Paper made of fiber, vegetable fiber, the offspring of a plant that germinates and grows, both vulnerable and resistant.
You swim in flowing waters renewed as a sheet of paper, living and struggling to survive. Y cut you. I grind you.
Fabric, threads weaving transparent warps, binding papers, postal stamps which stand for places of old remenbrances, stitches and needles guiding the thread that embroiders our life.
Nothing is for sure. Maybe, perhaps one can only hold oneself to one ‘s own limited knowledge to past experiences stored and softly linked together forming a cushion from which forms detach themselves and gain life synthesizing everything lived, learned and experienced.
The brush caresses the fiber and color melts easily unto it. Color wraps us like the sun that gives it life. All is color even sadness has its own hue. The patina as an armour acts like the skin that covers us preventing our feelings from being hurt.