I sample whatever appears contingent to me—images, theoretical and literary texts—and reassemble them through writing, 3D software, video, installation, and occasionally through performance or a URL. Each fragment—material or immaterial—carries equal narrative weight. I map the texture of life after ruin: curated, automated, haunted, and occasionally exquisite.

I speak from a place of immobility, from epistemological ruins, from the spectral inertia of geopolitical histories. I build textual, digital, and physical spaces—scenes where I drift from the suite at the Ritz Paris to the corridor of a two-star hotel; from CGI clouds to screenshots of oceans; from Lacan (misread) to a YouTube makeup tutorial. I think about how memory, affect, and intimacy are mediated in something post-digital, something neoliberal, something liminal, and perhaps something girly. Sometimes I think the screenshots are more honest than the render. Sometimes I think the render is more honest than me.

I make micro-aesthetic choices, at once banal and symbolic: a broken wine glass made in China, a vase away from the focal point of a 19th century painting rendered into a 3D model by AI, half-touristic, half-confessional images left behind on Google Reviews by strangers. I salvage such artifacts and compose them as endnotes, or as an epilogue to the fallout of unresolved systems I both romanticize and reject. Through such gestures, my work depicts a sort of contemporary vertigo—a vertigo that itself hovers between the real and the virtual.

It’s like opening a browser with 78 tabs: one is Mark Fisher, one is Sephora, one is a Reddit thread on how to find obscure arthouse films, one is a payment page for upgrading your iCloud storage…

Maximalist ambiguity is the symptom I work with, where femininity becomes interface, cultural heritage becomes branding strategy, and political urgency flickers into spectacle. It’s hard to say if I thrive in contradictions or if I suffer from them. Oftentimes I feel like I’m about to faint in the fog.

I’m instigating a courageous type of sadness here. A discreet rebellion in favor of ontological impossibilities.
(I know, I know—such big words.)