Wondering about life and its challenges, about those things that inevitably come to mind in the midst of inquiry and the quest for purpose; I found myself asking, why?
Why do I do what I do?
And because Art seems to have a bigger plan for me than what I am prepared to admit, I found myself asking:
This time though, not from the point of view of what logic and experience have taught me, but from that fragile place of secrecy, where your soul and heart whisper and you are afraid that others might listen…
My art is made of dreams
Is about finding the essence of things
Is about those lines, shapes, strokes and stains that bear the energy of creation,
The seed of becoming,
The muscle of life
My art dives in colors and layers looking for the authentic
Rescuing it from the veils of the constructed
And organizing it in a kaleidoscopic view of existence
My art is in love with movement and continuity
It travels space and time in its quest for the origin
And blends in the dream of transcendence
My art is not mine; at least not from the one in the mirror
Is the strange and magic exploration of my hands
With an unknown destiny
Is a refuge for my soul, or perhaps the way it speaks to me?
My art aspires to be a haven without blame for others and me to reside
A realization of our unique thread in the fabric of being alive
And how the Cosmos secretly stitches and weaves
Encounters and loses,
The farewell of the old
The fate of greatness we call hope
Sorry my dear reader, I got distracted again…
You were saying?
Why do you do what you do?
A magic question; no? Heaven can tell…