Inspirations are endless. Images, memories, journeys, people, details. But my real muse is the prose: nothing can be compared to the intensity of words. “Sea water, this man paints the sea with the sea” – and this is a thought that makes one shiver. [Alessandro Baricco, 1993]
Paper. Light, white, creased. Cotton. Water. Ink. And then endless journeys through the hidden places of imagination. Shades of green. The jungle. And then paper, again.
Cotton paper, a nib and some ink. My hand doesn’t follow any scheme, but creates shapes. While Keith Richards is singing Cocaine Blues.
[HOW MUCH DOES A THOUGHT WEIGH?]
The air is warm. A drop of sweat crosses my brow, leaning on the sheet of paper. I like to think of it as a fallen thought. As if the heat melted it. I wonder how much does a thought weigh? At least as much as a blue balloon.
[IF I WERE A COLOR …]
Titian red. Burnt sienna. Indigo. Ceruleo. Magenta. Colors. They are everywhere, not only in my inks. And if I were a color, I’d be precisely this blue. It is in this color that my essence is expressed. Right here, in this shade. My expression.