My work begins with something small—a word, a sentence, a mark—and asks how little is needed for it to still carry weight.

Sometimes that means leaving a single word alone. Sometimes it means repeating it until it wears out. A word said once can hold its whole meaning; said fifty times, it stops sounding like language and becomes rhythm and shape. A line is a line. A thousand of them become weather, a field, a surface. Held long enough, a word stops being read and starts being watched.

I work with words in two ways. In the monochromes, the canvas holds one colour, specified rather than chosen, and nothing else. The words are in the title, and the title is the work.

In the text works, the words move onto the canvas: a single word or a short phrase, flat, at full size, with nothing else to look at.

In both, the language is the language of forms: procedural, written to be read once and filed, and offered without comment.

The two nearly contradict each other, and I keep both for that reason. In one, the words are withheld and a label does the speaking. In the other, the words are all there is.

Most of what we look at now is scrolled past. These works stay where they are and don't ask for anything. Minimalism, to me, isn't about having less to look at. It is about trusting one small unit enough to let it carry the whole piece once everything else is stripped away.