I create from the wreckage—of thought, of feeling, of self. My inspiration lives in distortion: Dalí’s dream logic, Picasso’s fragmented truths, the sugar-rush honesty of pop art. I chase the beautiful and the bizarre, the grotesque and the divine. Desire, rejection, madness—they don’t whisper in my work. They roar.

Surrealism is the language of my mind when reality speaks too plainly. Confusion isn’t a flaw—it’s a compass. Suffering isn’t weakness—it’s material. I’m drawn to the uncomfortable, the unspoken, the unloved. Because that’s where life hides—raw, unfiltered, gasping to be seen.

Art, for me, is a fever dream with purpose.