Drawing is at the core of my practice. I draw with charcoal on canvas, paper, textiles, tiles and found objects. I chose charcoal for its versatility: I can work fast with it, erase, superpose, smudge or pour water over it, washing parts of the drawing away. Lines, textures and words accumulate and blend into each other. Sometimes they resemble landscapes, architectural forms or birds; sometimes none of these. I think of drawing as language.

My drawings expand beyond their surfaces and into space. They form walls and passages, sometimes blocking the way or leaving openings to look through. Images may only be visible from certain positions; objects placed directly on the floor make the viewer navigate the space carefully. I am interested in these moments of hesitation, when you have to look closely, negotiate your position and move with care.

I work with fabrics and metal structures. These materials connect to my family history - my father was a fabric maker in Cyprus and my grandfather a metal worker. Making has also become a way of working with my family: my grandmother sews elements for my installations, while my grandfather helps me fabricate metal structures.

I collect materials from the places where I work: charcoal from burned forests in Cyprus, renovation debris and second-hand household fabrics from markets in Palermo. I am drawn to things that have lived, passed through people’s houses and been discarded. A broken tile, an old embroidery, a photograph or a handwritten note can hold as much importance for me as a charcoal drawing. I work intuitively, moving these elements around, putting them in relation and in tension.

I come from Nicosia, a divided city. My work moves between larger histories and small personal stories, without trying to make them equivalent. I am interested in how spaces are inhabited, remembered and shared. I think about borders, houses and shelters, but also the people living within them. The dimensions of my childhood bedroom can become the dimensions of an installation; family photographs can reappear in the staircase of a building in Sofia, leading towards its bomb shelter.

I often depart from something concrete - a place, an image, a memory - and see how far I can move away from it through abstraction. For me, abstraction gives me the right not to be precise, not to represent. It gives me the right to doubt.