PAINTING FOR ME —since I can remember and paraphrasing Daniel Pennac— is a kind of company that cannot replace any other, and cannot be replaced; while it doesn't explain its purposes, it weaves a tight fabric of intimate complicities between me and my life; secret, minimal complicities about the ironic need to live and the absurd tragedy of life.

The reasons for painting are as mysterious to me as the reasons to live. I believe nobody is entitled to wander around that intimacy.

I'm glad that the few adults that showed me a painting, a book, or a piece of music, generously chose not to ask me what I had understood. And when I showed insatisfaction, they usually replied with a calming "It's OK. Just keep painting".