My painting starts where things begin to fail.
Not from harmony, but from fracture.
Each work is a small disaster in slow motion: the moment when something that seemed stable starts to give way.

With a background in film editing, my practice is born from the collision between cinematic montage and painting. Without preliminary sketches, I treat the canvas as an editing space where the image is built through resistance. I don’t try to illustrate catastrophe; I look for what survives it. This is Visceral Abstraction: a painting that behaves like a body under pressure, where control and chaos collide, leaving something raw, almost uncomfortable.

Line, stain, and pigment scream at each other; color celebrates and rots at the same time. The mistake becomes structure, a grammar of survival.

Cities with their labyrinthine streets and the bodies of their inhabitants fragment into symbols that vibrate between memory and premonition. The works contain black humor that doesn’t seek to soften the collapse, but to expose how fragile our idea of stability really is.

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