I was born without organs—or so I came to understand myself through  mid-century French thinkers who unraveled structure itself: not as a  fixed form, but as a constellation of provisional intensities, seeking  ways to become actual without being locked down.  I do not ground myself in fixed forms. I root within shifting fields of  becoming, finding steadiness through change—feeling for seams where  chaos tilts toward coherence. Painting became a method of tracing these  tremors: recording the body’s vibrational languages before thought  closes around them. I ask questions in paint and graphite that resist  easy answers—questions of body, gender, and being.

There are no representations in my work, no safe reflections. Affectual  logics unfold: color, line, and rhythm speaking from the body's  submerged terrains. I now paint through the canvas itself—long,  deliberate slits sewn back into the surface—to embed a tactile memory of  the body without fixing it. Paint spreads, resists, coalesces. The body  moves, but is not captured.  Behind the canvas, I layer words invisibly, unsettling the material  assurances the surface offers. Body and language wrestle there, neither  stable, neither whole. As Puar reminds us, material is never innocent.

I paint to listen to that which cannot be said. 

 I paint to remain in motion.  

I paint to become.