Who I am

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been curious.

At two years old, I spent hours sitting on a step, watching a chrysalis swinging in the wind beneath a fold of railing.

I had never seen one before.

I wanted to absorb every detail — its colours, its shape, its movement.

It was time to go inside, and I was still there.

Someone had to explain to me that it was a sleeping butterfly before I’d agree to leave it.

The next morning, as soon as I woke up, I went back — and every day after — until it was empty.

A small torn piece of skin, barely hanging by a thread.

That is my very first memory.

And curiosity, my very first driving force.

I wanted to learn to read long before I went to school.

The time people took to read me books about trees and animals was never enough.

So I learned to read — and for years, I devoured every kind of writing.

Awakened every kind of curiosity.

I started with words — secret pages in a hidden diary.

Later, in a blog. Then two.

And eventually in a collective.

I tried drawing, painting, sewing.

I made jewellery, worked with paper, cardboard, and wood.

Fimo, patchwork, knitting, crochet.

From time to time, I thought about ceramics.

I wanted to try, but the red clay people worked with around me, and the patterns they painted on it, didn’t really attract me.

Life took over, with all its constraints.

And it wasn’t until I turned fifty that clay and I finally met.

What a meeting.

And what a discovery.

An infinite universe of clays, shapes, colours, patience, and frustration.

I will never know enough — and that’s precisely why I always want to learn more.

Hands in the clay, head full of plans — that’s where I feel alive.

And that quiet joy needs to be shared.