My paintings usually start from a feeling before they become an image.

Sometimes it is pressure. Sometimes it is silence. Sometimes it is a memory, a dream, a body state, or something I do not fully understand yet. I don’t always want to explain it too quickly, because the painting often knows before I do.

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I’m interested in emotion as a physical thing — how grief, hope, anger, intimacy, frustration, tenderness or serenity can leave marks. How something invisible can become colour, texture, movement, or a surface you can stand in front of.

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Some of the works feel like landscapes. Some feel like bodies. Some feel like wounds, or rooms, or moments that were too difficult to hold in words. I like when a painting feels both fragile and confronting. Quiet, but not passive.

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For me, painting is not always about control. It is about letting something appear. Letting the hand move before the mind edits too much. Letting the work become honest, even when it is uncomfortable.

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These works move between abstraction, memory and the human psyche. They are personal, but I don’t want them to stay only with me. I want the viewer to bring their own feeling to them — to recognise something, even if they cannot fully name it.