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

The question comes from my own body. I live with a condition that causes a tremor: every line I draw deviates, involuntarily. The imperfection precedes the gesture. It is a condition, not a choice. Rather than correct it, I place it at the centre of the work.

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, no line ever repeats: I discover each line 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.
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My current body of work, Expanding Perspectives, unfolds across three series. In Threshold, fragile systems hold their ground, suspended between tension and surrender. In Expanding Horizon, painted wood enters space itself: casting shadows, shifting depth, redefining where the work ends and the room begins. In Asymmetric Disruption, still worked in studies on paper and unstretched canvases, colour vibrates against geometric form, setting structure in motion.