My works carry struggle, solitude, disenchantment, and hope. Beneath them, sorrow and rage surge, thawing a surface frozen by fear and despair. Occasionally, fantasies emerge—an escape, a possibility of solid ground where I can stand tall, be seen, be real. But how can I be sure? There is often hope in my work: an exit door, a window, sky and clouds… yet they are nothing but intricately layered tricks: doors shut, windows inaccessible, sky and clouds nothing but wall paintings. Are there real ways out? Perhaps. The people absent from the chairs, the room, the space leave behind a suspension. And in times of despair, no news is good news.

I am drawn to the pathos of space—physical space that gives rise to psychological space. The absence of human figures in my work does not mark emptiness, but presence—traces of existence, remnants of struggle. I interrogate the faceless systems designed to confuse, to smother, to obscure. They weave their power into concrete, traffic signs, utility poles—silent enforcers of control, omnipresent yet intangible. Talking to a brick wall is useless. But human endurance manifests, too. It materializes in boats, chairs, and tracks of struggle. And in despair, nature comes to our aid. Time comes to our aid. Impersonal forces, yet they hold their own noble truth: everything fades. Rulers and beggars alike crumble to dust. But a peck of moss will outlive concrete. The dignity of lichen will break through walls.