My work begins in the space between ache and lift. I return to this tension, not to resolve it but to stay close to the feeling of living, where melancholy gives weight and light gives breath. It is not a contradiction. It is the ground the work grows from.

Being colour blind strips away certain certainties, especially across the red green spectrum. Instead of trying to replicate a world others claim to see, I create what I feel. Chroma becomes less about accuracy and more about energy, how surfaces meet light and how that relationship bends perception.

My practice moves in cycles. I shift from physical materials to generative systems to digital precision and back again, carrying fragments of earlier works with me. These fragments are living material. Each loop adds friction, accident, and clarity. Transfers, pigment, acrylic mediums, modular assemblies, and machine-led recombinations form a process that mirrors the instability of life, suspended between falling apart and holding together.

Much of the work lives on this edge, where fragility and permanence sit next to each other without being forced into resolve. I build from memory toward possibility, letting older pieces reshape themselves inside new tools and new contexts. If the work feels like it belongs to two timelines at once, it is because I do too.

Mystery is not a strategy. It is an invitation. The work should orient without closing the question. It should meet you where you are and continue to move after you leave.

Colour, for me, is the vibration between things. A relationship. A hum. If there were a colour only I could see, it would be a warm dark carrying the possibility of light.