To see you and to see myself reflected in you, in the other that I dreamt, to look inside myself, even if others can only see me from the outside; the distance between us; in dreams, your dreams, my dreams; they see me moving up or down, from one side to the other like a diaphragm; I put them in brackets or I cannot see them; the wall, infinity, a moment of hesitation, a germ, the empty framework of a logic trying to make its mark. Eternity! Its origin is forged with a hesitating rhythm, brief moments, fragile moments, moments that sometimes have a deep impact and sometimes are just ordinary and prosaic. Even so, I like touching you, I like looking at you, even through the viewfinder, and I like you to see me and my pain.

The moment I chose you was not just a figment of my imagination, it was a search; the spirit of a dream: lyricism, impartiality, although I knew that you were not neutral, I also wanted to be loyal to you for being naïve as a counterpoint to that hermetic perspective through which the visual subject is constructed, that sends shivers down an adolescent spine. You demanded precision and objectivity and I was only an imitation, you demanded synthesis and maturity and I was allegorical, elegiac and fun-loving; you wanted balance, unity and harmony and I was dispersion, confusion and disorder.

My body is no longer mine, my soul lies at my feet; could I say my soul lies at the tips of my fingers? Amid all these glimmers, I inhabit the divided debt of creation, of imagination, of a walking folly; I can’t see the traffic, I lack space and visibility, I don’t know, time chases me, I see it race ahead of me, I cannot see myself in the mirror, I am an image to be speculated about. Will the spoon be my point of reference, my deception, my talent or my fear?

I know I’m neither original nor precise, very often I’m repetitive and vulgar; I can be in several places at once but I don’t contaminate your gaze. Haven’t you stopped to think that as you repeatedly gaze at me, by design, by accident or by chance, you make me suffer beyond words? Haven’t you examined your past, the circumstances in which you demand spontaneity when others just seek pretence, and some even search for categorical views, initially with no hidden agendas? Can’t you see that my uniqueness transcends aesthetics, poetry, death and magic and that I can even be trivial?

Yes, I know I’m incoherent, but how can you ask me to be both symmetrical and fragmented? What a contradiction! Experience is acquired by exploring, expressing and experimenting new sensations, seeking progress and looking to the future, and you accuse me of seeking glory and success; you call me superficial because I take your words literally, even if they have always been my guiding star….(Why are you surprised?) I also know that you don’t think much of my subjects, you haven’t chosen them, your ideological arguments bewilder me: gender issues, work or other related issues, shades and colours.

I am who you depict; I am who you want me to be, although metaphysically I suffer the anguish, the scepticism that leads me to break with pre-established cannons about the meaning of art, love, politics and so many other things. But I only want to be honest and find my own style and personality; yes, that’s what I’m looking for, the essence of shades and shapes, the content is fulfilled in you

My gaze no longer belongs to me, you choose me, you judge me, you criticize and even transform me, you never see me as freedom; no, no, as always you lock me in a metal drawers or in fitted wooden drawers, lined up or miles away, in rooms with cold walls or full of grey spaces, in thin or yellow paper, many times I’m there or I’m absent or I never see the light of day, you didn’t see me but you disrobed me and turned your back on me, they say I turned my back on you, you overtook me vertically like a stale developer, haphazardly.

I wanted you to be diagonal, soft, transparent, full of texture, but you made me invisible, my balance is fragile and precarious, your shadow is projected on me horizontally, although sometimes it is fluid and airy, my desires can seem like the figment of a visionary’s imagination, but don’t be fooled, appearances deceived me…

Why can’t you accept the way I look and see me as I create myself in curves, lines, focussed or blurred….in that world of contrasts, shine and focus? You know? Blurriness is not proportional to clarity! Don’t just look at the detail of a whole that isn’t there. Don’t just look at the streets full of objects and conceptual objectives, abstract subjects: the eye is both mine and yours! Let’s share our weak stars, even if it is purely for the pleasure of seeing the world from a different perspective, extinct, different or soaked in ink, be it in memory, sight or graphics.

What can I do, I’m theoretical, subjective, any adjective you choose, you may say my head is up in the clouds but everything is a frame or an equivalent of the evidence you leave behind.