I rarely begin a painting with a fixed narrative or meaning. A landscape, a natural form, a remembered image, a human face, or a symbolic detail may provide the first impulse, but during the process it becomes part of something less certain. I allow color, form, rhythm, and intuition to redirect what I initially saw or imagined.

Recognizable subjects are therefore often only a starting point. I am interested in what happens when observation gives way to transformation: when a landscape becomes a structure of color and rhythm, when a natural form carries traces of another time, or when a face suggests more than can be explained by likeness alone. Some paintings move far from visible reality; others remain close to it. I do not see these as separate ways of working.

Nature has always been an important source for me, not only as something to observe, but as a world shaped by movement, time, adaptation, and memory. The landscape around me, its rocks and ancient traces, plants and animals, can enter a painting directly or return later in an altered form. Human presence introduces another kind of uncertainty: we can look at a face, a gesture, or a relationship, but looking does not necessarily mean knowing.

I do not want my paintings to tell viewers what they should see or feel. I prefer them to remain open — to offer signs, associations, and possible connections without resolving them into a single meaning. Painting allows me to begin with something known and follow it toward something I could not have fully anticipated.