Cin Per's practice is rooted in oil paint and print, the process disciplined and yet fluid, as reality demands. Colour arrives first: oil paint on matrix, a single moment of creation. Then the paper is pulled, cut, scattered. Fragments brush against each other without ever fully merging, the tension between contact and distance echoing the limits of human connection. An alphabet of indecipherable glyphs runs through the surfaces, rejecting the illusion of mutual understanding, inviting the observer to narrate their own story. Experience is irreducibly subjective. We do not fully understand each other, and yet we keep trying. At times the paper itself carries history: reused, marked by previous lives, their traces becoming the ground for new ones. Nothing goes wasted because there's no such thing as waste, there's only new life. Everything is already part of a bigger cycle. This is permaculture art. Born between Caribbean islands, the Alpine arc and Scandinavian forests, shaped by Caribbean heat, Nordic silence and Mediterranean chaos. Formed across continents, belonging fully to none, carrying all of them. This is not displacement, it is the only honest map. Cin Per operates as a lone body within the art system. Time is spent closer to lived realities than to art circles, keeping perception unfiltered, unsoftened. Truth is sought in reality: in its contradictions, its violence, its unresolved tensions. To aestheticize without consequence is complicity. The artist cannot rest while the world burns. This is art made through life, not by observing it. No digital. This is not nostalgia, it is a conscious refusal. A human scream against the accelerating automation of everything, including feeling. Like the Dogme 95 filmmakers who found freedom precisely through their vow of constraints, the limitation here is the manifesto. We stand as earth: anchored, fixed in our terrain. Clouds are the noise from outside, the judgements and disturbances that obscure us. Waves are the torment from within, the cycles of guilt and unrest that move through us whether we want them to or not. Above it all, the moon traces its cycle. Time is the only undebatable truth. Between the fractures, there is recognition of the scared inner child in each of us, trying and failing, shaped by forces beyond our making, trapped in systems that suffocate our dreams. Identity is fluid, nothing is fixed, except for time, and that is not a wound. It is a condition worth inhabiting honestly. These works insist on imperfection. Not failure, but the only truthful condition of being human. We are coloured paper confetti at the mercy of time, ready to be soaked by rain and eaten by worms. The upside is that worms make compost. Hope never dies.