Chora

Chora — a word taken from ancient Greek philosophy, names the space before structure. It is not form, not meaning, not even intention. It is where things begin — violently, instinctively, without needing to justify themselves. It is the ground zero of becoming. What emerges from it is not calm, not balanced — it is feral, shifting, raw.

This painting is not an answer. It is a scream not yet shaped into words. A collision of feeling without filter, where color is not decorative, but reactive. Lime greens tear through deep violets. Oranges erupt without warning. Curves twist and press and recoil like nerves under pressure. Nothing here is symbolic — it’s somatic. This is the gesture before metaphor, the breath before control.

You don’t “understand” Chora. You are either willing to stand in its instability, or not. This is emotional architecture at the point of fracture — and that fracture is not the problem. It’s the method.

There is no center, no resting point, no resolution. The composition turns in on itself and keeps turning, as if movement were a form of survival. It is not harmonious, but it is alive — pulsing, coiling, resisting.

Chora is not a safe space. It is a state of contionous transmutations between the rawest emotions. It does not comfort. It transforms. It doesn’t whisper — it demands. It holds the fury of growth, the violence of inner expansion, the grief of breaking into a larger version of the self.

And in this turbulence, something precise occurs: presence. Not as a soft arrival, but as a confrontation. Chora doesn’t need to be decoded — it already knows more than it says. And it says everything at once.