My work was born from silence, but it was never meant to stay quiet.

 

I paint to reclaim what trauma tried to erase. Each brushstroke is an act of survival, an unspoken truth made visible. My art doesn’t ask for

understanding—it commands it.

 

My childhood was marked by fear, chaos, and the constant need to survive. That legacy shaped me. But in the middle of it all stood my mother, an oil painter, who showed me that creativity could be a way out, a way to speak when words failed. Watching her work taught me that art could hold what life couldn't explain. That understanding stayed with me.

 

At fifteen, I was homeless and I quickly learned that no one was coming to rescue me. I didn’t break–I built. Painting became the place where I didn’t have to fight to stay safe. It became the place where I could exist, fully and unapologetically.

 

I work primarily with acrylic on canvas, building in layers—stripping away what doesn’t belong, letting the color say what I never could. My process is instinctive. I move between restraint and release, realism and surreal distortion, until the subject feels both fragile and unshakable, just like the truth behind it.

 

I explore themes of trauma, femininity, control, survival, and the unseen weight of emotional repression. But not every piece is solemn. Sometimes my work carries a quiet smirk—a breath between the bruises, a flash of rebellion.

 

The figures I paint aren’t metaphors. Whether it's a woman, a child or a faceless form, each one holds part of my story. I don't paint subjects, I paint states of being.

 

I use vivid color like armor, they’ve learned to wear their brightness without apology.

 

I don’t paint for comfort. I paint to tell the truth, so no one has to hide the way I once did.