Painting is somehow like unloading a van full of antique furniture. You’ve got to get it out, it’s got to move, even if it’s fragile and something may break.

I think it’s like hunting with a bow and arrow in a flat: the space and the means don't fit your will, your desire.

The magic of this adventure seems to be in being able to withstand and transcend the constraints and come out with gifts and, maybe, give the sensation that the image impose itself and says many things at once: not a story but a subtle inner melody that flies between two moments.

Can one paint far from theory close to the skin, like a cave man viscerally seizing everything around: a rabbit, an oyster or a stick?

I don’t worry about theory and analysis, the painting will, or should, speak and if it does we may find ourselves facing an image that stirs us within.