I painted this woman from water and resistance. She rises from a tree trunk rooted, yet uncontained. Her body is not a battlefield here, but a garden. Flowers grow across her chest because in my world, a woman’s body has always been controlled, defined, restrained. In this painting, it belongs only to her. The birds beside her hold the tension I live with: the hunger to fly and the fear of broken wings. In Iran, being a woman means carrying both dream and danger in the same breath. Every step watched. Every voice measured. And still we rise. The dripping colors are not decay; they are proof of survival. We are taught to shrink, but we expand. If confined, we root deeper. If silenced, we bloom louder. This painting is my quiet rebellion. I am not a muse. I am the creator. I am rooted but I am unbound.