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.
To change in order to survive. To die for the purpose of starting again.
Like a thrush on the pavement, I am a tiny man waiting to change the course of my steps.
I am just a latecomer.
I am just a hopeful man.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
To be a writer who doesn’t exist.
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.
To stop being but a number, wiped out in a stampede that runs blindly, deliriously towards a false and unattainable objective.