Burlaps

Burlap and jute are porous by nature — paint doesn’t sit on top of them, it moves through them, front to back, until the two faces of a piece are no longer “front” and “reverse” but two versions of the same event. I work on the floor, in layers, sometimes flipping a piece ten or twenty times before it’s finished, so that every fiber carries its share of color and no single side tells the whole story. That’s the symbiosis: material and pigment don’t compete for space, they complete each other. These are not paintings in the traditional sense. I think of them as two-dimensional sculptures — built to hang free of a rigid frame, to be flipped, reoriented, hung from a ceiling, wrapped around a corner, or used as a partition wall that changes a room simply by standing in it.