Panis What is bread? A simple piece of food or a code of culture? Something so fundamental that without it, life falls apart like a grain silo shattered by an explosion? I look at these lines – sharp, broken, resembling fragments of a grain stalk, split DNA, the ruins of a temple. Bread is not just food; it is memory, tradition, a link between generations. Its destruction is not just a ruined field or a burned elevator. It is an attempt to erase the very possibility of the future. Interestingly, Panis means not only bread but also a hint at the power of life, at what gives birth to new generations. War destroys both. It doesn't just take food – it seeks to erase the seed itself, to take away the possibility of sprouting. The black-and-white chaos of this work is not only destruction. It is a question: Can life sprout again? Does the seed have memory? And if it does – what will we do with it? The name Panis from Latin translates to bread, and when pronounced, it sounds like penis in English. This name is quite symbolic because life gives both the seed and the penis. In both cases, it speaks of the act of creation, of the beginning, of the emergence of something new. Can we preserve this source of life, or will it disappear in the darkness of destruction? How do we use this seed – do we reproduce it, or do we destroy it? War, in all its forms, does not just destroy the physical; it also destroys the potential for restoration. The loss of men, the bearers of this life force that gives continuation to the lineage, the nation, is the loss not only of bodies but of heritage, history, and the possibility of future generations. Yet, even amid the ruins, the question remains: Can the seed sprout again, and who will give it the chance? War erases this seed, but is it possible that its memory will be preserved, and that we can pass on this power for new life, even through the pain of loss?