This body of work originates on what I refer to as underpapers—thin, vulnerable sheets that sit beneath my working hand, collecting marks during other processes. Over time, they have become independent entities: works formed through repetition, accident, emotional leakage, and automatic drawing. They are my own way of processing lived data—registering inner and outer noise, transforming fragments into something visual yet unspoken.

The line moves sometimes instinctively, sometimes illustratively. These drawings occupy a space between poetry and statement, confession and resistance. There is something secretive in them, yet they insist on being seen. They do not illustrate thoughts but trace them—both revealing and concealing. Their fragility is not only physical—the paper is light, prone to tearing—but also conceptual: these works deal with the instability of memory, the unreliability of experience, and the porousness between inner and outer worlds.

Philosophically, they sit near Kant’s idea of schematism, the non-verbal logic that mediates between pure thought and sensory input. They are not the objects of perception, nor the ideas of them, but something murky in-between. In this, they resonate with Bergson’s notion of duration—time that flows subjectively, that resists being measured or fixed. Following Deleuze, they might be seen not as representations but events, capturing states of becoming, where thought and material intermingle.

These works echo a lineage of conceptual and durational practices—Hanne Darboven’s temporal markings, Chantal Akerman’s diaristic structures, the philosophical intimacy of Byung-Chul Han, or Vilém Flusser’s theories of gesture and surface. Yet they remain deeply personal: each mark a small negotiation between control and chaos, presence and disappearance.

In essence, the underpapers are a private archive of becoming—messy, delicate, incomplete. A drawing practice as a way of listening.