I was born without hearing the world. I have severe hearing loss — without hearing aids, I cannot hear anything at all. That is not something I have overcome. It is the condition from which I perceive: I learned to read lips before I learned to trust sound. I learned to read what remains.

I work with fire on wood, with clay, with acid on engraving plates. I choose these processes because they are irreversible: burnt wood carries that mark forever, a bitten plate does not go back. I do not work with materials that allow correction. I work with time that has already happened.

What interests me is not to represent. It is for the mark to be the object — the evidence that something happened here. The question that articulates my entire practice is direct: what remains when the process ends and nothing can be changed?

My work does not speak about silence. It is born of it.