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At this point, art can feel like a curse that has, in some way, prevented a peaceful existence It is also the miracle that saved me. Painting seems to demand both complete surrender and control - and at that I always fail. Every brushstroke is a goodbye to what once was, and that terrifies me. A painting is so delicate and fragile. Frankly, at times I realize how many hours I've dedicated to worrying about the tiniest strokes of paint going to the right places. Especially because they usually don't. I realized that these moments, in which I'm trying to lovingly and    

painfully harness this microscopic level of power - the impact of a brush on a canvas - is the moment I feel the most connected.  I see there's nothing more intertwining between us than the reality of our condition. Through history, we always did exactly that: in a hostile world, we grasped for whatever we could control, a stone, a hammer or a sword, with both horror and determination. Trying to achieve an often arbitrary goal that eludes us at great cost, without knowing for certain the meaning of it all. This story repeats every day, in the lives of everyone I know. It is both incomprehensible and deeply touching, and this

realization delineates my work.

Thank you for being here.


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