It all started with that purple monster. I was five years old, drawing something vague on paper, like kids do. But then something happened — I noticed not a single crayon stroke had gone outside the lines. That rush of progress hit me so hard that ever since, I’ve been chasing that same feeling in every single piece I make.

I make art because I don’t really know how not to. I don’t think about styles or boundaries — AI, pigments, trash, light, algorithms, plastic — it’s all fair game if it makes the image speak a little louder. I don’t believe in picking sides. AI doesn’t threaten me or my paintbrushes. They both belong to this time, and they both belong in my toolbox.

I grew up in the concrete heart of Tikkurila, now I live in Turku where street culture and art breathe in the same rhythm. I work with dirty hands, on recycled materials, in mixed media — but I keep a computer next to me if I want to test an idea in five seconds flat.

Lately, I’ve been deep into exploring how to build depth in an image beyond the traditional. Light and shadow are old friends, but now I’m more fascinated by distortions, perception glitches, and depth itself. Chromatic aberration is my way of showing how technology skews our perception of nature — and how even that distortion can be beautiful.

All I’m really doing is chasing that same rush from when I was five — finding that one stroke that feels like the world just clicked into place.