The Secret Silence

This lace did not emerge from a predefined design, but from a process of attentive listening. From silence, in which form, rhythm, and inner space gradually began to reveal themselves.

We had to cut down a tree in our garden. It was not an easy decision—the tree wa s old and had begun to threaten the house. As we were clearing the cut wood, I noticed a fragment of a branch that, although in many ways irregular, seemed to speak to me. It carried a quiet presence, as if it held the memory of the entire tree—its resilience, fragility, wisdom, and playfulness. I set this fragment aside and kept returning to it. I observed it from different angles, spending time in quiet contemplation, until one day I picked up a pencil and began to sketch. One of the drawings felt closest to the “voice” of the tree, and I developed it further into a full-scale composition.

Color, however, did not come easily. Usually, it is present from the very beginning, but this time I hesitated. None of my usual combinations seemed appropriate. I decided to begin with a black contour line. What followed was a period of silence—a moment when the work seemed to resist completion, as if it had not yet found its voice. Then, unexpectedly, color appeared: pink, yellow, and burgundy. In that moment, everything became clear, and I returned to the work with renewed certainty. I value these moments deeply—when the quiet of the studio is interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of bobbins. The black thread defines the line, guiding the flow of energy within the lace. It establishes rhythm, creates contrast, and carries an inner tension.

My intention was to capture a sense of inner space—depth, the interweaving of planes, and a kind of breath that moves, overlaps, and forms. Working on this piece felt like following an organ symphony by Johann Sebastian Bach. It led me into a dynamic field of tension, hidden beneath an apparent calm. Perhaps this is where something essential takes place—in a space that appears still at first glance, yet holds movement, transformation, and a quiet dialogue between the inner and outer worlds.

My goal is to go beyond the face—where threads become a language of what cannot be seen.”

Frida

Portrait is a fascinating subject in itself. During my studies at a textile design art school, we had figure drawing classes where we also worked on portraits. This experience completely changed the way I see the human face. I began observing people on trains, trams, and buses. I studied their expressions and reflected on what each line in a face reveals, how personality is mirrored in its shapes and features. I tried to sense their character from the position of their eyes, eyebrows, and mouth.

Questions kept returning to me: does personality shape the face, or do the features of the face shape who we are? At times, my quiet observation was probably not very comfortable for others. My long, attentive gaze inevitably crossed the boundary of their privacy. For many years, I did not return to portraiture, even though the idea of creating a portrait in lace stayed with me. It simply had to wait for the right moment. Over the past five years, I have immersed myself in portraits created from threads. I must admit that my early attempts felt somewhat limiting. How can one capture personality? How can one express the interplay of light, shadow, and line that brings the human face to life? How can a lace portrait carry the reflection of a person’s soul?

Because I enjoy working not only with color but also with structure—through which I create an illusion of space—I often create my portraits using only two colors. I choose them carefully so they enhance the character and mood of the person portrayed. In my most recent work—a portrait of the renowned Mexican painter Frida Kahlo—I chose to work exclusively with black thread. Only the golden headpiece and earrings serve as accents, giving her face a sense of quiet strength and inner nobility. Each time I work on a portrait, I immerse myself in the person. I try to capture something essential—something that defines them beyond appearance. My intention is to give each portrait a soul, and a life of its own.