I’m a painter living between San Francisco and Europe. My work traces what it feels like to inhabit systems we’ve built but no longer fully control—algorithms, platforms, protocols, feeds that filter and fragment experience before it’s even fully felt. Figures surface through gestures and zones of realism, often tangled, pierced, or unraveling. Underlying structures—mesh, code, scaffolding—offer a kind of order, but it rarely holds. Boundaries slip. The material begins to behave with its own logic.

Paint is a technology too—just a slower one. I stay with the moment when structure loosens and something uncanny starts to surface. Not an illustration, but a rhythm, maybe a presence—something asking to be known.

I’m also deeply drawn to forms that pulse with life: buds, branching structures, tangled growth—organic patterns that resist clean resolution. They suggest a kind of knowing that resists capture—vital, unruly-pressing up against the systems we build to contain it.

For years, my studio practice ran parallel to a life embedded in tech. That lived experience—inside systems designed to shape perception and embed values—continues to inform my work. I think a lot about how the tools we build begin to shape not just perception, but sensation itself—how our tools can behave, in subtle ways, like sentient collaborators. Painting becomes a way of metabolizing that influence: not to represent technology, but to absorb its effects, give them form, and feel out their logic in material terms.