I work with bodies that don't quite belong to themselves.

The figures I shape — in clay, in 3D, in the space between the two — carry posture, tension, and a kind of unresolved memory. They are human, or almost. They borrow from animals. They lean toward the classical and then quietly resist it. What interests me is that in-between place: the moment before a form decides what it is.

My work circles one persistent question — how much of what we see in ourselves is actually ours? Identity, I've come to believe, is less a core than a surface: something that shifts under the weight of other people's gazes, inherited conventions, and the slow pressure of being told who you are. The recurring figure in my practice, -like first solo sculpture exibition- Gaslighted, is never fixed. She — or he, or it — moves between pride and fragility, between desire and withdrawal, shaped and reshaped by the forces around her. The same subject, living in different skins.

I use the body as both subject and instrument. The presence of exaggerated or unexpected anatomical elements isn't provocation — it's interruption. A way of breaking the automatic gaze, of asking the viewer to pause before the habit of reading kicks in. When the eye hesitates, something opens.

These are not closed forms. They are organisms in process, suspended mid-becoming. What they mean depends on who is looking — and what that person has been told to see.