Reality is not only image. 

Or at least, there still exists someone who does not stop outside the scale of that whole which, in images, inspires this era by dazzling, in any place where appearance is possible, until it even identifies itself with the imaginary claim to totality.  

I do not know what reality is. 

Its in-formation activated through image, however, does not interest me, or perhaps no longer interests me. 

Perhaps then, I have gone back to the raw material, in order to understand. 

I paint, but I can only speak about myself. 

There is no distinction between what I am and what I do, this I can say, if nothing else. 

For me it is always a problem of communication. 

Listening. 

Beginning from myself. 

Intimate contact, according to an exclusive language which, in encounters with ‘the other’, ‘the other’ both here and elsewhere, I cannot see beyond the meaning of the word-structure, relationship. 

A caring for oneself while continuing to listen to one’s being, while seeing the growth of that something that you have learned to accept as yours, painting. 

Perhaps there is nothing to discover, it is the oldest story in the world. 

Perhaps it is just the life of a man. 

The rust is just an excuse, a really great excuse, perhaps one of the constants, but only if it is intended as a seed that germinates into another possibility, and precisely of a relationship, if this is found, if this happens. 

It's that unique something that interests me, and that will always have a partial limit, capable only if it is able to speak to me of a whole that moves, that lives.

Vigorously. 

Otherwise it continues to be a means, just like me. 

In any case, without aiming to reach everywhere. 

There is no need, one lives just the same. 

Is it possible to make this reality inferior through an image? 

For this reason, I do what I want.