When you carve your love in stone, your love lasts an eternity.

My sculptures begin with a single line—intuitive, unplanned, unsketched. From that first gesture, I search for tactile harmony, refining the form with my hands until the shape feels complete beneath my fingers. Each piece unfolds in real time, guided not by concept but by sensation, by trust, by the evolving dialogue between body and stone.

Creation happens in a state of flow, when life slows down and all that remains is me, the marble before me, and the demons that crawl between us—self-doubt, fear of wasting time, fear of not being good enough, fast enough, skilled enough. Sculpture demands presence. Stone does not yield to urgency or fear; it holds its own pace, and if I try to rush it, I get hurt. Every sculpture becomes a choice: surrender to the process, or quit entirely.

Marble is my medium because of its power—not just in strength, but in beauty. It resists, it humbles, and it mesmerizes. I often find myself standing in a cloud of white dust, exhausted after a long day’s work, caught in awe and falling deeper in love with what is slowly, patiently, revealed.

When you see my work, I want you to be still—just for a moment—and let the feeling of harmony sink in. Let it settle into your body like a memory you didn’t know you had. Whatever rises from that stillness is yours. And it is true.