And then came the quarantine. The house gradually began to restrict, to entrap. Like an embrace that went from protective to suffocating and increasingly oppresses whoever is inside it. And so, the entire atmosphere of that period was captured in the works without me even realizing it. How strange! Life had written its own script in my work completely changing its meaning.
Let it be... After all, isn’t that the role of art, i.e. to record life? Yes, but the artist, in addition to capturing reality, can sometimes invent his own: "You have brushes and paints. Paint Paradise and go inside." With Kazantzakis' words as my guide, I stand in front of my new canvas. No more concrete, solid walls. My own house will no longer be stable, it will not even have foundations. I imagine it moving with the wind. To be thin but at the same time protective and have pores to breathe like my skin. Immaterial, almost transparent, even though I am visible from everywhere. I will never feel trapped. It will be where I hang my coat, where my suitcase rests, where my mind travels. And because what has no weight cannot crush you, I will never feel in danger inside it. I will not need to look for the emergency exit. In my own house, the emergency exit will have no meaning.
