Holes have been appearing in my hands for a long time — more than ten years. At first, they were simply a natural form that kept showing up in my work, never raising any questions. Over time, however, I realized I wanted to understand why this motif keeps returning, why it follows me so consistently through my practice.

I eventually saw that the hole matters to me as a principle — a way of highlighting the boundary between inside and outside, between what feels full and what appears empty. A hole becomes a meeting point: between body and object, material and idea, the known and the uncertain. I even ended up writing my entire master’s thesis about it. Jewelry also is always connected to the hole. An earring is worn through a piercing; a ring, a hole in itself, slides onto the finger; a bracelet creates an opening around the wrist. An object becomes wearable only through some kind of entry or open space.

A large part of my practice is tied to not knowing — to what reveals itself only through the process, without a single clear explanation. My work is slow and steady, and the holes I create today are just one possible version of them. I can feel them gradually shifting, deforming, turning into new forms and new meanings. I follow this transformation with patience, curious to see where it will lead and what shapes they will take next.