My art is the story of searching myself. I almost know who I am and what my place in the world is, but it doesn’t bring me peace. Everything is in a constant state of flux: I myself change, as well as the people and everything surrounding that. The art of painting is my language, but not necessarily a means of communication. I paint myself and the world I live in, because it is much too complex to share with others. They can stare at my world, mostly in a voyeuristic way, often benevolent, and sometimes in an effort to try and understand it. But I keep my distance, I am far from done, I still have so many whirling twists to uncover. Painting is emptying the mind, while it is filled up again, faster and faster, with new evolving ideas and impressions. Too much inspiration is much worse than a shortage of it. Sometimes this process is suffocating, at other times it can explode into fantastic creations of form and color, resulting in many different styles. The painter in me is an exhibitionist, sometimes subtle, at other times challengingly brutal. I am looking for recognition, I want to be part of the immortality that the art of painting incarnates. That doesn’t mean however that I need to make any concessions, nor in style or technique, and certainly not concerning my choice of subjects. I tell about myself and my world, often with recurring symbols: faces as mirrors for emotions. I show all this to the people I live among, but I don’t know if they understand me, and that is alright, as long as they don’t expect me to understand them. The burden has been lifted, the artist in me has developed, I now have a filter to fence off the unimportant things, and I look at the world in my own way. But above all, there is the compulsory urge to create, for which everything must make way. My paintings were already showcased at many exhibitions in New York, Paris, Barcelona, Madrid, Brussels, Antwerp, and so on...