In the act of painting, I do not set out with a specific objective. My aim is to unearth something that eludes linguistic expression. Meaning tends to reveal itself only after I step back from the creative fog, often accompanied by the thought that I've birthed something monstrous. These creations invariably fall short of my initial intentions, yet each holds a spark of transformation, a glimpse into an inner world, completing the self portrait. 

 

Though I strive to birth entities distinct from myself, my self-obsession and self-loathing resounds profoundly within. Everything within my paintings serves as a reflection of me and my memories. Whether it’s the fist, the rat, the ravenous figure salivating in hunger, or the mountains cradling the scene, all embody facets of my being. 

 

It may be perceived as indolence, or perhaps a calling, but I find myself returning time and again to this familiar ground, a patch of withered grass that has been tread upon before. This place, this sanctuary of creation, continues to beckon. 

 

I am intrigued by the visage of a victim who is also complicit in violence. Does one who endures victimhood also seek retribution? What compels one to self-harm?  What version of myself would resort to such measures for survival? Which aspects of us embody cruelty, and which are subject to torment? 

 

I wonder if the earth shares my sentiments. When your body is no longer your own, when its limbs act out autonomously, seeking to take without recompense for what’s lost. The environment, our collective cradle of being, assumes dual roles as both a backdrop and a character. It provokes contemplation on the forfeiture of bodily autonomy and our ties to the earth. It stands resolute and unsullied, yet harbors boundless potential for chaos.