zipolite,, Oaxaca
December 29 2007
Different door. Different way. Today I feel fragile, immaculate; I need silence, secret romance, an easy ride to a calm place, and an oasis far from the human race, noiseless. I feel I want to do something relevant, profound, intimate but universal, in harmony. I feel like vanishing into the sacred waters.
-I want to dive into the volcano of your eyes and never come back.
I tell her: -In another lifetime, you we re the ocean and I was a desert island
I was the wind and you we’re a bird. I was the sun and you we’re the moon, meeting at the eclipse. For seven seconds.
In another lifetime, you we’re the perfume and I was the nose. In another lifetime, we we’re just one: the pyramid and the skeleton, the flower and the fruit, the caterpillar and the butterfly.
I was the stars, you we’re the constellations. I was the tides, you we’re the sea.
And I tell her: Tacubaya, making love to you is killing fear, killing time, killing futility, killing destiny. Assassinating all promises of death. Making love to you is writing new prophecies, writing a new alphabet. Making love to you gives sense to the universe. Making love to you is like digging a hole into the sky, it is tracing a line on the sand into the desert. It is tracing with my fingers in the sky new constellations.
(I am holding this book like I am holding you) I am holding an invisible torch, I am holding an invisible earth,
I am becoming invisible, vanishing slowly behind my art, for one day, disappear totally.
December 30-2007
Zipolite( dead zone)
Solitude. The mother ocean always brings inner peace to me. She makes me centered and silent: almost distant from humanity, from all humans. I am becoming an animal. I discover again the radiant dance of my thoughts. My spirit is set free., the superposition of layers leading to emotional abstraction, when all words disappear and only images come to my mind. Images in choreography, images with circular velocity. The anatomy of the invisible.
They say: which image time magazine is going to choose for the new year?
I turn my head: witch image is going to choose me today, witch secret will be revealed: swimming into a mysterious lake of desires, among my swans.
I turn my head, tacubaya flying with the eagles or revelation
I turn my head: I see tacubaya as a tree reaching the sky with her leaves.
I turn my head so many times that I see tacubaya becoming the universal cycle. I spin in spiral, I dance alone and I dive again into my painting, and I do not see no more.
Painting on the sand just a few meters away for the ocean is one of the greatest trance that I know: a pure liberating act, a total fusion with planet earth, a deep journey into freedom and into the secret language of nature.
Muse universelle
31 december 2007
behind your electrical chair, locked into your elevators
you are climbing but falling.
A new era is coming, violent winds will bring the new level of consciousness.
The times of the fastest swans.
January one, 2008
Invisible mirror: Altered states, loosing control, in excess. Nympho from mexico city, I stare at the empty sky.
I completed just after sunset a testament-painting called –pure harmony and the sacred flight of the pelicans-.the ultimate painting of a very strange year, a slow apocalypses blended with pure trance, long manifestation: a year composed with the extremes. After, I went to dance into mother ocean, listening loud music( divine moment of truth by shpongle) I wrote a thousand messages into bottles and abandoned them to mother ocean. I stared at the thin line between the sky and the ocean, for seven minutes, I opened the line, and a ray of light appeared, and I dived. I emptied before the passage to the new year. Later, a mysterious fisherman sits with me, with long dirty hands, bright blue eyes, hurricane in his soul, a rusted sail ship tattooed on his heart, and he gives me magic mushroom, whispering to me:
-eat those, you will really see your painting.
And he vanished, chasing diamond sharks. And I saw my painting, I really saw it, without any boundaries: I saw the door opening, the gate to the other side. I saw the legs of a woman opening, with light, gold dust, danae recreated.
Alone with my speakers, later, I took two black pills, painted with a stick on the sand, I invoked tacubaya, I called her with my phone; I made her listening to the waves, to the distance between two breathes.
Dance floor, trance. So many skin I painted, a giant tribe created, dark fluid lines on bronze skin, fast , decadent, sexual, free. Sex in the sea. Dark, wide ,tall, her laments of joy resonate in my fingers: tears fall from my eyes: I am blind, I am blind, for a few minutes, outside myself. Tears made of blood and milk.
A night with tacubaya. Compassion and love
I call many times; her voice is like silk. Dripping wax, dangerous and poetic, erotic.
I draw a cobra on her shoulder, and I licked it. So fragile
Secret tongue:
Tacubaya: the door of the spirit
-a new name for you, evoking the mystery , invoking sensual eroticism, ancient voice, winds from an imaginary country.
