I paint from stillness, a place between breath and memory. I’m drawn to the quiet weight of things: how a mark can hold a pause, how a surface can listen. Over time, my practice has become a distillation, a paring-back, where repetition, erasure, and the simplest gestures carry emotional depth.
In earlier works I made ephemeral paintings with earth, sand, and weather, knowing they would be lost. That letting-go became part of the language, a way of working with impermanence rather than against it. In the studio, this continues. Oil is laid down, pulled back, layered again. Gravity leaves its trace. Surfaces are excavated slowly. What remains is not an image, but a presence.
Dots and lines return again and again, breath-like and instinctive. I don’t place them so much as listen for them. The palette stays spare: whites, greys, ash tones. Not for purity’s sake, but to make room for quiet. Each painting is a held space, something felt rather than explained.
I think of the work as a form of noticing, a way of tuning in to the rhythm beneath the noise. Stillness as structure. Fragility as strength.
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