I have always relied on making art as a way of relating to the world and the people around me. It began with tending my mother's rose gardens as a child and, somewhat begrudgingly, standing out as a ballerina. Later, I became interested in landscape design and architecture before eventually finding my way to photography — a passion that took hold the moment my mother gave me my first box camera, and only grew from there. Over the years I explored many photographic processes and became a devoted collector of vintage cameras, believing each one had its own way of seeing.

Painting came much later. I make large-scale abstract paintings, working across canvases big enough that my body gets involved, not just my hands. I trust instinct more than structure and let gesture, movement, and layers emerge without a fixed plan. I don't need to know where a piece is going — it reveals itself to me along the way. Each painting evolves through a dialogue between observation and deliberate intervention — a point where I stop reacting and start deciding. My solitude is what lets me be myself, and I embrace the process fully, with curiosity, uncertainty, frustration and joy. This is where I feel most vibrant. I want my paintings to share a connection with whoever stands in front of them — a kind of unfiltered energy that's enough to stop them for a moment. I love that a stranger can stand in front of my work and feel something in themselves, without either of us saying a word.