The art of unlearning.

I didn’t arrive at this work. I walked into it, barefoot, on raw jute laid across a studio floor, and I haven’t fully left the floor since.

I was trained as an architect — Cyprus, Melbourne, Bodrum, Istanbul. I learned the discipline of structure, the honesty of material, the precision that a building demands before it’s allowed to stand. But architecture is also a language of permission — codes, clients, approvals, ceilings you can’t cross without someone else’s signature. Somewhere in Miami, at a party, standing near canvases that weren’t mine, I heard a question that didn’t ask to be answered, only followed: what would it feel like to paint?

Two days later I was on a studio floor in Stan Smiths I’d bought years earlier in Hamburg, and I never stood back up at an easel. I paint the way a body remembers, not the way a hand is taught. Burlap, jute, raw fiber — laid flat, walked across, flipped and repainted ten, fifteen, twenty times until every fiber has taken its share of color, front and back both. There is more knowledge in our bodies than in anything ever written down. My practice is just a way of asking that knowledge to speak.

I don’t experience my work as separate bodies of research — Burlaps, Kintsugi, Classics. I experience it as one continuous unlearning. Architecture taught me to control a form until it obeyed. Art has spent years teaching me the opposite: to let a material tell me what it’s already becoming, and to have the discipline to get out of its way. Every fracture I gild, every fiber I re-walk, every canvas I let stay unfinished a little longer — that’s not technique. That’s me, taking one more layer off of who I was trained to be, so something closer to true can come through.

No one else will make this exact piece, in this exact hour, with this exact body. That’s not a slogan. It’s the whole method.