I hold pieces of time together with knife, brush and color. 

I come from where East meets West in Europe, born at the hour when officially denied, imagination borrowed a stubbornness of its own. There I learned to play on the edge of strong and elusive, and colors rushed to teach me how.  I shot for the heart of things, the spot where sweet meets sorrow. 

I am after what cannot be tamed and owned, only approached and enjoyed. Space speaks to me the longing for beauty. It tempts me. Rhythm comes in sways of line and drippings of color. Time becomes my friend and foe and I learned to deep my hands in it, brush it with my thoughts, sing it with my color. I am the sweet smoke with a root which is sour. 

I touch bodies and lands and waters and trees and we create each other. They are my confession I put in your hands, in your eyes, asking you to take the game further.