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For years, my visual language has been rooted in abstraction - color fields, textures, and semi-abstract landscapes that hover somewhere between memory and emotion. The work has always been about feeling more than form, a quiet negotiation between the intuitive and the deliberate. But lately, something unexpected has surfaced on the white paper: women.

Not just any women - these are faceless figures, heads full of wild, expressive hair, emerging unapologetically from my compositions. Their faces remain completely blank - smooth and open, devoid of expression - yet somehow full of presence. And I wonder if they are haunting, or just an invitation to possibility.

It has also made me curious - where have they come from, and why now?

As a child, I drew women constantly. They were always tall, impossibly thin, with long legs and incredibly large eyes that were often closed. I sketched them on every sheet of paper I could get hold of. They were my companions, my creations, and perhaps even dream reflections of the woman I wanted to be, when I could really decide. But somewhere along the way, they disappeared.

I do not recall making a conscious decision to let them go. I think the transition happened gradually, as I became more interested in surface, colors, and abstraction. Female silhouettes did appear now and then, usually tucked into a horizon or abstract structure, like ghosts of that earlier obsession. But I never fully returned to figuration - until now.

These faceless women are not the same as the ones I used to draw. They are raw, archetypal, almost anonymous. And yet, they feel deeply familiar. Their hair - painted with a kind of feverish energy- acts as both a frame and a storm, giving them voice in the absence of features. It's as if they exist somewhere between memory and imagination - not quite portraits, but not quite abstractions either.

I wonder if this is just a phase. Artists go through phases all the time, don’t we? We let obsessions take hold and ride them out until the next thing pulls us in. But these women feel less like a detour and more like a return. A quiet memory.

What is noticeable is that my style hasn’t shifted. The palette, the ink flows and splashes, the paper - they remain unmistakably mine. It’s as if these figures have always been just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reappear. And now they do, as if waking from a long dream.

Maybe it’s not important to label it - a phase or an evolution. Maybe it’s enough to acknowledge their presence and stay curious. As with all honest creative work, the meaning often comes later - unless you’re too pretentious an artist to admit it. For now, I will keep painting these faceless women. I’ll let them speak in the language I know best: color, gesture, and hair like wildfire.