January 2,Puerto Escondido,mexico
I travel into emptiness in between two visions. I let my eyes travel into the dance of the palms of the palm trees.
It takes dedication, a constant vision, not only moments of illumination followed by long silences. It is a constant chase, a constant rebellion against comfort and patterns, a constant fight against normality and the forces of destiny. We have to push further, deeper, in new directions, resist the temptation of satisfaction. The road is the only destination.
January 2, 2008
To travel everyday into the altered states was transforming everyday into an unpredictable rollercoaster, a chaotic freedom run, a blind explosion. It was a constant chase for beauty, for extremes, for the extraordinary and the asymmetric, the new. I never really knew what was really going on around. It was like driving a car blinded, full speed, it was running naked in the rain with no destination, screaming to make appear the rainbows. The altered state was also a way to reach higher levels of trance really fast, to disconnect and paint, to become for a few moments bigger than myself, to channel divine energies, to blend with the cosmos, to stop my inner dialogue: I was following with grace and abstraction the traces of Basquiat, or Modigliani: where it was becoming impossible to create in a sober state; I needed to dive to spread my wings: the decadent path to find the unique. The line is thin between reaching the higher levels or falling forever. Buddhist monk or lost soul.
But there was a sacred force inside me, teaching me to surf on this line, between light and darkness, between passion and excess, between life and death. And a force to bring me to the other side: where making art is a shamanic exchange with the universe, a journey into love and purity.
A voice is telling me:
- you want to learn the secret of the universe but there is no teacher around; no master , no guides: so let’s seek for our way , let’s provoke our own initiation through rebellion and inner revolution: let’s push the limits, let’s create our own alphabet, our own constellations, create a new iconography.
I had to stop painting for a few days, just to see the world around. Sometimes I become so obsess with my paintings, that nothing really exists, I even forget myself.
I flew a kite: I emptied myself, I walked alone, without leaving traces on the sand.
I asked some formulas to the ancestors. Geometrical sacred poetry.
January 3, 2008, zipolite:
Another sunrise, immaculate. A feather-snake, calling me to another land: the call of ancient spirits.
And the constant vision of my destiny: I have a bigger mission of awakening. I have to provoke myself. They call me to the volcano.
Cuidad of Oaxaca:
Peace on a rooftop: I see many churches, still hunting for a truth. I see so many reasons to never come back, to always go south, in a constant journey.
I feel closer to earth, surrounded by higher mountains. I paint with bare soul.
THE CATALOGUE OF SKELETONS, SPIRITS AND LOVERS
The art road trip is a concrete manifesto, an existential manifestation, a joyful experience to prove that art haves a deep mission of uplifting the human existence.
Art is a way of life: a tool of wisdom, a liberating weapon. Art is how you transform reality at every moment into a magic ceremony.
Art is how you transform reality into beauty. Art is timeless. Art is an archetype: a universal pattern.
Art knows no enemy but normality, no limits but our won fears.
Art is helium. Art is making love to the universe.
Art is the weapon against death’s velocity. Art is the filter. Art is the channel. Art is reaching the higher self. Art is the road and not the destination. Art is a trip. Art road trip.
****
ART IS MAKING LOVE. MAKING LOVE IS ART.
Yesterday, I unfolded big paper on the ground at the zocalo, in front of the beautiful cathedral, and I did black ink drawings, with spiral sensual lines, really fluid, at sunset, attracting a big circle of curious Mexicans: children and families. It was a beautiful moment. I displayed all the drawings on the floor, creating a mandala around me, and when they we’re dry, I offered them, to those who smiled, children and old women, families with dreams, young rebels and lovers, immaculate sisters,
I painted for lovers and seekers: scenes of romance.
One hundred papers disappeared in to the hands of happy Mexicans: with large smiles and hands open. Soul open, no distance between us: they followed with their eyes my brush like if it was a snake of light.
And it made us very happy : like magicians of the modern times, who are offering their formulas for free into the streets, to create spontaneous magic, to connect all humans to open doors, to give keys, to complete the circle.
Art is generous. Art is free and abundant. Art is returning to the tribes. Art is a ritual. Art is provoking. Art is charming. Art is changing. Art is releasing.
Art is a fire to bring us higher to bring us together. Art is a bridge between life and other dream states. Art is impossible to control. Art is energy. Art is the antidote. Art is the magic formula. Art is a distance reducer.
Art does not try to reproduce nature, art is nature.
