I don’t make a body of work. I build a universe. Masks, hybrid creatures, bodies mixed with whatever drives them. All of it starts from something real: a myth, a memory, a piece of my own story. I push it until it stops being a copy and becomes mine.

In that universe, nobody gets their identity handed to them. You build it: from what you inherit without even knowing it, from what you survive, from what shows up in your body or your city whether you asked for it or not.

My sculptures are carved from foam, built up in clay, painted, and sealed in resin, a process I figured out on my own. For other pieces I use whatever I find: spray foam made to look like porcelain, old wood given a new life. Same question behind all of it: what’s instinct, and what’s control?
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