I am interested in how forms emerge, persist, change and disappear when nothing exists independently of its conditions.

I increasingly understand sculpture not as a self-contained object, but as a temporary state. A form appears when material, biological, social, spatial and temporal conditions come together. As these conditions change, so does the form.

No material begins with my work. What I encounter as wood, stone, pigment, metal or earth has already existed in other forms and has been brought into its present state through time, labour, energy, living beings, places and interventions. A board was once a tree. Porcelain was rock. A metal plate was ore, energy, labour and transport. I am therefore interested not only in what a material can become, but also in what had to happen for it to reach me in its present state – and what further states remain open to it after my work.

A work therefore does not begin with my idea, nor does it end with its completion. It has a before and an after.

This attitude has developed over many years through my work with materials and natural processes. In autolyse – coprinus comatus, the fruiting body of a mushroom dissolved through autolysis. From this liquid I produced an ink with which I drew the mushroom again. The dissolution of one form thus became the condition for another. In transmutaziun, I placed raw petuntse alongside the porcelain produced from this rock. The heavy stone and the thin, translucent porcelain initially appear as opposites, yet they are states within the same material history.

Today, my attention increasingly turns to what lies between such states: labour, energy, knowledge, time, transport, technical processes, relationships and institutional structures. Whenever possible, I therefore begin with what is already there. I compose not only with things, but with conditions, functions, processes, relationships, places and systems.

I examine what actually needs to be added. What intervention is necessary? What can remain as it is? What can be omitted? Can an existing function be used or shifted? Where no intervention is necessary, the work may also consist in refraining from action or allowing something to happen.

This restraint is neither an aesthetic nor a doctrine of purity. Every work alters conditions and has consequences. Sawing, burning, drilling, grinding, melting, transporting or connecting intervene in existing states. Irreversible processes may also be necessary. What matters to me is not avoiding every change, but considering its conditions and consequences, and not simply displacing effort, costs or harm elsewhere and rendering them invisible.

For me, the responsibility of artistic practice therefore extends not only to the form produced, but equally to the conditions of its appearance, duration, transformation and disappearance.

A new form is not justified simply by being new. I ask whether, under its specific conditions, it is more necessary, precise or stronger than the state it alters.

What connects my works should not be a recognisable formal language. I am more interested in whether a particular form emerges from its specific conditions, and whether something of those conditions can become perceptible through it.

An analogy for this is the rainbow. It is not an autonomous form. It appears when light, water, space and viewpoint come together in a particular constellation. As these conditions change, it changes or disappears. The position of the viewer is itself part of its appearance.

In this sense, I am interested in an art that functions more like a rainbow than a monument: not as an aesthetic model, but as an understanding of form. A work appears through conditions, persists for a time, and may change or disappear as those conditions change.

My practice does not seek to illustrate such conditions, but to work with them – so that a form can emerge that would not be the same without its specific conditions.