Cuidad de Oaxaca,
I surround myself with the new sun: a circle of light around me. I listen to miles davis: erotic trumpet. I listen again: men carving marble, men whispering prayers, men seeking for redemption. I am ready for movement, for the snake of concrete to take us, on uncertain fields of discovery. A road trip makes you addictive to movement. Ahead, there is always a mystery, a new philosophy, a blind lover, a tree touching the sky.
MEXICO CITY:
TACUBAYA EN ALAMEDA
This morning, I went to walk, in alameda park, close to bellas artes, before the humans overtake the trees, just before silence fades away, in true sunrise hallucination. I am still in the vapors of the dream, my skin is vibrating, gold and white.
I sit around the fountain of the birth of venus, my favorite piece of art created by the hands of a human. I make a few drawings of the fountain from a few different angles, totally absorbed, abandoned, offered, naked, charmed. Birds, revolving spirits, I am revolving too, like a carousel of wind, like a solar system, like the alchemic wheel. And a vision is coming:
Coyoacan, mexico city
I sit alone in a soulless bar, nameless, and I draw Aztec gods, warriors: I travel into the iconography of the ancestors. I am a wanderer. We are hunting for futile pleasures: our destiny is bigger. Square. We shall live in a circle. I am drinking a magic potion. I feel lonely: alone with the spirits that I am painting. Alone with my rage to transform. Alone with so many dreams, so many visions, alone outside the modern world. Something is running away, a reclining volcano. I just cannot exist with my hands empty. I constantly need a brush in my hands, a pencil in between my fingers, so the channel is not interrupted. I ask myself sometimes if I really exist outside my brushstrokes. Is my road is just made of colors? Can I escape my art?
Can a monk ride a human body for a few moments? I dived so deep that coming back to the surface seems impossible anymore. I fly too high. Shall I vanish into the golden rule? At the center of the seashell?
The cycle is repeating itself ; from purity to decadence, and back again. The vice is becoming a virtue. The precious opposites of the same wheel. I surround myself with fire: 12 candles, I pray invisible gods, imaginary creatures from my paintings. I stare at the flames, fascinated.
plaza revolucion:
Unknown lady unknown hotel unknown time unknown civilization, abstract desire, inner light, long long white bed, for many hours in whispers. High and blind , fast , like this city. Eyes open, to build a new painting in air, to capture the distance, the emptiness between two shapes, new positions.
Plaza garibaldi:
We arrive like soldiers, with our weapons, proud and loud. We unfold on the floor the canvas, toward the end of the plaza. There is hundred of drunk people, skeletons, electricity dealers and mariachis, white or black, immaculate Indians, boys sniffing glue, girls with large smiles, large desires, games, small thunders, criminals with no hands, corrupted policemen with women, the ghost of Zapata,
Beautiful white mariachis sing around me la llorona while I paint with black ink two skeletons making love around a hundred spectators. I paint fast, violently, the images appear, like dead resurrecting in a hurry, coming to the surface to celebrate the night. After, boys and girls are offering me their skin to paint; hands, neck, arms, faces , belly. I transform them into joyful warriors, they scream. Everything is surrealist, blurry, so many sounds at the same time, 12 different musics , more skeletons, another crying lady. French kiss, another reason to live or die, older women seeking for flesh, far from the valley, I am a warrior with brushes as weapons, tools of transformation, tools of wisdom: hands dirty and spirit free, night mutation, they rise, they shine, they dance around me, all painted, free, for a few seconds. Seven seconds is all they really have.
I transform everything I touch, everywhere we go:
The universe is not afraid to be transform, and we are not scared to be changed.
We are destiny filters, ceremony providers, anatomy travelers.
****
Painting is a tragedy.
Every painting is a deep and uncertain journey: a dive into the unknown. Every painting is a risk: you can loose something forever, abandon a part of yourself . And every painting is an emotional volcano: so many emotions emerge; the transmission from the soul to the canvas.
Tacubaya: I need to climb the pyramid, naked, to seek for the summit, for this point, limitless, dangerous, away, above, where we can see all, all inside. I need to scream to reach silence: to paint your portrait, to draw you with my tongue, paint you with my fingers.
OUR DESTINY IS BIGGER THAN THE SUM OF ALL OUR DESIRES.
Our destiny is bigger than the sum of all our movements. We have to be very strong, clear, fast, to write our own personal legend, and protect ourselves not to vanish into futile desires. The boundary is uncertain; our happiness can be fuel, but also, it can make us fall asleep. We have to resist. Build, fight like a freedom warrior, be awake, rise above.
