The human being is part of the whole we call the universe… and experiences themselves, their thoughts and feelings, as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical illusion of consciousness"".
Albert Einstein.
Not a chaos of the senses, but an opening of existence to transformation: to what breaks apart to make other possibilities possible, to what changes its form without losing its traces, and to what appears stable while its structure quietly shifts.
What if the stability we perceive were merely a moment within a larger movement? What if the entities we see were neither complete nor independent but forms constantly changing from within, taking shape within wider processes that extend beyond their boundaries?
I return to entropy, not as a final answer to the world, but as a way of thinking about the fragility of forms, the limits of completion, and the possibility of transformation.
Sometimes, I lose my certainty in what I see. The body begins to lose its boundaries, and what once seemed a stable form becomes closer to an event unfolding. It is no longer only about what I see but about what happens to the image and what happens to me as I try to hold on to it.
As for the trace, it is the presence of absence: what we may not see, yet feel is continuing to exist. I search for time within matter—in its layers, in the traces of movement, and in what covers what came before without entirely erasing it. A trace may be the result of what has happened; sometimes, the process of becoming itself is the trace.
This is what I experience through painting. The idea is no longer a philosophy; I add to the work once it is complete. It may instead reside in the way the work comes into being—in the relationships between its materials, in what emerges and recedes, and in the moment when the image loses its ability to be final.
The closer the body comes to completion, the more it seems to disappear—as though what I am searching for no longer exists in the image itself but in what happens to it.
What if the trace left by movement appeared before the form that produced it became clear? Then the body would no longer be the protagonist but the force that brings it into being. being and transforms it. The body would cease to be a final answer and become an event in a constant state of becoming and change.
This does not apply to human beings alone. Rocks, trees, light, memory, civilisations, and stars all undergo transformations that do not stop at their present forms. What appears stable to us may be the result of changes unfolding too slowly for us to perceive.
Nothing is ever complete, and nothing is ever complete.
What matters to me, in the end, is not to arrive at a completed form but to leave the work with enough life to remain capable of change and transformation—even after I, too, have become another image.
Albert Einstein.
Not a chaos of the senses, but an opening of existence to transformation: to what breaks apart to make other possibilities possible, to what changes its form without losing its traces, and to what appears stable while its structure quietly shifts.
What if the stability we perceive were merely a moment within a larger movement? What if the entities we see were neither complete nor independent but forms constantly changing from within, taking shape within wider processes that extend beyond their boundaries?
I return to entropy, not as a final answer to the world, but as a way of thinking about the fragility of forms, the limits of completion, and the possibility of transformation.
Sometimes, I lose my certainty in what I see. The body begins to lose its boundaries, and what once seemed a stable form becomes closer to an event unfolding. It is no longer only about what I see but about what happens to the image and what happens to me as I try to hold on to it.
As for the trace, it is the presence of absence: what we may not see, yet feel is continuing to exist. I search for time within matter—in its layers, in the traces of movement, and in what covers what came before without entirely erasing it. A trace may be the result of what has happened; sometimes, the process of becoming itself is the trace.
This is what I experience through painting. The idea is no longer a philosophy; I add to the work once it is complete. It may instead reside in the way the work comes into being—in the relationships between its materials, in what emerges and recedes, and in the moment when the image loses its ability to be final.
The closer the body comes to completion, the more it seems to disappear—as though what I am searching for no longer exists in the image itself but in what happens to it.
What if the trace left by movement appeared before the form that produced it became clear? Then the body would no longer be the protagonist but the force that brings it into being. being and transforms it. The body would cease to be a final answer and become an event in a constant state of becoming and change.
This does not apply to human beings alone. Rocks, trees, light, memory, civilisations, and stars all undergo transformations that do not stop at their present forms. What appears stable to us may be the result of changes unfolding too slowly for us to perceive.
Nothing is ever complete, and nothing is ever complete.
What matters to me, in the end, is not to arrive at a completed form but to leave the work with enough life to remain capable of change and transformation—even after I, too, have become another image.
