Like water with circles provoked by something falling but also a fingerprint.

Hands are coming out of an urge to save (the children, humanity,. innocence) either drowning in the water and seeking help. The children, representing different cultures each, play, exist, create their existence, climb, hope. In their carefreeness and innocence, there is despair. Their colors are vivid and cheerful, their form, their posture, even their most natural and positive expressions reveal some awkwardness when viewed from the "real" environment perspective - a peculiar balance and stillness. Some are very present and dedicated to the play, but not all of them have the ability to play. Are they praying? Are they thinking? They just exist. 

The very hands themselves are a map of existence, faintly visible. Gold accentuates their "placement" - their lives and dreams are always above the gold. Red wounds. If we scratch the canvas, the first layer, which is bloody red, might be revealed. Then an olive green, slightly blue, and gray. Red wounds in the air like birds' blood (painting) splatters breaking the dreamlike state. One child doesn't have gold underneath. His face isn't visible. He's desperately held by a finger. He doesn't climb. He clings. There are blood splatters around. This child without a face doesn't live. He tries to remain in memory.

The hands are my anger, my desperation to stop something. To save something. At the same time, they are an appeal for help from my soul. From my childhood soul. It's a big stop, a big no. However, it accepts the world with open hands filled with many forms of consciousness. Hands that get lost or are revealed. Hands that create. Protect and are protected. That stop. That push. Hands with a soul. imprints, the memory of my hands, adult hands. Hands that somewhere, sometime, felt something, created something, said something, and perhaps someone will see them and something inside them will respond.

‘‘Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art, like the universe itself…It has no survival value ; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.

—C.S Lewis

As the ice resonates sweetly, like a touching cry coming from a nest, it reflects the ephemeral and it’s ‘‘why’’.

Two glossy figures, Mom with her baby, are getting ready to celebrate hope before last goodbye.

In a little while, the sky will offer them a star and maybe a hand will be gived to them by far, before the sunrise erase their smile.

"She decided that she was a mermaid. Since she could not fly high on the sky she would fly deep in the music of the sea in this empty shell she called "her nest".

She was living on a golden net, but her dreams where never trapped. Only her could see farther than the horizon". All her secrets are hiding inside those pearly eggs. You see.Once they will be ready they will sing the life better than the sea..."

He knew that he was not belonging there. But his heart was beating to the rhythm of the sea.

And somehow he found in a shell a place to call home...

"So different and so alike, the grew up together, in the same shell. Although, each own had his own magical bubble of newborns thoughts and dreams. A little bit of white snow in the warm sand that was not melting, some magic in the marine air and the Christmas songs plays by a band of shells. That was what they shared."

A tiny manta ray stole the whole ocean and hides it in a shell to offer it to the futur ...now it can fly like a butterfly in between the bubbles ...