December 29 2007
Different door. Different way. Today I feel fragile, immaculate; I need silence, secret romance, an easy ride to a calm place, and an oasis far from the human race, noiseless. I feel I want to do something relevant, profound, intimate but universal, in harmony. I feel like vanishing into the sacred waters.
-I want to dive into the volcano of your eyes and never come back.
I tell her: -In another lifetime, you we re the ocean and I was a desert island
I was the wind and you we’re a bird. I was the sun and you we’re the moon, meeting at the eclipse. For seven seconds.
In another lifetime, you we’re the perfume and I was the nose. In another lifetime, we we’re just one: the pyramid and the skeleton, the flower and the fruit, the caterpillar and the butterfly.
I was the stars, you we’re the constellations. I was the tides, you we’re the sea.
And I tell her: Tacubaya, making love to you is killing fear, killing time, killing futility, killing destiny. Assassinating all promises of death. Making love to you is writing new prophecies, writing a new alphabet. Making love to you gives sense to the universe. Making love to you is like digging a hole into the sky, it is tracing a line on the sand into the desert. It is tracing with my fingers in the sky new constellations.
(I am holding this book like I am holding you) I am holding an invisible torch, I am holding an invisible earth,
I am becoming invisible, vanishing slowly behind my art, for one day, disappear totally.
December 30-2007
Zipolite( dead zone)
Solitude. The mother ocean always brings inner peace to me. She makes me centered and silent: almost distant from humanity, from all humans. I am becoming an animal. I discover again the radiant dance of my thoughts. My spirit is set free., the superposition of layers leading to emotional abstraction, when all words disappear and only images come to my mind. Images in choreography, images with circular velocity. The anatomy of the invisible.
They say: which image time magazine is going to choose for the new year?
I turn my head: witch image is going to choose me today, witch secret will be revealed: swimming into a mysterious lake of desires, among my swans.
I turn my head, tacubaya flying with the eagles or revelation
I turn my head: I see tacubaya as a tree reaching the sky with her leaves.
I turn my head so many times that I see tacubaya becoming the universal cycle. I spin in spiral, I dance alone and I dive again into my painting, and I do not see no more.
Painting on the sand just a few meters away for the ocean is one of the greatest trance that I know: a pure liberating act, a total fusion with planet earth, a deep journey into freedom and into the secret language of nature.
Muse universelle
31 december 2007
behind your electrical chair, locked into your elevators
you are climbing but falling.
A new era is coming, violent winds will bring the new level of consciousness.
The times of the fastest swans.
January one, 2008
Invisible mirror: Altered states, loosing control, in excess. Nympho from mexico city, I stare at the empty sky.
I completed just after sunset a testament-painting called –pure harmony and the sacred flight of the pelicans-.the ultimate painting of a very strange year, a slow apocalypses blended with pure trance, long manifestation: a year composed with the extremes. After, I went to dance into mother ocean, listening loud music( divine moment of truth by shpongle) I wrote a thousand messages into bottles and abandoned them to mother ocean. I stared at the thin line between the sky and the ocean, for seven minutes, I opened the line, and a ray of light appeared, and I dived. I emptied before the passage to the new year. Later, a mysterious fisherman sits with me, with long dirty hands, bright blue eyes, hurricane in his soul, a rusted sail ship tattooed on his heart, and he gives me magic mushroom, whispering to me:
-eat those, you will really see your painting.
And he vanished, chasing diamond sharks. And I saw my painting, I really saw it, without any boundaries: I saw the door opening, the gate to the other side. I saw the legs of a woman opening, with light, gold dust, danae recreated.
Alone with my speakers, later, I took two black pills, painted with a stick on the sand, I invoked tacubaya, I called her with my phone; I made her listening to the waves, to the distance between two breathes.
Dance floor, trance. So many skin I painted, a giant tribe created, dark fluid lines on bronze skin, fast , decadent, sexual, free. Sex in the sea. Dark, wide ,tall, her laments of joy resonate in my fingers: tears fall from my eyes: I am blind, I am blind, for a few minutes, outside myself. Tears made of blood and milk.
A night with tacubaya. Compassion and love
I call many times; her voice is like silk. Dripping wax, dangerous and poetic, erotic.
I draw a cobra on her shoulder, and I licked it. So fragile
Secret tongue:
Tacubaya: the door of the spirit
-a new name for you, evoking the mystery , invoking sensual eroticism, ancient voice, winds from an imaginary country.
