I was not trained.
I was not certified.
I was not approved.

I didn’t go to art school,
but I studied Art.

I studied silence.
I studied obsession.

I went through life.
And I paint what it did to me.

I paint what happens
between the breath and the scream,
between her body and mine,
between what you show the world
and what actually moves inside you
when no one is watching.

What I know came from silence,
love, loss, lust, and presence.

I paint memory.
I paint aftermath.
I paint the weight of unspoken truth.

The only thing that stays
the moment right before she turns away
and the silence after.

Some of my paintings are letters I never sent.
Some are women I failed to keep or to love.
Some are confessions.
Some are commands.
All of them are true.

Every piece you see burned me first.
I don’t paint what I know
I paint what refuses to leave.

That’s why it burns again
when you stand in front of it.

Hauntingly human.

The work is sensual, dark,
and sometimes a little dangerous.
That’s the point.

I reject mass psychosis.
Mass taste.
Mass everything.

If everyone likes it, it's a lie.

The herd is loud.
Truth is quiet.

I watch.
I love.
I create.
I wait.

I follow nothing but presence.

Real beauty whispers.
It waits for the one who recognizes it
the way animals recognize storms.

And when it finds you,
it doesn’t leave.
It nests somewhere beneath your ribs.

A painting should do that.
It should rearrange
the furniture inside your chest.

Art is here to remind you
that you are still alive.

You are not buying color or composition.
You are bringing a witness into your life,
a constant reminder
that you had forgotten how to feel.

Taste is a weapon.

For the few who feel before they justify.
What cannot be said must be painted.

I sell beautiful trouble.
Beauty with a bruised lip.
If it whispers to you now, it will own you later.

If it doesn’t change the air around it,
it never leaves my studio.

I make silence expensive.

If you feel it,
it’s yours.