There are traces of
the passing of time, which spoils everything: men, flesh and objects.
There are open wounds, scars barely healed.
There are big bodies filled with emptiness and vain selfies
There is blood, sex, sperm and hair ...
There are holes in our memory in which to fall.
There are contained rages, shattering silences ....
There is a ballot to vote,
There is a desire for revolution ...
There is a silent cry
There are nightmares and broken dreams
There are our fears and our beliefs that came from them, or vice versa
There are those whom I do not know and the fear of emptiness ...
There is the fear of the end of things, of Sunday evenings
There is back stabbing, lending hands
Sometimes there is a shoulder to lean on
There are the feeble and the powerful
There is a world balancing on a tightrope…
There is all of this in my painting, at least I think, and all that I
do not know ...