My practice begins with a question: what happens to a system of control when imperfection is its starting point?

This question comes from my body. A tremor runs through every line I draw: an involuntary deviation that precedes the gesture. Imperfection is not a choice, it is my starting condition. Rather than correct it, I place it at the centre of the work.

I work with a tight palette, often black and white with a single colour, where contrast alone carries the tension. I paint intimate small-scale works on paper as well as larger works on canvas and wood. As this same discipline of control moves from the wall into the room, my practice extends into installation: painted wooden elements and loose, unstretched canvases evolve with the space around them. For each medium, ecology is not a constraint but a condition, one more rule the system has to meet.

Within minimalism and geometric abstraction, I construct systems of repetition, geometry and negative space, where hand-drawn lines carry their deviation. Minimalism removed the body to perfect the system. I put it back in, visibly. Balance shifts, rhythm stumbles, and control reveals itself for what it is: a construction.

Each line is a quiet resistance. Drawn slowly, one after the other, the gesture repeats but no line is identical: I discover each stroke as I draw it. The gesture is final. This is not a failure of the system but what it is built for. Each work tests the question in a new system, and the perspective expands without closing.

From a distance, the structure holds. Up close, it breathes: hesitation, vibration, the trace of a body. Between the two, in that gap, is where the viewer stands. The question returns to them.