She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.

“Roll the Bones” is a richly layered work that captures a moment suspended between chance, camaraderie, and something far deeper than the game at hand. Four figures—friends—are seated around a poker table, not merely as players, but as witnesses to a timeless ritual where the stakes reach beyond coins or cards.

While the tableau is rooted in poker, whispers of backgammon—their usual game—echo in the composition, subtly reminding the viewer that this gathering is not routine. This was that night. A night charged with symbolism, where luck and fate, truth and honour, danced as freely as the dice and shuffled deck.

The work alludes to a concealed narrative held on the reverse of the painting—a poetic inscription that is not for all eyes, but for those invited to turn the painting over and read. Its presence adds gravity and humour, honour and myth, and serves as a kind of moral contract written in verse. For this night was about more than a game; it was about virtue. The kind that binds friendships, secures families, and holds truth above all.

Roll the Bones is a tribute to loyalty, the quiet codes between close friends, and the belief that in a world of odds and uncertainties, the highest stake of all is trust.



She was just a girl with a backpack—small, quiet, watching. The world around her was loud, full of opinions—commands dressed as facts, slogans passed off as truths. Every day, she walked through a storm of noise: adults with microphones, strangers with certainty, leaders with agendas. They circled her like giants—square-headed, sharp-edged, armed with ideas that struck like bullets. Some called it wisdom, others called it fear. They told her what was right, what was real, what was worth dreaming. Obedience was expected, rebellion discouraged.

And yet, beneath that quietness, something else stirred. She wasn’t empty. She had a voice of her own—still forming, but there. A mind that could weigh, question, and choose. They shouted, She listened. They insisted, She considered. Their words pushed, but her will stood firm. The world had its script, but she held the pen.

Proverb: They told her what to be—she rewrote the script.