My painting starts where things begin to fail. Each work is a small disaster in slow motion, a way of looking at the moment when something that seemed stable starts to give way.

I think of painting as a fragment of a present in permanent collapse. The canvas becomes a place where structures don't hold, where forms hesitate between appearing and disappearing. I work on that border: line, stain and pigment pushing against each other like pieces of a language that no longer fully works.

I work without sketches. The canvas is built the way a film is cut: through collision, resistance, and what survives the editing.

Cities crumble and we don't know if they are memories or premonitions. Bodies fragment into symbols that I don't try to decode. I'm not looking for answers; I don't want to impose a fixed meaning.

When I speak of Visceral Abstraction, I mean this: a painting that behaves like a body under pressure, where control and chaos collide until something raw, almost uncomfortable, appears. The image is not decoration; it's a residue of conflict.

The absurd and a certain black humour slip in at the edges, not to soften the collapse, but to show how fragile our idea of stability really is.

When everything collapses, what remains are these images: imperfect, unstable, but still insisting on being here.