To reconnect with the feeling of being in those spaces, I use sensory details that have stayed with me, such as their sounds, the weight and texture of bricks, and the dark reflection of water in underground reservoirs. These materials help me return to how my body once experienced those spaces.

As distance grows, the body remembers what the mind can no longer reconstruct.

What is left behind does not disappear.

It comes back through vague memories of

spaces I once lived in or passed through,

unresolved emotions,

gestures,

and feelings

that were once vivid but have faded over time.

I cannot always name these memories or place them exactly, but I can still feel them physically.

What appears in the work is shaped not only by what I have lived and by the way memory has changed over time, but also by what I am living through now.

My work starts from the incomplete memories that I feel in my body. I try to give form to the way they return to me,

partially,

unexpectedly,

and never in full.

I am less interested in recovering those spaces than in exploring how my relationship to them is changing through memory, distance, and what I am living through now. What I return to, then, is not the spaces as they were, but

what they are becoming inside me.

Time, distance, and everything I have lived through since have become part of that return.

I often do not know what the work will become until it is finished. While I work, I trust what my body remembers more than what my mind can recall. The form develops as I work, as if it has to be remembered rather than planned. I respond to what appears and let forms shift, disappear, and return until something starts to feel familiar, even if I cannot fully explain why.

The present enters the act of remembering, affecting how those memories take form in the work.

A Place Within, 2026

Oil on canvas, 30 × 40 in

Dissonance, 2026

Oil on canvas, 30 × 40 in

Back to Where it Hurts, 2026

Oil on canvas, 36 × 36 in