Behind the visuals of NNEL is a loom — a space where images, ideas, and accidents are woven rather than produced.

My process is cyclical and porous, part method, part instinct. A piece might begin with a drawing, a photograph, or a prompt, but just as often it begins in a dream, in my writing, or in something glimpsed while driving. A song lyric, a line in a book, or a half-remembered character can unravel into an entire series of images that later mutate, collapse, or spiral into something unexpected. Inspiration often arrives suddenly, even in the middle of the night, demanding to be rethought, reframed, rewritten.

I resist speed. Instead, I work through repetition, chance, and imperfection. Each piece carries the trace of its becoming — fractured, unfinished, recursive. What remains is not only an image but the anatomy of its making: a record of how imagination, experience, and technology weave together. For me it is about the melancholia of memory, the shock of presence, and the carnage of aftermath.

Prompts are rarely singular. I rework them endlessly: inverting, stitching, fracturing, pulling apart and beginning again. The process is lucid, liquid, malleable. At times, real people emerge — reimagined as exaggerations, distortions, diminutives, or animals made human and vice versa. Each piece feels both deeply personal and slightly estranged, as if seen through a mirror that bends the light.

Artificial intelligence enters as collaborator — a tool, not a creature, never an author. It offers me fragments, distortions, and accidents I could not have made alone. But its output is never the final word. Every result is drawn back through my hand — cut, layered, stitched, resisted. I move between analogue and digital, precision and accident, until the work feels alive with its own tension.

Through it all runs the red thread. Sometimes literal, sometimes implied, it marks fate, bloodline, and entanglement. It binds hand to machine, memory to myth, body to mechanism, accident to intention.