My mother as zero point. Blood in her head. Language broke, and every day I picked up the pieces. We laid puzzles and understood each other. Blood in my head. CTRL+ ALT+ DEL. Society puts you against the wall. Either you do what is expected of a disabled person: sit in a chair and wait, or you start thinking critically. Cancer in my father’s body. My life on hold. Caregiving for two severely disabled people, 24/7, followed. Society doesn’t even put you against the wall anymore. Society drops you. You pull yourself up by the scruff of your neck and you know you have something to offer the art world.

I work with words, diaries, video, drawings, installations, photographs, and paintings; simple yet charged, between speaking and silence, with one constant: language and thought as the connecting thread.

The works have no titles, not even “untitled.” It is not a gimmick but a deliberate choice. The word–image connection has preoccupied me for years, and it remains a line of thought I return to.

And now the question: how many disabled artists do you know? I don’t mean outsider art, because that is apparently not art — it stands outside. No, really, how many? Politics makes it impossible for them. All animals are equal, but disabled people are treated as the woodlice of society: denied a legal status, forbidden to earn even a rotten cent. How many disabled artists in galleries? How many in exhibitions? Attention: close to none. Everyone is equal, says society, while fucking them up the ass until they can’t walk anymore. The art world is nothing but a reflection of that. I don’t want to launch into a manifesto about what can and cannot be done, but if you are not even allowed to become an independent artist because taxes, benefits, and pensions will be taken away from you — while anyone without a disability is free to make even bad art — how are you supposed to build a CV?

My value does not lie in a long CV. It lies in my thinking. Thinking about art, society, and language.