Like the seasons, history has its winters and its springs.

In the workshop, contemporary magazines on fascism dance with almond-blossom flowers, just as history and the seasons

Like the seasons, history always returns to its starting point. Winter freezes, conflict tears apart, the branch seems dead under the weight of dark years. Then comes spring: a stubborn blooming that breaks through matter, paper, and memory. The flower does not erase the war in the background. It answers it. It says that the cycle of history, like that of nature, alternates between times of devastation and times of rebirth. After the icy blue of conflicts, there is always a pink spark at its core, a surge of life that refuses to stay silent. It is the same lesson: nothing is final. The seasons change. The eras do too. And from the most damaged matter, light is still born.