I make works that hold feelings.
Not big, loud feelings, but small, sometimes aching ones. The kind you get when you see a crushed bug on the road and it stay with you all day. Or when you find a dried frog by the lake and your heart hurts even though you didn’t know it.
I grew up by Lake Balaton, and I think a lot of my work still floats there – in the space between childhood summers, animal encounters, and that soft, sad ache of things that don’t last.
I make objects that feel like small shelters for these feelings. Wire skeletons, translucent plastics, found objects, fragile materials. Sometimes they look playful, like candy toys. Sometimes they feel like little shrines.
I don’t want to preserve things forever. I want to give them space. To hold them gently, like a soft hand holding a bird that might fly away any second. I work with materials that are emotionally coded for me. Neon colors feel like childhood bravery. Bent plexi feels like a twisted memory. Wire feels like a skeleton of something that was once alive. Even if something is ugly or broken, if I found it, it’s precious to me. Maybe my works are like that too – a bit awkward, a bit sticky, but full of care.
I guess my art is mostly about paying attention. About noticing the tiny things that most people step over. And giving them a place where they can till exist.