January 2,Puerto Escondido,mexico
I travel into emptiness in between two visions. I let my eyes travel into the dance of the palms of the palm trees.
It takes dedication, a constant vision, not only moments of illumination followed by long silences. It is a constant chase, a constant rebellion against comfort and patterns, a constant fight against normality and the forces of destiny. We have to push further, deeper, in new directions, resist the temptation of satisfaction. The road is the only destination.
January 2, 2008
To travel everyday into the altered states was transforming everyday into an unpredictable rollercoaster, a chaotic freedom run, a blind explosion. It was a constant chase for beauty, for extremes, for the extraordinary and the asymmetric, the new. I never really knew what was really going on around. It was like driving a car blinded, full speed, it was running naked in the rain with no destination, screaming to make appear the rainbows. The altered state was also a way to reach higher levels of trance really fast, to disconnect and paint, to become for a few moments bigger than myself, to channel divine energies, to blend with the cosmos, to stop my inner dialogue: I was following with grace and abstraction the traces of Basquiat, or Modigliani: where it was becoming impossible to create in a sober state; I needed to dive to spread my wings: the decadent path to find the unique. The line is thin between reaching the higher levels or falling forever. Buddhist monk or lost soul.
But there was a sacred force inside me, teaching me to surf on this line, between light and darkness, between passion and excess, between life and death. And a force to bring me to the other side: where making art is a shamanic exchange with the universe, a journey into love and purity.
A voice is telling me:
- you want to learn the secret of the universe but there is no teacher around; no master , no guides: so let’s seek for our way , let’s provoke our own initiation through rebellion and inner revolution: let’s push the limits, let’s create our own alphabet, our own constellations, create a new iconography.
I had to stop painting for a few days, just to see the world around. Sometimes I become so obsess with my paintings, that nothing really exists, I even forget myself.
I flew a kite: I emptied myself, I walked alone, without leaving traces on the sand.
I asked some formulas to the ancestors. Geometrical sacred poetry.
January 3, 2008, zipolite:
Another sunrise, immaculate. A feather-snake, calling me to another land: the call of ancient spirits.
And the constant vision of my destiny: I have a bigger mission of awakening. I have to provoke myself. They call me to the volcano.
Cuidad of Oaxaca:
Peace on a rooftop: I see many churches, still hunting for a truth. I see so many reasons to never come back, to always go south, in a constant journey.
I feel closer to earth, surrounded by higher mountains. I paint with bare soul.
THE CATALOGUE OF SKELETONS, SPIRITS AND LOVERS
The art road trip is a concrete manifesto, an existential manifestation, a joyful experience to prove that art haves a deep mission of uplifting the human existence.
Art is a way of life: a tool of wisdom, a liberating weapon. Art is how you transform reality at every moment into a magic ceremony.
Art is how you transform reality into beauty. Art is timeless. Art is an archetype: a universal pattern.
Art knows no enemy but normality, no limits but our won fears.
Art is helium. Art is making love to the universe.
Art is the weapon against death’s velocity. Art is the filter. Art is the channel. Art is reaching the higher self. Art is the road and not the destination. Art is a trip. Art road trip.
****
ART IS MAKING LOVE. MAKING LOVE IS ART.
Yesterday, I unfolded big paper on the ground at the zocalo, in front of the beautiful cathedral, and I did black ink drawings, with spiral sensual lines, really fluid, at sunset, attracting a big circle of curious Mexicans: children and families. It was a beautiful moment. I displayed all the drawings on the floor, creating a mandala around me, and when they we’re dry, I offered them, to those who smiled, children and old women, families with dreams, young rebels and lovers, immaculate sisters,
I painted for lovers and seekers: scenes of romance.
One hundred papers disappeared in to the hands of happy Mexicans: with large smiles and hands open. Soul open, no distance between us: they followed with their eyes my brush like if it was a snake of light.
And it made us very happy : like magicians of the modern times, who are offering their formulas for free into the streets, to create spontaneous magic, to connect all humans to open doors, to give keys, to complete the circle.
Art is generous. Art is free and abundant. Art is returning to the tribes. Art is a ritual. Art is provoking. Art is charming. Art is changing. Art is releasing.
Art is a fire to bring us higher to bring us together. Art is a bridge between life and other dream states. Art is impossible to control. Art is energy. Art is the antidote. Art is the magic formula. Art is a distance reducer.
Art does not try to reproduce nature, art is nature.
