My work lives in the space where the feminine fractures and reforms. I paint inside the split — the Odette and the Odile, the saint and the monster, the obedient body and the body that finally bares its teeth. The macabre is my native language. It lets me speak the truths that polite culture buries: the violence beneath beauty, the rot beneath order, the centuries of silencing stitched into women’s skin.
I was raised in the theater of perfection — ballet studios, opera houses, the architecture of discipline — and I learned early how the body becomes a battleground. My paintings drag that battleground into the open. Classical forms are twisted until they confess. Archetypes are gutted. The feminine is no longer a symbol; she is a creature, a witness, a revenant refusing to disappear.
The anger in my work is not performative. It is marrow‑deep, inherited, and unrepentant. It is the scream that generations of women were denied. It is the shadow‑self stepping forward, unmasked, unpretty, unafraid. I paint the parts of womanhood that patriarchy fears: the monstrous, the grieving, the ecstatic, the uncontrollable.
Every canvas is a ritual of reclamation. A resurrection. A revolt. A refusal to return to the role society expected me to play.
My work is not meant to soothe. It is meant to haunt. It is meant to confront. It is meant to remember what the world insists we forget.