BUILT FROM FRAGMENTS, SHAPED BY PERSISTENCE.

My art isn’t driven by concepts or blueprints. I don’t start with a fixed idea of what a painting should become, and I don’t want it to dictate what someone else should see. Meaning doesn’t need instructions; it happens in the moment of experience — in memories that surface, in emotions that shift, in something subtle that resonates without explanation.

My decisions come from memory. Not from concrete stories or clear images, but from fragments — a colour combination I once noticed, light against a wall, the slow meeting of the sky, a fleeting atmosphere that stayed with me. I don’t try to recreate these moments. I rearrange them, layer them, blur them. Like memories themselves, they shift over time and take on new forms.

For me, the process follows the same logic. I usually begin with a feeling — a colour memory, a certain tension I want to explore — but without a clear image of where it will lead. I move paint across the canvas and react to what appears. Sometimes it feels wrong, sometimes even irritating — but I stay with it. I continue until something shifts. Until there is a response. A tension. A connection.