There’s a quiet kind of hope I find myself drawn to — not the cinematic kind, not the fireworks or the grand speeches, but the kind that grows stubbornly in the cracks. The kind that creeps up slowly, almost invisibly. That’s the kind of hope I tried to express in my piece Flowers of Hope Are Going to Bloom — not a loud promise, but a quiet persistence.
The title itself is hand-painted right into the composition: large, childlike lettering that feels both awkward and honest. I didn’t want it to be polished or ironic. I wanted it to feel raw, imperfect, maybe even a bit naïve — because that’s what real hope often feels like. It’s not always stylish or well-timed. It’s messy. It’s slow. But it’s there.
The pale blue letters stretch awkwardly across a chaotic background of lime green and pink — a palette I chose to reflect contradiction. Vibrant but tense. Soft but almost acid-like in tone. It’s a visual clash I welcome, because that’s what it feels like when hope tries to push through despair. It’s not seamless. It scratches its way out.
You’ll notice the pink vines and stems curling up behind the text. They’re not decorative. They’re part of the message. For me, vines and plant life are more than botanical elements — they’ve become metaphors for something deeper: emotional resilience. Quiet rebellion. The kind of growth that doesn’t ask for permission.
Vines don’t move fast. They don’t announce their presence. They just grow. Slowly. Persistently. Sometimes underground. Sometimes around obstacles. That’s why I return to them again and again in my work — they reflect the emotional process I go through when creating. They represent the feelings that aren’t loud but never stop moving forward.
This idea of symbolic growth — through plants, through roots, through tangled leaves — is a quiet language I use across many pieces. You’ll see it in Mirage, where floral forms replace the usual ways of seeing. You’ll see it in Sensibility, where petals burn with inner fire against a metallic background. And here, in Flowers of Hope Are Going to Bloom, the plants are barely visible at first — you have to look closely — but they’re the ones holding everything together.
I wanted this piece to feel like a reminder. A quiet voice that says: it’s okay if your hope doesn’t look perfect. It’s okay if it grows slowly. It’s okay if it comes in the form of weeds, or soft vines instead of strong trees. Growth doesn’t have to be loud to be real.
There’s also something deeply emotional for me in working with text. Sometimes I use eyes or symbolic forms to communicate feeling. But here, I needed to say it out loud. Almost like a note you’d tape to your own wall when you’re struggling. “Flowers of hope are going to bloom.” Not because I fully believe it every second, but because I need to hear it. Writing it, painting it, making it into a thing — it helps anchor it into reality.
I think about all the times we’ve been told that resilience has to look tough or polished. That healing has to be fast. That growth has to be visible. I wanted to offer something different. A reminder that being alive and trying again — even quietly — is already enough.
This piece is one of the most personal in that way. It’s soft, maybe even a little awkward in its optimism. But that’s the kind of beauty I believe in: imperfect, emotional, stubbornly alive.
