My painting starts where things begin to fail.
Not from harmony, but from fracture.
Each work is a small disaster in slow motion, a way of looking at the moment when something that seemed stable starts to give way.

I think of painting as an emotional excavation, a remnant of the present in ruins. The canvas becomes a place where structures don’t hold, where colour celebrates and rots at the same time, where forms hesitate between appearing and disappearing.

I work on that border: line, stain and pigment pushing against each other like pieces of a language that no longer fully works. Cities crumble and we don’t know if they are memories or premonitions. Bodies fragment into symbols that I don’t try to decode. I’m not looking for answers; I don’t want to impose a fixed meaning.

When I speak of  Visceral Abstraction, I mean this: a painting that behaves like a body under pressure, where control and chaos collide until something raw, almost uncomfortable, appears. The image is not decoration; it’s a residue of conflict. The absurd and a certain black humour slip in at the edges, not to soften the collapse, but to show how fragile our idea of stability really is.

I don’t paint for passive contemplation.
I paint so that whoever looks feels they have witnessed something brutally honest, something that doesn’t ask for permission to exist.

When everything collapses, what remains are these images: imperfect, unstable, but still insisting on being here