I am fascinated by the traces left after objects come into contact—those residual, subtle, organic, and often imperfect imprints. To me, they are unequivocal indices of events that have taken place, frozen slices of time. I strive to capture these moments: the texture of bread on a zinc plate, shifting from clear to abstract as it dries; the faint depressions pressed into rough paper by a pen tip, discernible only through touch; or the voids and scars left on a wall after a work is dismantled. I am both researcher and custodian.
In terms of method, I choose to engage in a direct, unadorned dialogue with materials. Etching and drawing are my preferred "languages." The physicality of etching allows me to permanently preserve traces encountered by chance—a press, a scratch—each is a passive reception and faithful preservation of past contact. Drawing, on the other hand, signifies for me the unfinished, continuous perception, and the flow of consciousness; in my recent work, this flow has crystallised into an active weaving of lines. I am fascinated by arranging parallel lines of varying lengths and densities, which establish an internal rhythm and cadence through repetition and variation.
Thus, a dialogue always exists within my practice: on one side, the collection and archiving of accidental traces (passive reception); on the other, the construction and generation of internal order (active weaving). Both compel me to focus on the very moment of "generation" itself, and increasingly lead me to use ordinary, readily available materials, exploring within constraints the possibility of a direct correspondence between matter and memory.
This commitment to trace-evidence has shaped my ethical thinking about creative practice itself. I once leaned toward creating large, imposing works, but this was followed by persistent questions about how such works could be stored and accommodated after completion. This prompted a shift—toward exploring works that are physically manageable to preserve, yet dense enough in emotional resonance to endure. This is not a compromise, but rather a more responsible practice: how can a work, humble in form, function like a well-preserved piece of evidence, continuing to speak of the specific moment and touch from which it originated?
My art is a private practice of preservation. I invite viewers to draw close—not to observe a scene, but to examine an index—and to sense those simple, honest details signalled jointly by temperature, pressure, time, and chance. What I collect and preserve are the vivid traces left by these fleeting contacts.