between what is said and what is felt

Honesty. Connection. Humor.
Sometimes simple, sometimes a whole adventure.

Sometimes I don't quite understand the world, sometimes I don't quite understand myself. Somewhere between honesty and openness, I try to discover what truly matters.

I'm social, and I mean well—but apparently I can come across as a bit too direct. Maybe more than I realize, and that can put people off. Yet, to me, honesty is the truest form of respect.

Being honest means saying what you think, doing what you say, being clear. I don't like beating around the bush or hiding intentions. And still, I notice not everyone reacts well to that.

I ask questions to understand, not to argue. But sometimes it's interpreted differently. It can seem like I'm debating, when in fact I'm simply searching for clarity. Those misunderstandings have made me doubt myself more than once. Being honest and open doesn't mean everyone has to agree with me — it means we truly try to understand each other.

What touches me deeply is when people don't speak what's really going on, because I quickly sense the undercurrents. Many prefer not to dig too deep, perhaps to avoid discomfort. But for me, avoiding the truth creates tension. I believe the opposite is true: honesty is what makes real connection possible.

My husband often jokes that I might live in the wrong country—after all, Belgians usually don't say what they think 🤪

I understand why people are cautious, but I still believe that authenticity is the most beautiful form of closeness. I am direct, but my honesty always comes from care. Perhaps that's why I can feel genuinely frustrated when others are pretentious, dishonest, or insincere.

It affects me so deeply because I want to understand. If words or intentions don't align, I feel it immediately—and sometimes I just can't make sense of it. True connection is rare, but I wouldn't trade this sensitivity for anything; it keeps me alert, engaged, and sharp.

What I long for is simple: to be myself without having to explain. To talk, to be silent, to laugh—without weighing every word. Someone once told me, "What someone else thinks is none of your business." 😅

In recent years, especially after my burnout, I've reflected a lot on life, on what really matters, and on who I am and who I want to be. Now, perhaps because I've turned 50 this year, I feel that this longing has only grown stronger.

How does this translate into my work?

In my work, I try to find that same balance — on every level: in the choice of materials, in composition, and in the story the work tells. Between honesty and openness, between what is visible and what remains felt.

Maybe I use humor to soften what rubs, to heal what feels disappointing. Because when I laugh, I can keep looking without hardening.
I love playing with contrasts:
bright next to black or white,
humor beside seriousness,
something playful alongside something sharp.

It's really the same tension I carry within myself — between what is said and what is felt.
My works don't just express what I say; they reveal who I am: open and straightforward, heart on my sleeve — direct and honest, yet warm, with a touch of self-irony.

A tongue sticking out, a gaze half hidden — for me, that's about daring to show, but also about gently protecting what's still without layers.

Maybe that's simply who I am: somewhere between honest and open, between what is said and what remains felt.