I approach the human body not as a fixed form, but as a site of continuous transformation — a presence that shifts, absorbs, and quietly reorganizes itself in relation to the world around it.

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My practice began in the field. For five years, I traveled to refugee camps across multiple countries, living alongside people navigating the most extreme conditions of displacement and survival. What stayed with me was not the images — it was the sensation of watching someone continue. To keep moving through conditions that had no resolution. That persistence, quiet and unglamorous, became the pressure behind my work. It also became a question I have never stopped asking: what does the body hold, after everything it has passed through?

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That question moved inward over time. In my early paintings, human figures existed as darkened forms surrounded by drifting energies — forces that circled the body without entering it. Gradually, those energies moved inside. Form began to fracture, pulse, and dissolve into the landscapes that held it. What had once been external pressure became an interior condition. The body was no longer a subject standing against the world. It was continuous with it.

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This shift mirrors something broader in how painting itself has been rethinking the figure — not as representation, but as a site where sensation, memory, and environment converge. Within that conversation, I am less interested in what the body looks like than in what it carries. Borders do not only exist in the world. They take root inside us. They register as tension, as pressure, as a subtle reshaping of how one inhabits space and time. My work traces that process — not the moment of crossing, but what remains after.

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I am drawn less to the spectacle of transformation than to its residue. What persists when a form dissolves? What lingers when boundaries loosen? These questions have moved through my practice across years of evolving work — each series a different attempt to locate where the body ends and the world begins, and finding, each time, that the line is less certain than before.

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Throughout this evolution, one concern has remained: the relationship between what is visible and what is felt. Perception is not only optical. It is sensorial, layered, and deeply ambiguous. I am drawn to the moment when something feels more true slightly out of focus — when it echoes rather than declares. My paintings inhabit that space. They do not resolve. They accumulate.

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Oil painting allows this to surface with a particular honesty. Its slow, physical nature registers hesitation and endurance through material itself. Each layer holds what came before — not erased, but present beneath. The canvas becomes a site where structure and instability coexist, where the body and time encounter one another without conclusion.

A residency in Berlin made something explicit that had long been present in the work. Standing before the material remains of the Berlin Wall — its weight, its refusal to become purely historical — I recognized a condition I had been painting for years without naming it directly. The wall does not disappear. It becomes the atmosphere. And the body, unable to leave, learns to exist differently inside what does not move. That is not transcendence. That is something quieter, and harder.

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This work does not resolve what it opens. It stays inside the difficulty — inside the tension between boundary and permeability, between persistence and dissolution. Not because answers are withheld, but because the act of remaining within the question is itself what the paintings practice. What I am after is not a new world. It is a way of continuing inside the one we have already reached.