Writings

The Amazon is not a subject I paint — it is the grammar through which I think. Every vertical line is a tree, every wash of blue a river seen from above, every smear of red the sky at the edge of the canopy at dusk. I do not represent the forest; I attempt to speak in it.

My sculpture series Laberinto began with a single question: what is the shape of a decision? Not the decision itself, but the space it carves — the corridor of possibility that narrows as you move through it, the moment when the path behind you disappears.

Silverpoint cannot be erased. Every mark is permanent from the moment the stylus touches the ground. This is not a limitation — it is the entire point. To draw in silver is to commit absolutely to each gesture, to understand that the hand and the mind must arrive at the same place at the same moment.

I arrived at the Accademia di Belle Arti di Firenze in 1974, twenty-one years old, carrying a portfolio of drawings that I now understand were technically competent and spiritually empty. Florence did not teach me technique — I had technique. It taught me to look.