Alba - A Story About Hope and Renewal

The first art event of the new year was the most meaningful one I can imagine.

I had the honor of hosting the opening edition of the new season of Art at Table, focusing on the themes of Hope and Renewal.

On January 15th, in the historic venue of Het Veem in Amsterdam's old harbor, together with the amazing people from Koken Verbindt, we've opened the new season of Kunst aan Tafel (Art at Table). I couldn’t imagine a more meaningful way to begin the new year - community, compassion, and conversations about hope. Events like this align deeply with everything I believe in as a person and an artist: using creativity as a means of connection and empowering others on their own unique paths of healing.

This was my second time participating in this beautiful community event (you can read here about the previous one), which brings together art, food, and human connection in the most heartfelt way. It is always moving to see people from very different backgrounds and lifestyles, volunteers, social and mental health workers, artists, and vulnerable people in need of support, gathering to share a moment of connection and inspiring conversations over a freshly cooked, free meal. Each Thursday, a local artist is invited to present an artwork around a specific theme that opens space for reflection and dialogue. This time, as we've just stepped into a new year and look ahead to spring, I chose the theme: Hope and Renewal, and presented my painting Alba, which was a perfect fit. The term Alba is of Latin origin and means dawn or sunrise. It is derived from the Latin word albus, which means white or bright. The name symbolizes new beginnings, hope, and the start of a new day, and is often associated with purity and clarity. I also wanted to reference the alchemical term Albedo - the second stage of the Magnum Opus, symbolizing purification and the emergence of clarity following the chaos of the Nigredo stage.

I share below a part of my presentation. As always, it was an ad hoc talk, straight from my heart, so this text is not a transcript, but more a draft:

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Duality of the Human Experience

Dawn is a threshold moment between night and day, when darkness and light coexist. It’s a quiet transition where something is ending and something else is beginning, even if we can’t yet see what it will become. It’s a moment of silent hope, a first sign that light is on its way. This painting exists in the space between opposites: light and dark, fragility and strength, loss and becoming, but they do not exclude each other. Instead, they reflect the duality of the human experience.

You can be exhausted and still full of love. You can be broken and still growing. You can carry grief and hope at the same time. That is not a contradiction. That is just being human.

The dark part of the canvas is messy, heavy and textured, but it is not an empty darkness. It's earth, soil (I've literary used earth - earth pigments and sand to evoke this texture).

This soil is made of difficult experiences, events, and former versions of ourselves that shaped our past and continue to affect our lives.

But, what happens when we place something in soil and give it even minimal care?

It grows.

Hope

What grows from the dark soil are gentle and delicate flowers, but not just any flowers. They are snowdrops. They are fragile and delicate, and their pure white petals stand in strong contrast to the darkness they rise from. I intentionally chose this flower because, for me, it symbolizes hope and new beginnings. Snowdrops are the first flowers that bloom, quietly announcing the spring that is yet to come. They bloom when the ground is still cold and winter hasn’t fully let go, when nothing else seems ready. That is what makes them so special. That is their superpower.

I've recently learned something fascinating about snowdrops: their tissue contains a natural antifreeze substance that allows them to grow in extreme cold and even melt some of the snow and ice around them. So they don’t just survive harsh conditions, they create their own micro climate, especially when growing together in clusters. How extraordinary and inspiring that is!

I chose these tiny, fragile snowdrops also because hope rarely arrives loudly or heroically. Hope can be as simple and modest as just showing up, choosing not to surrender, or remaining soft and warm in a world that often demands hardness. The renewal doesn’t happen in grand gestures. It happens quietly, like a gentle white flower pushing through the cold ground, whispering that light is coming.

We can learn so much from a tiny flower.

Transformation and Re-Growth

I wanted the snowdrops’ roots to be strong and visible, because growth is never separate from what we have lived through. The roots are tangled and deep, carrying experience and memory. They are what hold us and give us strength. If you look closely, you’ll see that the roots gradually transform into small red veins, they are alive and organic, something we can deeply feel.

The roots can also represent all the invisible work we have done, or are still doing, before the results become visible, building a solid foundation from which we can bloom.

They can also represent the exploration of hidden and suppressed parts of our subconscious. To quote Dr. Jung:

“No tree can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.”

You may also notice the suggestion of a snake -like shape surrounding the roots. Although I'm personally terrified of snakes, here it is not a symbol of danger. For me, it represents change and transformation. Just as a snake sheds its skin when it outgrows it, we sometimes have to leave behind an old identity or version of ourselves that no longer fits. Shedding skin is not easy, it leaves us exposed and vulnerable. It can feel like a loss, even when it is necessary....'

(the end of a part of the presentation)

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Reflections

The evening itself was deeply moving. As I shared the story of Alba, the room grew silent. People listened intently, and then, one by one, they began to open up, reflecting on their own difficult experiences and journeys of renewal. Some spoke through tears, others through quiet but inspiring reflection.

A few people came up afterwards to hug me, simply saying, Thank you. I feel seen. I see hope in your work. I could barely hold back my tears.

It was one of those magical moments when art does what it was always meant to do: connect us through our shared human experience. I left that evening overwhelmed with emotions and gratitude and reminded of why I create. These encounters, honest, raw, and empowering, reaffirm that art (at least mine) is not about aesthetics. It’s about giving shape to the invisible and unspeakable and allowing others to recognize themselves within it.

May this spring bring you inspiration for your own blooming 🌱