An empty canvas looks at me and I look at it for days and days. We smile. Then the lightening strikes and makes me scream. Canvas is still smiling because now it has got some new colours and I am burnt skin to skull, its foremost competitor.

I LIKE MY CANVAS.

My art is a preparation. It is not introspection of past but a fluid plasmic present, alive and happening. Given a chance, if someone asks me to reflect on humanity as I see it, I would hold my art in my hands and not a mirror.