There are painters who paint the sun as a yellow blotch, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, turn a yellow blotch into the sun. (Pablo Picasso)
Creativity is my illness.
In truth, I don’t even know why this need to paint, to draw, resides within me. Seeing all my drawings, all the paintings together disturbs me. It seems like an obsession. An illness. A prison. And, like an illness, I struggle to share it with the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s my way of expressing my perspective on the world. The world that exists around me or perhaps the one that exists only within me. I don’t know if it makes sense to reveal this illness of mine. I don’t know what sense it could have for others. At times, I wish to destroy everything. Other times, I spend hours contemplating what has emerged from my mind, from my hands.
I know I’m not saying anything about the world we live in. No protest, no stance. For that, words are needed. My works are moments of intimacy and solitude.