A free day
<p style="text-align: left;"><img class=" wp-image-245 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/Det_Blue-Grey-EE.jpg" alt="" width="118" height="118" /><span class="s1">I do not deny and I do not confirm. I simply exist. Like a mosquito. Like a flower. Like a stone. I write. I paint. I achieve. But I do not wish to relapse into myself. I would like to disappear within others. It is them, so often, that allow me to be.</span></p>
In passing
<p><img class="size-full wp-image-246 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/DetalleRetrato-Ee.jpg" alt="" width="100" height="100" /><span class="s1">To change in order to survive. To die for the purpose of starting again.</span></p>
<p><span class="s1">Like a thrush on the pavement, I am a tiny man waiting to change the course of my steps.</span></p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">I am just a latecomer.</span></p>
<p class="p2"><span class="s2">I am just a hopeful man.</span></p>
Authors note
<p><img class="size-full wp-image-247 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/DetNZ-Isla-Norte-EE.jpg" alt="" width="100" height="100" /><span class="s1">The wise man is unattainable, he is not vulnerable. He maintains his core balance. Those of us not reaching that state keep searching for ourselves in words, whether they are our own or others. When we reach this discovery, something similar to happiness reaches us.</span></p>
On the color black
<p><img class="size-full wp-image-249 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/sobreelnegro.jpg" alt="" width="100" height="100" /><span class="s1">Art can pierce the darkest and deepest black colours of the earth, or weightlessly ascend to the radiant and blinding plenitude of white. But it shall always carry the dark shadow of an invisible death, not related connection to the cadaverous. A death that blossoms and creates successive realities.</span></p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">The first stroke marks great progress when I paint on dark colour. Brush strokes seem to spring from a dark hole, similar to the origins of the universe. Even the darkest shadow has a degree of light. And the transit towards clarity is a voyage towards hope.</span></p>
To write, to pain
<p><img class="size-full wp-image-294 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/escribirpintar-1.jpg" alt="" width="184" height="144" /><span class="s1">I could say that I paint just not to waste what I have been given. I could say that I write to transform loss into glory.</span></p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">But there is a stronger reason. What saves me. It is the moment when painting is not longer a means to make a living, an intense work of stained hands and greasy oils, but it becomes a game of ecstasy, from where life springs without understanding how or why.</span></p>
So close
<p><img class="size-full wp-image-297 alignleft" src="http://pedro-de-oriol.pedrooriol.es/wp-content/uploads/2017/11/tancerca-1.jpg" alt="" width="100" height="100" /><span class="s2">To paint for nothing in return, to paint hoping to express what I later see captured. To be a painter who gets paid for his paintings, but not to be for sale.</span></p>
<p class="p2"><span class="s2">To be a writer who doesn’t exist.</span></p>
<p class="p2"><span class="s2">To take a step back to see and feel that everything is close, that we can touch, that the only thing that exists is the moment.</span></p>
<p class="p2"><span class="s2">To stop being but a number, wiped out in a stampede that runs blindly, deliriously towards a false and unattainable objective.</span></p>