There are moments when the body becomes a vessel
not of function, but of feeling.
The canvas does not wait for me to be ready.
It beckons like a lover in the night: wild, relentless, uncompromising.
I descend to the floor.
The paint becomes breath.
Movement becomes memory.
The brush, an extension of my longing,
my ache to be known without language.
What you see here is not a performance.
It is exposure.
This is my work in its most raw form before it evolved into rhythm, into refinement.
This is the beginning. The first breath.
Unedited. Unrelenting. Sacred in its disorder.
At the end, I am breathless.
You can see my body trembles. I am always in pain.
But I do not stop.
I cannot stop.
It is a birth: something holy insists on coming through,
and I surrender to it, no matter the cost.
I do not work from the mind.
I work from the womb of feeling, from the pulse beneath the visible.
The ancestors murmur. The cosmos leans in.
And I,
I pour.
To collect one of my works is to hold a piece of that invocation.
A fragment of the threshold.
A secret only your soul recognises.
If you are stirred, if you feel that ache in your chest
you already know:
This was always meant for you.
You remember.