“It is not your paintings I like, it is your painting.”*

My father, lovingly, forced me to think but I am not a philosopher. During my upbringing I was taught to trust, believe. I do but filled with questions because I believe in the intellect which dwells on beauty and the ugly alike — perhaps the fruit of thinking.

I surrender increasingly to the vibrancy of tensions in being: between doom and flights, between joy and disgust, between life and death.


You keep your security, your savior, choose freely your heaven or your hell. Land, if you will.

For over a decade now, I sense more fragility and more strength within. More than life, I am liking being. More than standing secure, I surrender to swaying.

The process of being, between doom and flights, joy and disgust, such swaying is life, not

*Albert Camus — born on November 7 1913

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