“I am currently introspecting, exploring the reality I perceive, and actively shaping my own world”

My relationship with art began long before I had the words to describe it. I come from a family of artists, where drawing and creating were as natural as breathing. My mother was the first to place a brush in my hand, guiding me with quiet patience through the rhythms of color, light, and silence. From her, I learned to see not just with my eyes, but with feeling. She taught me how to listen to a painting, how to wait for it to speak back.

My father, in his own way, also shaped my path. Through him, I discovered the tactile world of sculpture. How to carve, assemble, and give form to ideas using tools, weight, and matter.

From wood to metal, stone to found objects, I learned how to build with my hands, to transform raw materials into something that could hold memory, movement, or pause.

These two languages of painting and sculpture, have stayed with me ever since. I don't separate them. I paint as a sculptor and sculpt as a painter. Both practices are a search for stillness, for balance, for something that feels quiet and true. Over time, I’ve come to understand that what I’m really chasing through my work is peace not the absence of noise, but the presence of something gentle and steady. The kind of peace you feel when watching the sea, or when clouds move slowly across the sky, shapeshifting without effort.

I’m drawn to softness, to simplicity, to unfinished edges. My palette often stays close to earth tones, chalk whites, sand, and stormy blues—colors that feel rooted in my origins and the landscapes I carry within me. There’s no urgency in my process. I work slowly, allowing time to guide the gesture. Each line or form is a decision made intuitively, with attention and care.

What I seek in my work is not explanation, but feeling. A sense of presence. A quiet question. A space where the viewer can pause and recognise something in themselves; perhaps not clearly, but deeply. I believe that art doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. It just needs to be honest.

My paintings and sculptures are not meant to impress; they are meant to stay. To sit gently in the corner of a room, in the back of your memory, or in the stillness of your day.

Like the sea, always there, always moving, always the same and yet never quite the same.

In the end, I don’t know if my work has answers. But it holds questions I carry with care, quietly, honestly, and with the hope that someone else might feel less alone in their own.

What I make doesn’t try to be perfect, it just tries to be true. And if someone finds a little stillness in it, then it’s done what it was meant to do.