ABOUT
Art does not simply offer knowledge; it rearranges our relationship with what we believed we already knew.
I think of my work through the idea of the trace. A trace is not a fragment of the past, nor a substitute for memory. It is what remains after disappearance—the quiet persistence of experience within material, the body, and perception. Even when stories can no longer be told, something continues to exist. It settles into surfaces, gestures, silences, and the ways we learn to see the world.
Having grown up in the aftermath of war, I became aware that violence does not end with the event itself. It survives by altering perception. Fear and deprivation become ways of seeing long after their visible causes have vanished. What interests me is not the representation of conflict, but the invisible structures it leaves behind—those that continue to shape how we inhabit the present.
My work begins where language reaches its limits. There are experiences that resist description yet remain present through matter. A weathered surface, an eroded edge, the weight of a form, or the tension between concealment and exposure can carry meanings that no narrative can fully contain. Material does not illustrate experience; it bears its imprint. It remembers differently from language.
I do not make work to preserve the past or to explain it. I make work to ask what continues to remain when certainty, narrative, and memory begin to dissolve. If a work succeeds, it does not provide an answer. It alters perception. It asks the viewer to dwell longer with silence, to look more carefully at time, and to recognize that absence is never empty; it is inhabited by what continues to shape us.
Each work reaches its completion when it no longer asks anything of me. Any further gesture would diminish the silence it has found. At that moment, it begins to speak with a voice that is no longer mine, and I become its first viewer. From there, the work carries its own life.