It is the place from where I see everything.

I was born without hearing the world. It was my grandmother who, holding me in her arms before the images of our home, unknowingly revealed to me the only language that asked nothing of sound. I have severe hearing loss — without hearing aids, I cannot hear anything at all. This is not a limitation I have overcome. It is the condition that shaped my perception from the very beginning. I learned to read lips before I learned to trust sound.

As Tanizaki found in Japanese shadow a form of beauty that direct light destroys, I find in silence a quality that noise cannot contain: the possibility of being completely present. Silence does not empty — it concentrates.

I work with matter that holds physical memory: fire painting, ceramics, printmaking, graphic work. I choose slow and irreversible processes because silence does not allow for haste. A plate bitten by acid cannot be undone. Burned wood carries that mark forever.

That permanence is what interests me: the trace left by what is neither seen nor heard, but was there.

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