He came to painting through photography. For several years, he saw the world in black and white — landscapes, buildings, forgotten corners — looking for something he could not yet name.

Then came a long silence.

Painting began at forty-seven, on a particular day and without any prior plan. He had no formal training in painting. He learned through the work itself — by trying, making mistakes, changing direction and beginning again.

For eighteen years, he has practised traditional Himalayan yoga. This practice has also shaped the kind of attention he brings to his work: nothing needs to be rushed, and the image is given the time it needs to emerge.

Landscape, memory, human presence and the material itself return again and again in his work. He does not see them as separate subjects. A tree trunk carries the same kind of time as an old wall or a face — only in a different language.

When he paints, he enters a state of deep attention. Rather than deciding in advance what the image should become, he gives space to something forming within — allowing the hand, the material and the inner image to find their way together. The movement of the palette knife, the behaviour of the paint on reclaimed fibreboard, and the traces that emerge through the process all become part of this dialogue between intention and discovery.