
The scraped, layered paint does what she says it does: you can sense what is underneath. The palettes are chosen with taste and the horizontal structure gives the eye somewhere to rest.

For me, the question is: what is in the sky above the fig leaves? Is the man still beneath the fig tree? I wanna return to that photograph, look up with him, wonder about the life we left behind and ask: Can we be the people we were before?

Schlam paints vulnerability and longing without sentimentality, and the humor keeps the work from becoming mere pathos.

An essay on why vivid prose centers action rather than characters, showing how pronouns can conceal weak sentences and stall narrative momentum.

Fancy formatting in poetry flatters mediocrity. Real verse lives in the voice, not on the page.

European literature is born from enforced proximity. From the impossibility of sealing oneself off completely. From the daily friction of languages, classes, resentments, affections, histories, all occupying the same physical space.