I try to be onest in my research, I try to translate what things I observe mean to me. But as I feel the consequences of my becoming mature, I am pushed back to my young way to find a voice. I think we are safe if we keep an idea of the dreams we had when we still had not seen it all (almost). Maybe I don't smile so often and I don't allow myself to be so contemptuous as I used to, but yet I feel the tenderness and the anger of those moments. Maybe my young children move all these mechanisms. Maybe I'm trying the way to respect their dreams and let them find the right way to be onest about those dreams.
Here I'm back to the small world I used to drow in the edges of my notebooks.
Mano nella mano
Pastel oil and ink on canvas,
24x30
Zoom
