Welcome to The Artflix

What if stillness had a scent?

What if silence could bloom?

In my world, it does. In shades of dusk-pink and antique gold, in the curve of a petal that never fully opens, in the hush between one brushstroke and the next—this is where my art lives. A slow unfolding. A conversation held in the language of flowers.

I do not paint florals as decoration. I paint them as meditations. As vessels of memory, emotion, and breath. Each bloom on my canvas carries a weight—not of sorrow, not of joy—but of everything that exists in between. That tender, unspoken realm where beauty lingers after it’s been seen.

My art is less about what I see and more about what I feel when the world grows quiet. I am drawn to moments that pass too quickly—light slipping through curtains, a fallen petal on a windowsill, a forgotten scent that opens a door to yesterday. I do not chase realism. I chase essence. Mood. That invisible thing that clings to time.

Much of this sensitivity was planted early, in a home edged with Ashoka trees and draped in bougainvillea. I was raised in a small house with a large soul—a garden full of jasmine, cheekoo, aamla, and sparrows that sang us awake. My grandmother tended it all with her own hands, as if tending not just to leaves but to life itself. The fragrances of those mornings, the swing beneath the eucalyptus, the warmth of cats curled in quiet corners—these are the roots of my artistic language. And later, in my marriage, that thread continued—with my mother-in-law’s terrace gardens, her gajras made from fresh flowers, and her own history as a woman who once taught embroidery with love and precision. I carry all of this forward in paint.

Acrylics are my medium, but intuition is my real tool. I layer colour like breath—light and shadow playing hide and seek. I blur the background so that the soul of the subject can come forward, quietly radiant. Texture gives it voice. Gold - when it finds its way in, is less about glitter and more about memory—a flicker of the divine.

I believe that flowers are not fragile. They are resilient. They bloom, again and again, without asking for applause. They teach us how to be soft without breaking. How to exist gently, but with depth.

I paint to remember who I am when the noise fades. I paint to create spaces where others might also remember—

a feeling,

a fragrance,

a version of themselves untouched by rush.

My dream is not just to be seen but to be felt.

To let each artwork become a pause in someone’s day,

a sigh of colour,

a window to something quieter, deeper, truer.

And if, for a moment, the world softens as they stand before my work—

then I’ve said what I came here to say.