There is a gap between the word for a feeling and the feeling itself. The word is blunt; the experience is specific, sits in the body in a particular way, does something to time. Most people encounter this gap only when something outside themselves makes it visible — a stranger's reaction, an event they hadn't prepared for, a piece of music that knows them better than they expected.

My work lives in that territory. Not in the categories people use to name these states, but in the specific texture underneath them: moods that settle without explanation, the weight of something that can't be traced to a cause, what the body knows before the mind has caught up. That vulnerability is also a target. The systems built on human behavior have learned to engineer exactly these states, to find them and pull. Platforms don't create new feelings. They reach into existing ones and amplify them. The compulsion before you've decided to act on it, the flatness that follows, the feeling of being understood by something that doesn't actually know you.

My practice moves between writing and making, and the two disciplines resist each other deliberately. Writing pulls toward argument and structure. The visual work abandons this for something closer to automatism — working from instinct rather than plan, letting the process make decisions until the form finds itself. What comes out of this is not interested in accurate representation. It is closer to Beksiński, whose figures exist in states of psychological weight that have no clear origin or resolution, and to Giger, who understood that the merger of the organic and the mechanical was already underway — that the body and the system had become harder to tell apart.

I am always the subject, not just the author. My body is source material. The work is made from inside the experiences it examines, not above them. What it offers is not an explanation. It is a form for what you are already carrying.