially took his hands, a pencil and a brush, his fingers sparkled, his heart speaking. A sketch, drawing, painting… Or waving his feelings. Born on a cold winter night, they are nevertheless often warm colors that dance on a bare canvas. She dresses almost immediately a set of forms, sometimes eccentric, fantastic and sometimes fiery kiss… Where the colors from the paint, she made a speech, language and body language which colors are in harmony forming a Whole, the Mirror, her expression… She likes to imagine the body unfinished staged in a set of movements or the illustrations… Everything is laid lightly or eagerly. Nothing is left… For her, painting is the smiling expression of the mea or tragic and heart of a being who sometimes laugh, sometimes crying, sometimes shouting, sometimes subsides… This is me thinking. It's me…
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