My drawings are like my fingerprints. They are imprints of my soul.
When I think in the shades of grey, I have the desire to speak about myself, concrete things, all things living. When I want to tell a story, I avoid lines because lines are shortcuts. So infinitely thin that the sentence is cancelled, letters become lost and all that remains is a short sound. Then I miss reality and desperately balance on the blade’s edge, looking for the beginning and the end. A line is a mirage. It emerges only after it has been created by light and shadow.
When I want to tell a story, I talk about the form, air and space. I use these to shape the logic... sometimes. Logic emerges when the depth is annoying. All I admire then is the surface. A line is nothing but surface. Changeable, reliant. A line comes when I think in the shades of grey.
I avoid lines when boundaries become a burden. At that moment I like everything ungraspable, non-existent, fragile, seeming. What immediately disappears in sharp light or thick darkness. But I immediately call for help when I feel I am alone in space. Without a setting, I lose the reason to exist. A line with no setting is like myself without an identity card. Take the setting away and the line will disappear as well.
I am a drawing artist wrapped in a woman.
When I am silent I am drawing a line.