My process begins with water: a soak-stain technique on drenched canvas, where colour spreads into fluid abstractions. These flows are never fully mine to command — I guide them, but they pool, collide, and coalesce in their own rhythm. At times I interrupt with precise, geometric lines. Material is cut, collaged, and layered; symbols appear through screenprint, while other passages are deliberately erased with bleach. This method of destruction and renewal contradicts the organic imagery that often appears — the very process that makes the work also annihilates it, refusing the possibility of real life.
From here my work unfolds through materiality: an excitement for experimentation, a relish of colour — its intensity, its presence, its sheer gravitational force to extract emotion. Yet the practice is always diaristic. Each collection feels like a personal investigation into the cosmic, the existential, the processes of creation. Dreams, pain, hopes, and desires converge in layered, spectral imagery that shifts between abstraction and figuration. They are suggestive of alternate realms within the psyche. Maps of an inner terrain — not landscapes, but paths with no fixed ground — always unfolding, always becoming.
The imagery is infused with mysticism, drawing on occult practices and my experiences of meditation. At the heart of it is a need to express a constant state of searching, meaning-making, of consciousness moving at the edge of understanding. Sometimes the paintings are extremely minimal, reflecting stillness — a settling of the mind in the search for Nirvana, a meditation on the infinite. At other times, chaos and movement are emphasised, the surface restless and unresolved. Both belong, both are part of the same enquiry.
While the surfaces may be abstract, they are emotionally coded. They speak to the contemporary psyche — fractured, searching, but still reaching toward coherence. I make this work from within a digital prism: a world shaped by screens, saturation, and a disembodied relationship to time, self, and others. TV, phone, and laptop screens form the translucent walls through which we now experience life — corridors of content punctuated by notifications, glitchy stairwells that scroll and click.
The techno-existential condition is not just personal; it is architectural. It unfolds in the glassy stillness of watching planetary and political crises play out in the deadlight of the screen. Environmental collapse, automation anxiety, genocide — these are not distant events, but cracks in the surface. Shadows in the atrium. Stress lines in the walls. The psychic atmosphere is strained, thinned by the creeping sense that, despite constant stimulation, there is nothing you can do.
My paintings do not resolve this. They offer no fixed interpretation. But they hold space for that experience — of searching, resisting disintegration, and staying inwardly intact.