Art isn't just something I make—it's how I process the world. It's instinct, rebellion, ritual. My practice is driven by tension: between the abstract and the figurative, the philosophical and the visceral, the digital and the raw. I don’t paint to please. I paint to explore, disrupt, and transform.

My materials are eclectic: acrylics, collage, sand, metal, glitter. Sometimes it’s rough, sometimes delicate—always alive. I work with contrasts—vibrant color, heavy textures, sudden stillness. Lately, I’ve leaned into impasto and bolder brushwork, letting the paint carry its own weight.

What holds it all together is transformation. My art evolves as I do. It's a mirror, a question, a kind of archaeology of the self.

Existentialists run underneath everything—Heidegger, Kierkegaard, Schopenhauer, Camus—they all haunt the canvas in their own way. So do literary ghosts: Madame Bovary, Don Quixote, Alice in Wonderland. I’m drawn to paradox, fantasy, collapse.

I’m influenced by artists who disrupted norms—Magritte for his perceptual riddles, Beuys for his belief in transformation, and Kahlo for her emotional truth-telling. I resonate with the horror vacui, the saturated subconscious, and the strange beauty of the banal. The red-light district as art form. Urban stencils. The seduction of screens. Banksy and the anonymous ones.

My work doesn’t ask to be understood. It asks to be felt. To scratch something beneath the surface. To make you stop scrolling.