art.

Some artists believe that their works should stand on their own, without the need for extensive —or even art-critical— explanation. I reveal the process through which my works come into being, not to determine their meaning, but because their conceptual and existential genesis is inseparable from the work itself. Making this process visible is therefore not an explanation added afterwards, but part of the artistic practice. The viewer is under no obligation to follow this path; each work remains open to being encountered and interpreted through the viewer's own experience.

For me, this is also a matter of intellectual honesty. I want to reveal myself through my work. No pretence. No cultivated mystery. What I offer is an invitation to accompany my way of seeing — not a request to do so.

For me, the most profound capacity of ART. lies in its ability to render both the detail and the whole simultaneously present. Within a work of art, there exists no hierarchy between the parts and the totality; each presupposes and conditions the other. In this reciprocal relation, the work’s intrinsic harmony gradually reveals itself as an ongoing inquiry.

Yet this is not its only excellence…

In the role of the ART.ist — whether in painting, sculpture or composing music — I perceive a particular responsibility, inherent in the act of creation itself. The artist determines every detail of the work. Even when engaging with a reference, the authorial and decisive force remains within the artist at every stage of realization. Where else do we encounter such a high degree of responsibility and self-efficacy?

One could argue by pointing to inventors of new technologies (such as the printing press, the light bulb, the telephone, etc.). However, I would disagree, as such inventions are driven by a concrete problem that needs to be solved. This problem does not arise solely from the creative imagination of the inventor.

A work of art, by contrast, is shaped —when pushed to the extreme— exclusively by the artist’s abilities and sense of beauty, as well as the chosen material. The only “problem” to be addressed is the existence of the artwork itself and the pursuit of beauty (as well as the initial question: What is beauty? and Who —or what— has the authority to decide?).

This profound responsibility stands in contrast to the pervasive conditioning of the modern, technologized world — a world in which the experience of self-efficacy and agency become increasingly elusive. It is a responsibility also reflected in the duration of the creative act itself, unfolding within a 21st-century human existence defined by extreme velocity. The reduction of information into material or tonal presence, and the resulting deceleration, returns the artist to what may appear to be human limitations, yet may equally constitute humanity’s greatest strengths.

Such a responsibility can be either overwhelming or liberating.

(Even if this pursuit of agency and responsibility may be, at the same time, the finely wrought sketch of an exquisite illusion.)

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Merely a Painting of the Tip of the Iceberg, oil on paper, 100x70. 2026

The well-known idiom, "That's just the tip of the iceberg," is deliberately extended beyond its conventional meaning. The viewer is not confronted with the ballerina — the iceberg's visible summit — but only with its painted image. In doing so, the work underscores the immeasurable depth of a woman's inner reality, most of which inevitably eludes perception. Every human encounter reveals no more than the slightest trace of her true essence and grandeur, while the overwhelming remainder remains hidden beneath the ocean's surface.

Letter to the River
Oil on circular canvas, Ø 30 cm, with accompanying literary text. 2026

Dear friend,

I dreamt last night. Of you. It was a beautiful dream.

I was lying beside you. You wrapped yourself around me, holding me with a tenderness that needed no hands. It felt as though I existed only there. Nothing of my former life had followed me. No one needed anything from me, and I, too, needed nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I felt an emptiness—but not the emptiness of absence. It was the emptiness of abundance. Such a complete emptiness that it seemed life itself wished to come to an end in that very moment.