"About Me"

What Does a Painter Do When She Doesn’t Paint?

This question has guided me over the past four years.
I wrestled with the certainty that I am a painter — while losing all desire to paint.
The stretched canvas, framed and waiting, no longer called to me.

So I turned to the square.
I asked myself, and everything around me: why the rectangle?

I found the square everywhere, woven into the very fabric of the Western world.
I worked with it until I realized — it always wins.
There’s no way to fight it.

Now, I’ve returned to painting.
I no longer ask why, or how, or for what purpose.
I paint stains.
I show the process, because the absurdity of the act doesn’t allow me to take it too seriously.
I let the gesture build — and simultaneously collapse.

I try to paint through carving wood, through casting plastic,
and with my own body.
I perform.
I carry the square.
I step into it.

I walk with it.
I drag it like a metaphor — both literal and emotional.
I can’t escape.
I live in the grid.
But my spirit resists.

I fight the structure, even as I live within it.

I was born in the West.
That’s what I know.
The West is the square.
It’s tight. It’s defined.
It doesn't ask where it's from — or why it is.

The answers, I believe, lie at the edge of history.
Where things are messier, more organic, and less meaningful.
Like my images.