I’ve asked myself many times what art is and I keep on doing it, but I’m not sure I’ve found the answer; actually the only thing I’m sure of is that there is no answer. Can paintings be defined as “art”?
The expression of a deep feeling of the soul through a tangible sign is a form of art, is that my form of art?
My story is a testament, it is knowledge of the world of those who come last and their redemption, it’s ecstasy of the universal beauty of nature in which I grew up, it’s a precipice from which it’s impossible to return. I express all of this by painting contrasts, darkness and colours, smiles and sadness, but always with strength and hope.
Is this art? Or is art just a dreamlike representation of nothingness through an appealing form of storytelling? Art is the expression of talent, of study, of dedication, of commitment, of tendency to improvement, of normality; or is it self-destruction, madness, incomprehension, complication of simplicity, exclusiveness and therefore a matter for a few chosen ones?
Through my works I have found my answer. For me, art is the ability to feel and give emotions, the narration of a Path of life which is common to millions of people, to ask the observer to go further than “I like, I don’t like” and to read the motivation in the brushstroke and in the choice of the subjects, to see their glances, to listen to their movements, to reach the essence of an object which nature offers you without asking for anything in return, to feel the wind that gives life to that hair, to feel the pain of a childhood never lived.