My work is a quest, both personal and visual. I try to discover and experience things as I go along. My process often starts with rubbish or interesting finds. I find these through friends or buy them online by bidding very low on things that seem valuable to me in my work.

These finds are often things that fascinate me, such as technical parts, engine parts, dirty things… anything really. Because I work with things that have no value (anymore), there is no pressure to make something ‘good’ or ‘beautiful’. I don’t have to protect or spare anything, and that makes the fear of starting, the ‘fear of the blank canvas’, a lot smaller.

A common thread in my work – which actually arose rather unconsciously – is that it is often not clean, comfortable or beautiful. And by ‘not clean’, I don’t mean dirty, but rather rough, unpleasant or repulsive. This is due to the materials I use and the way I work with them. So my work is often rough, dirty and uncomfortable. This raises the question: what does that say about what I make? And about who I am?

Furniture is expected to be beautiful and comfortable, but my work does not fully meet this expectation; it is neither beautiful nor comfortable. This conflict fascinates me. It is precisely this tension between expectation and experience, aesthetics and discomfort, that I like to play with.

With my work, I try to slow the viewer down. I want them to feel what it’s like not to immediately understand or use furniture or objects. Discomfort is part of life — and that’s okay to show.