Art - the Red Line of the Unconscious

I paint the invisible signs we all carry, those that open only when no one is watching. My art is psychoanalysis applied to color, where every brushstroke is a missed session and every canvas a couch we dare not lie upon.

The red line that crosses my works is not decoration: it's the scalpel that cuts at the exact point where symptom meets desire. It's the highlighting of what you already knew but didn't have the courage to see. It's your unconscious underlining itself, the one it made when you thought you weren't looking.

The titles of my works don't explain, they indicate. Like the finger pointing at the moon, they know the observer will always see the finger. But the moon - the real one - lies in sudden recognition, in the instant you realize the painting was speaking about you before you entered the room.

My works don't ask to be understood. They ask to be traversed, like crossing through grief or epiphany. They ask the visitor to find their own missing piece within a pulsional movement that has no name, but immediately recognizes its own origin.

Because in the end, true art does only one thing: it returns you to yourself, but in a version you didn't know you were. And that red line? It's the thread that brings you home, to a home you didn't remember ever leaving.

Every painting is a question you didn't know you had asked. And the answer is you.