Works

Painting is a practice, a radical fact, or it is not.

To bathe the hands in the moist blues and separate the dry greens. The intense red longs for the yellow without limits.

I fabricate landscapes. I do not paint landscapes.
The southern tree on the cliff of fire that, as in Heine’s poem, longs for the northern oak covered in snow, draws us into the evocation of desire.

The red of the fish mixes with the vegetable greens and yellows over ultramarine blue and waters reflecting blind light.
The intermingled air builds the vast painting.
Scent of saltpetre.

Ungraspable infinite
Landscape
Waters between silvers
Lapis lazuli in desire
Among the leaves that are red writings of the tree.

The absolute work, unfathomable. To arrive and dwell in the sixth stage. Ungraspable painting. Hegel is the reference: he speaks of how the outer world must be forged in a manner conforming to the absolute, to reach a manifestation, a creation, that corresponds to it — that is, sensible, and to be penetrated by the absolute.
That is, to live our life in the essential.

Creation is not born from a desire for permanence. It is a shock that confronts us with the abyss.
So it is better to count on silence even when unwished. All else is less.

In the contemplation of nature we do not see that it is built with lines.
It is built with air.

I begin the nude drawings from the knees
or from the feet
or from the waist
or from the hands
or from the head — a line descending across forehead and nose and lips and the curve of the neck
Man or woman

In painting “To See” is “To Be”.
If not, I paint, I draw, I die.

It is the painter’s suicide: not finding the way to give scale — with extreme sensibility and intelligence — to his painting, its language and its structure.
What use, then, is his knowledge if he ends up a slave to himself?

I draw on the beach — bodies, boats and their sails, children playing with sand and ball, people sleeping or reading, the air caresses us, pure pleasure and delight; at low tide the beach is infinite. To paint, to draw, a thousand times, these beaches.

Can painting be reached through appreciation? Here L. Wittgenstein tells us that not only is it hard to describe what appreciation consists of — it is impossible.

We live in days when we may use the language of painting as we please. Dogmatisms are behind us. Now is Freedom, days of complete and total freedom — and curiously, no one demands of us or asks us to account. The history of painting is the walk through the works already made; it is our choice.

The obligation of a deduction will kill us. Painting lives in our sensible perception. Let us drink from our spring. Let us ask for the absolute — no less.

I draw in White Sands — white gypsums that lead to madness, suffocating heat and cold sands, dragged among winds without a north, immense spaces with signs of impossible delicacy, without water without living, quick black strokes on a paper turned into spaces between signs. Our perception changes reality; White Sands is cruelty and death clothed in unfathomable beauty. My drawings are now works whose references dwell in memory.

Beauty — and its loss? It is an act of cruelty. “Nature is beautiful when it at the same time possesses the appearance of art, and art cannot be called beautiful unless we are aware that it is art.” Kant leads us along sensible paths. Does beauty exist in science? That is, creation that exists with its languages, and beauty at its limit, are the only things that let the shock of existence surface.

We painters bathe ourselves with colours at the spring.
Our lines, non-existent in nature, evoke — by discovering — what has been lived.

Painting in its existence. Pure enigma.
A painting is its miracle. Pure visibility.

At what moment do paintings choose us?
even without distinguishing the names of the colours
does it matter?

Painting. According to Cioran, “wisdom is baneful to genius, fatal to talent”. Radicality. To see is an activity. Even when it is only meant for pleasure.

Cioran: “What I know destroys what I want.”
And as a painter I say: “might it not be that what I know destroys what I see?”

Nudes and more nudes, men, women.
In the Shunga, savage and hard.
Beautiful and free bodies live in their pleasure.