If It Must End, Let It End Creating

I begin from the present as one begins from an open wound.

From an emptiness that isn’t absence, but an overflow of noise.

I begin from the end — the kind that doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t explode,

but drags on. Invisible, daily, subtle.

I begin from the stillness they call normal life, but which is just a well-produced stupor.

We live under the delusion that the end of the world is a spectacle.

A giant screen, blown-out sound, collapse with special effects.

The fiction of an outsourced apocalypse, exported from Hollywood — where everything ends far away:

Manhattan in flames, metallic creatures roaming through ruins.

Soulless bodies, machines with function.

But the end doesn’t arrive like that.

The end is already here.

And it’s subtle.

It’s when we stop dreaming.

When we scroll the feed in silence.

When touch loses meaning.

When words fall short.

When everything becomes exhausting.

 These future-end-of-the-worlds are not inventions — they’re symptoms.

Traps of the gaze that hijack us from within.

They convince us that all is already lost — so why desire?

Why imagine?

And that is the deepest violence:

To be taught not to want.

To be trained for boredom, for obedience, for repetition.

To be programmed for numbness.

As if living were just enduring.

But there are those who refuse.

Those who cracked inside, but still feel.

Those who suspect there is another way to exist — less product, more presence.

Who know the body is not a tool, but an oracle.

Not a machine, but a portal.

We must re-enchant.

Dive into ourselves like one dives into a dark river,

where every bend is risk and revelation.

Where fear becomes compass, and the bottom, fertile.

Where the dark is a womb — not a void.

The labyrinth is the path.

There is no map.

True creation doesn’t sell tickets.

It demands loss, surrender, failure.

It is born from rupture, from fever, from awe.

It cannot be streamed.

The world can only be reborn through bodies that still feel.

Those who feel, move.

Those who move, transform.

And those who transform, disobey.

There is still time to disobey!

It is time to slow down the end —

to turn off the ready-made scripts,

burn the manuals of plastic hope,

and rewrite reality from the lucid delirium of our affections.

If we are at the end of imagination on one hand,

on the other, we are at the beginning

of the gesture that dares to imagine — despite everything.

Of desire that resists, even if exhausted.

Of the body that still pulses — even if wounded.

To create from this now is to practice insubordination.

It is to remember that the world does not end in the absence of future —

but in the absence of sensitivity.

 If it must end, let it end creating.

But not creating just anything, not in a mechanical or forced way.

Let it be about creating worlds we can still inhabit with soul, with spontaneity, with joy.

Where slowness can be a ritual.

Where listening prevails over the need to speak.

And where we depend on many other forms of language,

so we may breathe the same air — together.

From Emptiness to Possible Traces

The orphanhood of the soul is not literal — it is a deep sensation of uprootedness, of being disconnected from an essential sense of belonging. It’s what is often called existential emptiness (though I always question the use of the word “emptiness” to describe something so overflowing with feeling) — the absence of emotional, spiritual, or symbolic references that give life meaning.

This pain is silent and constant, a throbbing wound.

A soul without a home, without language, without a mirror.

In the face of this pain, artistic gesture becomes refuge and reinvention.

The encounter with painting is not merely technical or aesthetic — it is vital.

The canvas becomes the place where this orphaned soul can finally create symbolic roots —

invent an inner territory. In this context, painting is an act of survival. It is not about seeking beauty, but subjective truth.

By allowing the unspeakable to take form, color, and gesture, painting brings about an intimate revolution. It is the deconstruction of masks and imposed identities, and the reconstruction of a more authentic “self.”

A subjective revolution — because it changes how one sees, feels, and narrates oneself.

To express is, in this sense, an act of resistance against self-erasure — a silent subversion.

A subversion of the painted gesture that births micro-revolutions

 There are pains that don’t scream — they inhabit.

Pains that are not healed by time, because they do not belong to historical time.

The orphanhood of the soul is silent and lacerating.

Not literal orphanhood, but the kind born from a sense of not belonging, of not having a home within oneself, of carrying the body like an uninhabited shelter.

An inner exile where names, mirrors, and affections are missing.

For a long time, I walked through this arid territory.

I felt like a foreigner in my own body, as if words were never enough to name what hurt.

As if there were a secret language I didn’t know — a language that could shape the chaos, give color to the emptiness, gesture to what had only been shadow.

It was in that abyss that I found painting.

Or perhaps, painting found me.

The canvas offered itself as a possible mirror.

The colors, as intuitive vocabulary.

