What remains when sugar burns?
These images were born not from the war itself, but from what it left behind — the scorched ground, the syrup-stained sky, the soft creatures fossilized mid-motion.
Rendered as if in oil — blurred, melting, heavy — these paintings are the ghosts of sweetness. Color turned to stain. Light turned to ache.
They are not records.
They are wounds.
Lost whispers:
Oil On War
Ash settles where the syrup once ran.
These paintings are echoes —
not of battles fought,
but of sweetness melting under pressure.
What is left is not history. It is residue.
Not all wars scream.
Some dissolve. Some thicken.
In the oil-light and candied mud,
we find the stains of what couldn’t be saved —
and the shimmer of what still resists.
“We were made to dissolve. Not to survive.”
