For many years, before I began painting, I was making countless paper collages, tearing paper, gluing it onto other surfaces, and sometimes writing on top of them. Mostly these works lived in my journals and sketchbooks. When I look at my paintings today, I still recognize this collage sensibility. They often feel like expanded sketchbook pages, layered and multifaceted.
I've always been drawn to words: song lyrics, fragments of sentences, or phrases overheard in daily life. I like the way language sits alongside images, how both can carry beauty. In the studio, these sounds become part of the work, sometimes directly, when a phrase I hear slips into a painting. Abstract marks, raw and even "ugly," can coexist with delicate and tender images, creating maps or new configurations. A blue bird, a flower, and positive or historical words might appear next to a skull or a grim reaper. This tension, the wild with the tender, the chaotic with the ordered, is where I find beauty.
These images that accompany me, the recurring motifs I like to use, can often be traced back to my childhood. This visual vocabulary, when it all comes together, forms a portrait of my thought process, an almost complete picture of my inner world and inspirations. It creates a sense of memory within the work. Each painting holds the immediacy of its own making. Sentences and images can be traced back to the exact moment of their creation.
This balance between chaos and control, spontaneity and order, is essential to my practice. I keep many art books open around me for reference. Images, words, and fragments of thought from my mind flow into the work. It is a circular process of creating, erasing, and documenting, like keeping a visual diary. Every scribble, line, or word is tied to a specific moment in time, and painting allows me to revisit that moment again.
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