I explore memory as an unstable construction — something that doesn't simply exist in the past, but is assembled, again and again, in the present.

The starting point is personal. I lost my father without warning when I was 13. My memories of him slowly collapsed into photographs. Without them, whole moments would cease to exist. That realization made me question whether memory is a record at all — or something far less certain.

I think of memory as neural reconstruction: each time we remember, the brain rebuilds the experience from scratch. What I remember differs from what you remember of the same moment. The past is not a fixed reality. It is a subjective, distorted reconstruction — filtered through the self that exists right now.

This is what I make visible in my work. Every painting begins with a photograph I took myself — an attempt to hold a moment still. I transfer the printed ink from the photograph onto the canvas, peeling the image away from its original surface. What remains is a ghost: a partially destroyed impression, like a memory already beginning to slip away.

Over that trace, I paint and draw — in oil, acrylic, ink, pencil, and whatever the work demands. I distort, interrupt, and add. My marks act as flashes of neural activity — sudden images, emotions, fragments. They conflict with the original photograph, transforming it. The moment is no longer what it was.

Visually, my paintings hold two realities at once: something recognizable and something abstracted beyond recognition. This tension mirrors memory itself — shaped by loss, time, and who we've become since.

For me, painting is an act of resistance against disappearance — an attempt to hold what is escaping, knowing that in holding it, I will change it. The canvas becomes a place where the static trace comes alive, where memory regains a body, and where forgetting and preserving exist in the same gesture.