I paint along the edges of the cultural landscape—where structures shed their function and human interventions are slowly returned to time, nature, and chance. What once was useful begins to rust, crumble, and slip into ambiguity. I’m interested in that threshold: the moment when an object, a factory, a fence or façade stops being an instrument and becomes a sign—of memory, of neglect, of resistance, of repair.
My works look for the friction between control and entropy. I set up systems, grids, and rules, only to let them be eroded by weather, by colour, by the stubborn materiality of paint. Marks remain like evidence: scaffolds, stains, overpainted lettering, traces of labour. The image negotiates between exact description and afterimage—how a place feels after you’ve left it, or how a headline lingers as a texture rather than a fact.
I work slowly. Surfaces are built, scraped back, and rebuilt, so that time is not only depicted but embedded. A painting to me is both a field and a file: a site of looking and a record of decisions. The impulse is documentary, but the outcome is not a document. It is an object with its own weather.