My paintings begin where language fails—where a child might draw something disturbing in crayon, only to have it dismissed as cute. I paint not to be seen, but to be deciphered.

My practice is rooted in a visual language that merges impulse with erasure, legibility with distortion. Each painting is a site of negotiation—between clarity and concealment, chaos and control. I work through cycles of layering and destruction, allowing images to emerge, dissolve, and reconfigure across the surface.

As a colorblind artist, my engagement with color is unconventional. Red has become a recurring element—not out of preference, but because it sits at the threshold of what I can and cannot perceive. In this way, color becomes unstable, both material and psychological—forcing me to rely on intuition rather than confirmation.

The circle appears obsessively in my work—not as a symbol, but as a form I cannot resolve. I return to it compulsively, altering it, burying it, breaking it open. This repeated gesture reflects an underlying frustration, a search for something ungraspable. The act of painting is driven by this unresolved pursuit: a desire to articulate a language that resists being fully known or seen.

My surfaces often bear the physicality of their making—stains, scratches, gestures that verge on graffiti and calligraphy. There is an urgency to the mark-making, yet also a resistance to finality. The image resists settling. Instead, the canvas functions as a space of ongoing tension—a palimpsest of miscommunication and reformation.

These works do not aim to decorate a space; they disrupt it. Each canvas asserts its own presence, acting as an autonomous object that unsettles, interrupts, and asks to be deciphered rather than consumed.