I am not interested in Art Theory or Art History in these writings, but rather in marking a theoretical and critical space for the practice and development of my own artistic endeavours.
This space is not so much about certainties, but rather about an ungrown territory of enquiry defined by ever changing fences.

Spring 2016

Now I am having two impudent pigeons kissing in my balcony, while others, riotous, proceed to systematically and efficiently demolish it.

Lorenzetti and the café owner

When I mentioned to him that I had seen this painting, Pietro Lorenzetti, Christ Between Saints Peter and Paul, c.1320, he just recoiled, as if I had said a very dirty word.

P and the schoolgirl

In the loneliness of the immensity of the night, sometimes, the schoolgirl comes forward and speak to P, words he haven’t heard for nearly four decades, already.

In P’s life, now, the past, present, and future, have become a single, all encompassing, time space, the past, sometimes, acquiring an overbearing presence. As P lives in this continuous space, he just smiles at those echoes from distant years, yet with the vivid lucidity of the now, and here.


You are right, these lines have been written before, I am writing them again because that moment flagmarked by those words, written yesterday, a moment that lasted no more than a few seconds, not even a full minute, has remained clinging inside me, eating the innards of my mind, those seconds starving for a because is the because of repeating these thoughts. Or, perhaps, this particular because is because there is a call for a because…

The woman, probably in her forties and quite well built but not massive, which is another way of saying that she was not fat, or indecently fat, was drifting under the bright clean antiseptic lights of the store with the arrogance of those who believe they can do whatsoever they like because (yet another because here) they have risen froma working class background, the fake steel of arrogance coming from their utter ignorance shining in their eyes, the alienated eyes of those who have reduced their world to just their caprices and whims, the eyes which wander daily in the streets and shopping arcades of our cities for a long time, the eyes of madness depicted centuries ago by the painter  Théodore Géricault during the 18th century, as once the critic John Berger indicated, eyes wandering between men socks and underpants, a disdain rictus crossing her lips and I, the insect not worthy to breath the air she breathed and walk on the ground she walked upon, I made room for her excellency, to realize that a little girl with inquisitive brown eyes and chestnut hair in a pony tail followed in her wake, an apologetic expression in her childish face.

Spring song

The gentle ruffle of spring
in the sparrows’ song I hear.