Combustion

I’ve always dreamed of painting with fire— lash the canvas with embers, watch the smoldering orange spread, chasing white into flame— before my chaos dies into silence. It feels natural, this need to see my art burn— they’re not complete, not before the charred ink is bathed in heat. I paint with alcohol then ignite— so my work is no longer just raven lines on pale paper; so I can burn with the words— and live as silence.