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Then, I lost my grandmother.
In the wake of her passing, I found myself carrying a love and a grief that I didn’t know where to place. I didn't know how to remain loyal to her memory or how to say the "I love you"s that stayed unspoken. I realized that the only way to truly honor her, to truly see her, was through the lens.
Recording moments became a way to stay present, to hold on to something when everything felt unstable. It was my way of being faithful to her presence, her room, and her spirit. I realized film wasn’t something I needed permission to enter. It was already there, waiting. And I wasn’t late to it. I was just arriving in my own way. Art does not exist until it is lived. It cannot manifest itself; it only comes alive through the artist’s hands.
There’s a constant tension in me between what I’ve done, what I haven’t done, and what I could have done. Film doesn’t resolve that tension, but it gives it direction. To be a filmmaker, I simply had to make films. So, I gathered my courage and chose to express myself in the most honest way possible. I am an illustrator, but I realize now that my stories also need to move.
Whether through illustration or film, my work is now a bridge between my memories and the world—a place where I finally find the bravery to say, "I see you.”
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