My paintings begin with a transfer: two canvases with freshly applied paint are pressed together and pulled apart. Before pressing,

I already shape the paint’s direction and distribution — more material in some areas than others, arranged across the canvas. What happens once the two surfaces meet, I can influence but not determine: pressure, quantity, and contact transform that distribution in ways I can’t fully predict. What separates them is neither fully mine nor fully accidental — it’s the outcome of both. What happens next is where the real work starts. I begin with

a feeling for atmosphere and movement, not a fixed image or composition, and then look at what the transfer left behind — sometimes tracing a contour by hand to extend a form that’s only half there. I build a background around it, absorb it into the composition, and introduce new forms of my own. Once I’m ready,

I transfer again, and the surface goes through the same cycle: dried, reworked, pressed into the next panel. Every mark responds to what’s already on the canvas and sets up the conditions for the next one.

 

Because of this, a multi-panel piece is never several separate images — and even the two sides of a single transfer are never identical. Pressure, paint, and timing differ slightly every time, and

I add different decisions to each surface afterward. Each panel is

a consequence of the one before it, not a copy of it: it carries something forward, changes it, and sets the conditions for what comes next. In the largest works, the sequence can loop back —

the last panel transferred again against the first — but nothing about that return is a repeat. It returns, but it does not repeat.

 

The vein-like structures that run through the surface aren’t drawn; they’re what the transfer leaves behind. I sometimes roll a second color only across the raised texture afterward, so the color

underneath stays visible while the new color catches just

the ridges— depth built not from perspective or illusion, but from

the accumulation of transfers, additions, and reworking the surface has already gone through. The forms that come out of this read as organic, sometimes bodily, without my setting out to depict anything, and I experience them as having volume even though the surface is flat.