I think of art as a physiological imperative. The canvas is the least destructive pressure valve.
It is not expression, but dissection, stripping perception to its raw, indifferent core.
I test forms until they become facts.
The resulting void isn't nihilism; it's precision. Viewers fill it with their own need for meaning, which is the entire point. Things are, before language corrupts them.
I engage with anything and every material that exists, guided only by its limits. The process is an obsessive cycle of construction and deconstruction, leaving the work as evidence of the struggle. Time itself is a collaborator. Nothing is excluded; every space is a potential site of work.
Art has never truly belonged to the hand, but to the mind that conceives it. I have come to understand that execution is secondary, the gesture merely a vessel. What I pursue is the idea before it takes form, before it surrenders to matter.
But ideas, too, erode. They are not infinite, because they exhaust themselves in repetition, reshuffling into new geometries of what has already been imagined.
I sense that we are living at the far edge of originality. Perhaps that is why I hold what I create with a certain gravity, a measured distance. Not because of what it is, but because of what it costs to think it.
And when the mind falls silent, when even recombination feels dishonest, I will stop. Not out of defeat, but out of fidelity to the act itself. For creation, once stripped of truth, is merely production, and I was never interested in that.
