My paintings take shape slowly. Not from a previously determined image, but from a stain — an initial, spontaneous gesture that needs time to take on its meaning. This slow start is in keeping with the contemporary Slow Painting movement, in which the painting is no longer an image to be consumed quickly, but a space where attention, time and presence take centre stage.

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Layer by layer, I build an image that does not reveal itself immediately. Forms appear, disappear, return. Colours clash or merge. The process remains visible: every layer bears traces of doubt, intuition and revision. This slow build-up is part of a painting tradition dating back to the modernists who prioritised process over representation, and which is relevant once again today in a world that looks ever more quickly.

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My work moves between recognition and abstraction. Sometimes an echo of a human, an animal or a strange creature emerges, but never as a fixed form. They are apparitions, not representations. That open character invites the viewer to linger longer — exactly as slow art intends: the work only unfolds when you give it time to speak.

 

Painting for me is a slow-moving dialogue between chance and intention. The unconscious plays a part, just as the material itself does. By slowing down the process rather than speeding it up, space is created for unexpected twists and new meanings. The painting thus becomes a place of attention, stillness and concentration — a counter-movement in a visual culture that often demands speed and immediate comprehensibility.

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My work asks the same of the viewer: to slow down, to look, to look again. For it is only in that moment that the true encounter takes place.​

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