There is an Emptiness…
A blank canvas arousing movement like the tickling of hot mustard going up in my nose.
The first stroke of paint calls for another one.
It is not me who paints; it is my hands, which are my feet,
And I go, as crossing an ocean to a shore.
My eyes are the rudder wandering to the Unknown.
So then the quiet sea, or the winds and storm come.
Each canvas is a different travel, searching life and finding death
And finding life.
Painting is the blood flowing in my veins, the inexplicable, the gift which pours down on me.
My instinct waking up.
It is laughter and tears.