Reflecting and acting are inseparable. One without the other leads to illness.

Solitude accompanies creation — I am alone, facing myself. To remain there would be a bleak monologue, a caged bear pacing. But making work public becomes a source of life. It gives breath to what was thought in isolation, testing whether these thoughts hold weight against our deepest concerns — our hopes for a world convulsed by the upheavals of our so-called “progress.”

Action speaks for itself. Thought and reflection are no longer façade but presence. The audience provides resonance — not approval, but relation, exchange, friction. Through agreement and disagreement we map ourselves, anchor ourselves, resist the drift into meaninglessness.

These moments of sharing — with oneself, with others — create a living mass of memory that only finds meaning through words. Yet words divide and confine through their need to explain. Art, by contrast, expresses. Emotion cannot be explained without stripping away the forces that animate it.

This memory, these layers, form the substance of life — what surrounds us and nourishes us from within. Here is where I work as an archaeologist: excavating, searching, at ease in the depths. My practice brings memory back to the surface, refuses its erasure, and offers it its rightful place — not between past, present, and future, but as perpetual movement, becoming itself at every instant.

It is only a matter of time.