Some people paint or draw from noise, from chaos, from urgency. I, on the other hand, need silence—both inner and outer. Drawing is never a mechanical or technical act. It is an intimate ceremony, almost sacred. My studio is a refuge where time stands still, and matter becomes language.
I like the studio to be arranged in my own way: blank canvases and sheets of paper, paints and colors clearly visible, good lighting… I work with acrylics, inks, watercolors, waxes, chalk, markers, charcoal… There is no exact formula, but I always work without haste. Often, I stare at the paper or canvas for quite a while without touching it. I listen. Other days, the gesture is immediate, almost impulsive, as if coming from beyond thought. The time of painting is not linear: it can be slow, calm, full of pauses and returns. Some days, a single line takes hours, and others, everything flows in minutes. Never forced.
My tools and materials are always ready. The coffee maker too. Sometimes I walk around the studio for a while. I don’t do anything that seems productive—just let my body align with the space, with the light of the moment, with my own breath. For me, this waiting is an essential part of the process. It’s like tuning an instrument before a concert.
There are days when I start by tracing lines without thinking, almost like automatic writing. Lines that represent nothing, yet contain everything I carry inside. Other times I begin with a blot of color, a nameless shape, and let it guide me. Drawing, for me, is about listening. Not imposing.
When I truly begin to draw, the outside world disappears. Time dissolves, and only the gesture, the paper, and that vivid, tense silence accompanying the birth of each form remain. Drawing is a form of active meditation. It is not escaping—it is diving deeper within.
Drawing is my ritual. My sacred place.