When I let my fantasy run I used a paper and a pencil, with them, and
without thinking, I expected linked arrows and lines to appear
they served as stems to small flowers.
And when this painting started to be, I already knew that it would be one
of those that they say they're favorites.
When I see it, I always say: how simple, it is all there is to express! his
singularity is identified with my concretion, basic lines about colors
alive and so suggestive that in the first glance I know that it is clear.
Of these last works, without a doubt, it is unique and I love it.
The yoke and the arrows have been like the awkward bowtie that stuns
but that is admitted as necessary in certain events
social. The rules of good use bear this in mind. And as the things of
life happens, in eight years it is the fist that dominates freedom.
It's all one, emerges from a world in fog, dying hands, dead
living who groan for respite. A cemetery.
One hundred years are his prison, hand gripped that loses its vital force,
it is already corpse.
Petals that are lost.
The heavy ball, a prisoner, burden that drags by its errors, will be the
that they turn it into ashes.
Ideas, behaviors. Time eliminates the differences.
MONCHOLC, until today. P.110.