There is a load to carry; stories that cannot be told without harming. As kid I was drawing what should not be said and then tearing the paper in small pieces so that no one would see. Drawing and its extensions was the path to concreting myself so that the burning coals would stay in, built in the solid me.
Life duties and their screwing routine are digging in with the persistence of a remorseless zombie, knowing of course that I am not able to work faster to secure the block in my guts.
Once I left my country, burying by choice habits and familiarity of every common aspect, I became a voluntary mute and a perpetual stranger; all to let the superficial image float around me and draw over it in big movements, as high as my arms could reach and wide as the borrowed space would allow. It had to, correcting: has to, become as accurate a superficies as possible; ten years for the brain to structure what good drawing means; some equal time for the eye to clean the colour even when working on oil surfaces. I don’t paint with oil since long but I do paint. And through waves of doubts mostly externally brought, I always come back to this: when you look at a painting you should not need an explanation text nor the name of the artist, even less a price. You have a surface and you have guts; use them.