Every material carries a history. Clay remembers the hands that shaped it; metal recalls the fire that once transformed it. To me, working with materials is a form of listening — to time, to texture, to silence.
I am drawn to contrasts: heavy and light, soft and rigid, fragile and enduring. These opposites create tension, but also balance. When I combine materials in unexpected ways, I’m searching for harmony within contradiction. It’s not about perfection; it’s about coexistence.
In my studio, experimentation often begins with touch. The first contact with a new material is instinctive — I press, fold, break, or stretch it. Through these gestures, I begin to understand what it wants to become. There is an honesty in allowing the process to guide the outcome rather than forcing it toward an ideal image.
The poetics of material lie in this honesty. Every scratch, stain, or irregular edge carries meaning. These imperfections become part of the narrative. They reflect the human condition — our resilience, our vulnerability, and our continuous transformation.
Art, for me, is not about creating something flawless. It is about revealing what is already there but often unseen — the quiet dialogue between matter and spirit. When viewers encounter my work, I hope they sense that dialogue, that living presence within form.
In the end, material is not just substance. It is a mirror. It reflects how we interact with the world — how we hold, release, and transform what surrounds us. Through it, we discover not only beauty but also connection.