Before I ever struck a canvas, my body already knew the movement. For a few years, I practised boxing fitness, and I also practise kickboxing. I knew the shift in balance before a kick, the turn of the body, the moment of contact. But I had never imagined what those movements might look like if they could leave something visible behind. With COLLISION III, I wanted to find out.

The first two chapters had begun with kicks. This time, I immersed my boxing gloves in paint too. Bringing them to the canvas changed the rhythm: the contact, the pressure and the way the color spread. I was working with familiar movements, yet every time I pulled away, I had to stop and discover what I had done. That brief moment became part of the painting: strike, step back, look.

Sometimes the paint gathered into a dense impression. Elsewhere, it burst outward into fine threads and splashes. A movement lasting barely a second could leave a trace that reached much farther than the point I had touched. I could choose where to strike and how much force to use. What I could not fully choose was how the colors would meet. Each impact changed the surface for the next one. I had to respond to what was already there, even when it took me somewhere unexpected.

As the work developed, some of those marks began to suggest flowers to me. Broad shapes surrounded by white, delicate edges opening out of force. I found myself looking closely at something I had created through a movement too quick to follow. I wanted to keep those surprises: the uneven edges, the isolated drops, the places where one color broke through another. They held the particular character of that encounter between my body and the canvas.

Against the black, the color seems suspended. The longer trails draw the eye downward, carrying the movement beyond the impact. Even after everything has stopped, there is still a direction to follow. COLLISION III brings together years of physical experience and the uncertainty I seek in painting. Training taught me to know a movement. Creating this work asked me to stay open to what that movement might become.

I remember the strikes. You may see the beginnings of a garden. That distance between what I did and what you discover is where the work continues to unfold.