Where does the Word live?
How long does it live? Does it ever die?
What is it from? How do we know to who it belongs? And to whom is it spoken? Built in a wall? Planted?
Stabbed? Printed in a book? Painted on the canvas?
What sleeps in it? Maybe stone or gold, maybe moonlight or clouds, or lightning and thunders… or
maybe the art sleeps in it…
What is made of them? Bridges, roads, castles, secret tunnels, stellar paths, sculptures, paintings?
Which is the one Word that is not spoken and from which it springs and flows everything and in which
the last spark and drop of life are extinguished? If cannot be spoken, could it be painted?
On the trail of brush, you could read many unspoken words, the entire novels are painted on the world’s
paintings…if you adjust your mind, you will be able to read them all…
The path to a single moment or to eternity could be either stroke of the brush or written word or
maybe, just maybe the combination of it.
On the tips of your fingers, when you touch the painting or browse through a book, you can feel them,
read them.
I paint words and with them, I pave a path to timelessness.