Cuidad de Oaxaca,
I surround myself with the new sun: a circle of light around me. I listen to miles davis: erotic trumpet. I listen again: men carving marble, men whispering prayers, men seeking for redemption. I am ready for movement, for the snake of concrete to take us, on uncertain fields of discovery. A road trip makes you addictive to movement. Ahead, there is always a mystery, a new philosophy, a blind lover, a tree touching the sky.
MEXICO CITY:
TACUBAYA EN ALAMEDA
This morning, I went to walk, in alameda park, close to bellas artes, before the humans overtake the trees, just before silence fades away, in true sunrise hallucination. I am still in the vapors of the dream, my skin is vibrating, gold and white.
I sit around the fountain of the birth of venus, my favorite piece of art created by the hands of a human. I make a few drawings of the fountain from a few different angles, totally absorbed, abandoned, offered, naked, charmed. Birds, revolving spirits, I am revolving too, like a carousel of wind, like a solar system, like the alchemic wheel. And a vision is coming:
Coyoacan, mexico city
I sit alone in a soulless bar, nameless, and I draw Aztec gods, warriors: I travel into the iconography of the ancestors. I am a wanderer. We are hunting for futile pleasures: our destiny is bigger. Square. We shall live in a circle. I am drinking a magic potion. I feel lonely: alone with the spirits that I am painting. Alone with my rage to transform. Alone with so many dreams, so many visions, alone outside the modern world. Something is running away, a reclining volcano. I just cannot exist with my hands empty. I constantly need a brush in my hands, a pencil in between my fingers, so the channel is not interrupted. I ask myself sometimes if I really exist outside my brushstrokes. Is my road is just made of colors? Can I escape my art?
Can a monk ride a human body for a few moments? I dived so deep that coming back to the surface seems impossible anymore. I fly too high. Shall I vanish into the golden rule? At the center of the seashell?
The cycle is repeating itself ; from purity to decadence, and back again. The vice is becoming a virtue. The precious opposites of the same wheel. I surround myself with fire: 12 candles, I pray invisible gods, imaginary creatures from my paintings. I stare at the flames, fascinated.
plaza revolucion:
Unknown lady unknown hotel unknown time unknown civilization, abstract desire, inner light, long long white bed, for many hours in whispers. High and blind , fast , like this city. Eyes open, to build a new painting in air, to capture the distance, the emptiness between two shapes, new positions.
Plaza garibaldi:
We arrive like soldiers, with our weapons, proud and loud. We unfold on the floor the canvas, toward the end of the plaza. There is hundred of drunk people, skeletons, electricity dealers and mariachis, white or black, immaculate Indians, boys sniffing glue, girls with large smiles, large desires, games, small thunders, criminals with no hands, corrupted policemen with women, the ghost of Zapata,
Beautiful white mariachis sing around me la llorona while I paint with black ink two skeletons making love around a hundred spectators. I paint fast, violently, the images appear, like dead resurrecting in a hurry, coming to the surface to celebrate the night. After, boys and girls are offering me their skin to paint; hands, neck, arms, faces , belly. I transform them into joyful warriors, they scream. Everything is surrealist, blurry, so many sounds at the same time, 12 different musics , more skeletons, another crying lady. French kiss, another reason to live or die, older women seeking for flesh, far from the valley, I am a warrior with brushes as weapons, tools of transformation, tools of wisdom: hands dirty and spirit free, night mutation, they rise, they shine, they dance around me, all painted, free, for a few seconds. Seven seconds is all they really have.
I transform everything I touch, everywhere we go:
The universe is not afraid to be transform, and we are not scared to be changed.
We are destiny filters, ceremony providers, anatomy travelers.
****
Painting is a tragedy.
Every painting is a deep and uncertain journey: a dive into the unknown. Every painting is a risk: you can loose something forever, abandon a part of yourself . And every painting is an emotional volcano: so many emotions emerge; the transmission from the soul to the canvas.
Tacubaya: I need to climb the pyramid, naked, to seek for the summit, for this point, limitless, dangerous, away, above, where we can see all, all inside. I need to scream to reach silence: to paint your portrait, to draw you with my tongue, paint you with my fingers.
OUR DESTINY IS BIGGER THAN THE SUM OF ALL OUR DESIRES.
Our destiny is bigger than the sum of all our movements. We have to be very strong, clear, fast, to write our own personal legend, and protect ourselves not to vanish into futile desires. The boundary is uncertain; our happiness can be fuel, but also, it can make us fall asleep. We have to resist. Build, fight like a freedom warrior, be awake, rise above.