Where the work begins
Nature has always been more than a subject to me.
I am drawn to the intelligence within it: the way everything emerges, transforms, disappears and returns in another form. A tree, a human being, a memory, a landscape, a distant star, each seems to exist within something larger, an invisible field of relationships that is continuously expressing itself through form.
This is where my work begins.
When I paint, I enter the canvas without knowing what it will become. There is no predetermined image to reproduce and no story waiting to be illustrated. I observe what appears and respond to it. I add, remove, wait, sometimes for quite a long time. A movement may suddenly suggest another movement, a colour can alter the direction of an entire painting. The work develops through this continuous exchange between attention, intuition and matter.
For me, painting is a way of approaching what exists before language. The canvas becomes a place where something sensed can acquire physical form without first having to be understood or explained.
I do not experience the cosmic and the everyday as separate worlds. The same underlying reality that fascinates me in physics and in the vastness of the universe is present in a tree, a human body, a memory, a bowl placed on a table. I am interested in that movement from the immeasurable to the intimate: the moment when what seems abstract or infinite becomes matter, experience and ordinary life.
Photography grew from that same way of seeing. Writing came through listening. Pottery brought another dimension: earth, touch, usefulness and the ancient human gesture of forming something with the hands. Each has its own language, yet they all originate in the same place.
I still recognise in myself the way I looked at the world as a child: the instinct to stop, to look closer, to become completely absorbed by something simply because it is there. I have never wanted to lose that capacity. Perhaps art has become my way of protecting it.
To look before naming.
To wonder before knowing.
To allow something to appear before deciding what it should become.
The world, to me, has never felt finished. Beneath what is familiar there is always another layer, another relationship, another possibility waiting to become visible.
And every time I enter the atelier, I can meet it again.