I was born without organs—or so I came to understand myself through the mid-century French thinkers who unraveled structure itself: not as a fixed form, but as a constellation of provisional intensities, searching for ways to become actual without being locked down.

I do not ground myself in fixed forms. I root instead within the shifting fields of becoming, finding steadiness not against change, but through it—feeling for the seams where chaos tilts toward coherence. Painting became the way I trace these tremors: a method of recording the body’s vibrational languages before thought closes around them. Through this practice, I literally ask questions in paint and graphite that resist easy answers—questions of body, of gender, of being itself.

In my work, there are no representations, no safe reflections. Instead, 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 pinning it down. The paint spreads, resists, coalesces. The body moves, but is not captured.

Behind the canvas, I inscribe: words layered invisibly into the surface, complicating any easy reading of pure movement, unsettling the material assurances the surface seems to offer. The canvas holds sensation—but also hesitation. Body and language wrestle there, neither stable, neither whole. As Puar reminds us, material is never innocent.

Each mark carries an urgency: not to escape identity, but to slip past its calcifications, and find the life unfolding beneath them. Not the life I already know—but the one the painting teaches me to recognize.

I paint to listen to that which cannot be said.
I paint to remain in motion.
I paint to become.