Art, creativity, paint, pigments and color run through my veins.
When I was little, I was always making something. It was my safe bubble where I could “hide” from all the outside stimuli. I didn’t like expressing myself with words, especially not spoken words, but I showed little bits and pieces of my inner world through my drawings.

I was the kind of kid who was always drawing, painting or reading, whether it was in school or at home. Finding refuge in worlds created by authors, or creating my own worlds with pencils, paper and paint. It was these worlds where I felt safe.

As a young adult I left art to “Go do something that would help me pay the bills”.  In a nutshell: I was not happy.

A few years ago I came back to art, and it was the best decision ever.

My art

Making art has always helped me make sense of the world, my inner world, and of how I relate to the world and other people. Through making art. I process things as I paint.

Using words has always been hard for me, especially when it comes to describing what is going on inside of me; feelings and sensations. Especially those sensations I can’t put my finger on. As a kid this frustrated me so much: feeling a sensation and not being able to explain in words what I was feeling.

I learned to use colors, shapes, lines and other marks to make the intangible tangible. To translate my sensations, feelings, but also emotions. This is how I tell the stories that have always “lived inside me”.

My art is an extension of myself.