*For Artistic Reference
Who am I beyond the label of an artist?
I am someone who may appear quiet and distant at first. I have often been told that I am not the easiest person to approach. But those who truly get to know me realize that I am someone who can talk endlessly about ideas, questions, and the strange nature of life.
In reality, I am a reserved person. I keep my circle extremely small. I have learned over time to distance myself from people who carry insincerity or perform emotions that are not genuine. The number of people I truly speak with regularly can be counted on one hand.
I was not always like this. Life slowly shaped me into this person. Growing up, I witnessed conflict within my family—domestic tensions, manipulation from people around us, and situations that left lasting impressions on how I understand human relationships.
These experiences made me introspective. I often find myself questioning things that many people simply accept. Why are we here? Why do we exist in bodies that require constant maintenance—sleeping, eating, resting—just to continue living? Why are we not simply forms of energy?
Sometimes I feel that a simpler life would make more sense to me—living quietly somewhere surrounded by trees and greenery, away from the noise of the world.
For a long time, life itself felt confusing and without clear meaning. The only philosophy that has ever brought some sense of understanding to me is the wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita. It suggests that perhaps we are here simply to live through the consequences of what remains unfinished.
In many ways, I hope to resolve whatever I am meant to resolve in this lifetime. I often feel that I would not want to return again, especially as a human. Yet even that thought raises another question: what would existence beyond this form even be like?
And perhaps that uncertainty is what keeps the mind searching.
What experiences shaped the way I see and interpret the world?
For a long time, I believed that the death of my mother was the moment that shaped me the most. Losing her forced me to see people differently. Individuals I once spent time with revealed sides of themselves that I had previously ignored. It was a painful realization that people can carry both warmth and bitterness at the same time.
However, as I have reflected more deeply, I realize that my questioning of life began much earlier. When I was around eleven or twelve years old, a thought first appeared in my mind: Why are we here at all? At the time, I didn’t understand where that question came from. Recently I even wondered if those early thoughts were signs of untreated depression. But now I see that the curiosity was always a part of me.
Life added its own layers to those questions. I experienced relationships where kindness and innocence were taken for weakness. Being treated poorly by people I trusted changed how I saw the world. In response, I tried to transform myself into someone tougher, almost defensive—like a tiger ready to strike in order to stay safe.
But pretending to be someone you are not comes with its own cost. Over time it pushed me into a deep depression and forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: when you abandon your true nature to survive, you risk losing your identity.
For a while, I believed that love was the central reason to live. But even that idea eventually felt incomplete. Today, my view of the world is more reflective. Life, to me, feels less like a grand explanation and more like a period of time in which we try to correct, understand, and reconcile the things that remain unresolved.
Why do I feel compelled to create art rather than express myself in another way?
I do not rely only on art to express myself. I believe that every idea has its own natural form of expression. Some things need to be written, some need to be spoken, and some need to be visualized.
Certain thoughts can only exist as images. They demand to be placed on a canvas because words cannot fully hold them. At the same time, other ideas need language. They need to be written down so they can unfold clearly.
The subjects I explore often revolve around the complexity of the human mind and psychology. Because of that, limiting myself to a single medium would feel incomplete. The mind itself does not function in one form—it moves through images, memories, emotions, and words.
So I allow the idea to decide its medium. If it needs to become a painting, it becomes a painting. If it needs to become writing, it becomes writing.
I do not believe in forcing expression into a single format. I simply follow the form that communicates the idea most truthfully.
What questions about life or the human mind am I trying to explore through my work?
Questions have always been a constant part of my life. From a very young age, I was curious about how people behave and why the world works the way it does. My mother was very patient with my curiosity and tried to answer my questions in whatever way she could.
I remember asking many questions even as a child—questions about human behavior, about why people act differently in public and in private, about why we respect certain people without questioning them, and about the strange contradictions that exist in everyday life.
As I grew older, the questions did not disappear; they only became deeper. Why do people hide their true selves? Why do emotions conflict with logic? Why do human beings create systems of power, love, loyalty, and betrayal?
Because my mind is constantly questioning, my work is less about giving answers and more about exploring those uncertainties. Each piece becomes a way to examine the complexity of human thought, behavior, and emotion.
In many ways, my art is simply a continuation of the same curiosity that began in childhood—a search for understanding in a world that rarely offers simple explanations.
How much of myself exists inside each artwork I create?
In many ways, every artwork I create is a reflection of myself—my experiences, my thoughts, and the way my mind processes the world. My work does not come from external formulas or expectations. It comes directly from my internal landscape.
At one point, I tried to change that. A curator once questioned elements in my work—repetitions, spirals, and certain gestures. She asked why I used them and suggested that some of the empty spaces in my paintings had no meaning.
Hearing that affected me more than I expected. For a while, I tried to adjust my work to fit what I thought others might want to see. But in doing so, I found myself moving further away from the very reason I create art. I even stepped away from painting for a short time because the process no longer felt honest.
Eventually I realized something important: no one else has lived my experiences or moved through the same thoughts that shape my work. What may appear repetitive or empty to someone else often carries meaning within my own visual language. The spirals, the gestures, and even the quiet spaces exist for reasons that are rooted in my personal process.
Since then, I have chosen to remain committed to that authenticity. If I begin creating only to satisfy expectations, the work risks becoming a task rather than an act of discovery.
For me, creativity only remains meaningful when the work stays true to the person creating it.
What do I hope someone feels when they stand in front of my work?
I do not try to control what someone should feel when they stand in front of my work. Art is a personal experience, and every viewer brings their own emotions and interpretations.
If someone resonates with it, they will understand it in their own way. Others may simply pass by without feeling a connection, and that is also natural.
I am aware that my work does not easily fit into familiar categories. It is not built around a muted palette, nor does it follow the language of pop art. The visual language I use is different from what many people are accustomed to seeing, and because of that it may take time for someone to fully engage with it.
For me, the most meaningful moment is when a viewer genuinely connects with the work. That connection creates a silent understanding between two people who may have never met. It reminds me that somewhere, someone can feel or recognize the same emotions or questions that exist within me.
That possibility—that another person might resonate with what I have expressed—is what keeps me hopeful.
How do I see my artistic journey evolving in the future?
My work is rooted in raw emotion and psychological exploration. In that sense, I do not think about evolution in terms of changing styles or following external expectations. What drives my work is the ongoing exploration of emotional and mental landscapes.
As long as those questions exist within me, the work will continue.
I do not know whether my paintings will eventually find a place in someone’s home or collection. That is something I cannot control. What I do know is that creating art has become the most dedicated pursuit of my life.
There were moments when I stepped away from it. I left art once when I was around eleven years old because I was expected to create a certain kind of art that did not feel true to me. Later, I left again when I was sixteen, when studies became the most important focus of my life.
Over time, I achieved stability in my career and personal life, yet I still struggled to find a deeper sense of purpose. Returning to art helped me rediscover something meaningful. It gave direction to my thoughts and emotions in a way nothing else had.
Today, I no longer see art as something I might abandon. It has become an essential part of my life, and I will continue to follow it wherever it leads.