As a child, I once dreamed of a gallery near the towering Two World Trade Center. It wasn’t just a building in my mind; it was a beacon of hope, a place where my art could breathe alongside the pulse of the city. In the dream, my paintings hung like quiet secrets, telling stories of life, love, and struggle. People wandered through, their faces lit with wonder, not just at the colors but at the soul behind them. The city’s heartbeat echoed in the space, as if my brushstrokes had captured its rhythm. Even as I woke, the dream lingered, pulling at me. It wasn’t just about art—it was about belonging. About standing tall, my gallery nestled near those giants of steel and glass, telling the world: I was here, and I created something that matters.
