I did not come to painting from ease, or from school, or from family tradition. I came to it like a phoenix — ash-covered, silent, rising.

My name is Adele A.N., and I am a revolutionary spirit cloaked in ritual and oil. My path was not artistic — it was survival. I walked through a grey world that others called home. A world built on dullness, dismissal, and noise.

But somewhere in that quiet ache, I began to build something else: A vision. A pulse. A private mythology.

I first spoke through poems. I lived among imaginary lovers and vivid inner lands. But it wasn’t enough. I didn’t just want to write my world — I wanted to show it.

Painting became my sanctuary. A way to pray, to hum, to chant without sound. It became healing. It became haunting. It became mine.

I paint what draws me in — A crumbling wall, a powerful face, a ghost of tradition, a stallion mid-motion, a memory I never lived but feel deeply. I carry an inexplicable hunger for history, symbols, texture, and power — especially when it hides in soft places.

My work is not decoration. It is inheritance. Spell. Remnant. Desire.

I paint for the girl I was. For my father, who engraved gold like he engraved love into silence. For the parts of me that lived unloved or unseen. And for those who, like me, never fit the dullness they were born into.

I paint for the girl I was. For my father, who engraved gold like he engraved love into silence. For the parts of me that lived unloved or unseen. And for those who, like me, never fit the dullness they were born into.

I do not follow trends. I do not ask permission. I am not here to be understood. I am here to make you feel something — or leave untouched.