I've always been intrigued by the unknown.
Not because I expect to find answers, but because I've learned that curiosity often reveals more than certainty ever could.
When I begin a painting, I rarely know exactly where it will end up. I make a mark, respond to it, layer another, erase, add, and pause. Somewhere in that process, something begins to emerge—not because I forced it into existence, but because I stayed with it long enough to let it become itself.
I think that's one of the reasons creating has remained such an important part of my life. It invites me to wonder rather than conclude, to observe rather than control.
The same is true outside the studio. Whether I'm walking through the garden, watching light filter through the trees, or noticing patterns in the clouds, I'm reminded that the world is full of quiet mysteries. Art gives me a way to engage with them without needing to solve them.
Perhaps that's why my work often feels expansive or abstract. I'm less interested in documenting what I see than in exploring what I sense—those fleeting emotions and half-formed ideas that exist just beneath the surface.
In a culture that often values certainty, I find comfort in making space for the unknown.
And maybe that's where creativity begins.