The gesture, as the first murmur of a voice that had long been silent.

Painting was not an exercise in technique, but an act of existential urgency — like breathing after being submerged for too long.

With each canvas, something in me would rearrange.

The pain ceased to be a ghost and began to take shape.

The once-orphaned soul started to grow symbolic roots.

And so, art ceased to be mere expression and became construction — a subjective revolution.

This project is born from that passage.

It is a collection of fragments, an attempt to translate a lived experience that could not be contained in words.

These are paintings that do not illustrate, but reveal.

That do not explain, but expose.

More than showing works, I want to open processes.

Invite sensitive listening.

Propose a reflection on how art can be shelter, language, and territory for exiled souls.

I am a body in search of language.

My soul, for a long time, was a place without an address — orphaned of belonging, of mirrors, of listening.

I grew up trying to fit into silences that suffocated me.

Inside, everything was excess.

Outside… containment.

Painting appeared as a necessary accident — a gesture of survival.

I don’t paint to show what I see — I paint to discover who I am.

The canvas is my refuge, my battlefield, my intimate altar.

Reclaimed memories, lines, exposed nerves — a story not told through words.

My work is born of longing, of persistent discomfort and estrangement.

It becomes a gesture of creation, of self-listening, and perhaps a mirror for those who also seek a home within themselves.

Painting is a crossing: from inner exile to the possibility of inhabiting oneself. Painting is my way of returning to myself — of coming into contact with a greater “I,”

something wiser that has always lived in me, before I was aware of it.

Emptiness is often thought of as silence, as absence.

But existential emptiness is, in fact, a place that is far too full.

Overflowing with old discomforts, memories that won’t cease, ideas spinning without direction, and impulses that never found gesture.

It is an inner territory where screams are mute,

and desires, forbidden.

Where every thought is a labyrinth, and every memory, a half-open door.

The body feels, but does not act.

The soul seeks, but does not find.

There is a tension between what pulses and what paralyzes.

A kind of constant noise — as if existence were made of a thousand voices whispering at once.

Through painting, I try to carve space into that overflow.

To name in color what moves through me without language.

Each form tries to translate the unspeakable.

For me, painting is not about filling the emptiness.

It is about inhabiting that chaotic space with presence.

It is accepting that, sometimes, what we call emptiness is only an excess that hasn’t yet found form.

Morning Reveries

I wake with the body. Thought still lingers in suspension, slightly intoxicated by the fragmented dreams of the night — absurd images, like pieces of abstract painting, with no clear contours. Light slips through the crack in the window, gilding the floor, tinting the furniture with a soft hue.

It’s in this in-between moment that I feel it: something within me wants to take form.

The urge isn’t to speak, nor to write. It’s gesture.

It’s my body asking for space — to exist on the canvas.

A movement held in, yet pulsing, only resolved when it becomes color.

And even if there’s no brush in hand yet, the act of making coffee is already a kind of rehearsal

I notice the body alert. Not as a decorative presence in the world, but as that place where everything begins, where truth settles before it ever becomes word.

The water heats. The coffee grinder hums like a small internal motor.

And I, between one task and another, think about the nuances the stove doesn’t have.

It promises precision with its numbers, but only understands extremes — too hot or too warm.

It’s almost a lie: it simulates gradations, but delivers only binaries.

Maybe that’s why painting saves me.

It doesn’t lie about the transition between tones.

It is made of the in-between — of that which cannot be immediately defined.

The silence of the house still holds.

They sleep.

And I exist fully in this suspended moment.

There’s a strange beauty in the morning’s repeated gestures.

Or maybe not beauty — but density.

An accumulation of something unseen, yet deeply felt.

As if each ordinary action carried its own story — not a grand one, but dense, intimate, full of invisible life.

I think this is where painting begins.

Not always with clear intent.

Sometimes, it’s just about letting the body speak.

Letting it tell, without haste, all that remains lodged inside — like those women who knew the body speaks too.

Not with words, but with lines, colors, gestures.

With layers.

Painting, then, becomes a way of remembering — without needing to narrate.

A way of holding the paradox of living intensely what cannot be explained.

They begin to wake.

The sound of the house shifts.

Bodies now fill the once-empty space.

And the moment dissolves.

But something remains.

Something that gathers in the chest like dormant pigment, waiting for the right gesture.

Later, maybe, the brushes will touch the canvas.

Maybe not.

But I know I was there — whole — even for a brief moment.

And for today, that is enough.