I draw stones, engrave their shadow. I draw shadows, I hear the hum of its elementary particles around the zero of nowhere. Nothing more baroque than air, nothing simpler than the peak of human emotions, the same destiny for the ephemeral, the same home for the drawn words heard by the closed eyes of the ancestors. Small things, animals that hiss in the forest.
The poet has borrowed his symbols from my engravings, a stranger has left a sugar spoon at my door, the sage has brushed me off with superstition, the navigator has invited me to his myth. The useless is not a great inheritance when it becomes the essential. I should call it memory, but I will call it poetry in the form of a rose like the beloved Pasolini.
Color, I have ever thought, is the illusion of a myth collector. In a way, it may not be more than the office of the sea the office of blue, nor the office of apples other than red, as it is not black but for the unanimous dimension of death. The tragic is not the yellow ocher that endures from the rites of the caveman illuminating the rainbow civilizations, the tragic is the absence of light and the gloom of the times of his successors. I put color where the sacred is, pigment where the ash will resurrect. I have the same faith in green as in trees, such an alliance with the magical vibration of obsidian and black. Chosen hobbies in the cultivation of contemplation. Seeds that take root in the dream.