Where do we painters stand in the vastness of the agate soil of this world? How long have we been the targets in the crosshairs of the pause in time?

What is our excuse to have influence? What is the taste of the expressive flames of our passion in cooking the bitter meat of this time and at what temperature is our pulse burning?

The onslaught of these questions from the front and the sides, since now to the end of the past days, has always put me and us in harm's way, and bit by bit, the importance of being a painter seems farfetched in our beliefs.

Disarmed and barefoot in the world, we have been threatened by people and nave never beer able to remove the odoression or oublic opinion from our bodies.

We painters have paid a lot to discover the taste of life, and tired and immersed in color, we have reached the junction of freedom, death, polish, and stone.