You can't explain painting. Painting in itself is a kind of magic. To paint is like throwing myself out in the empty every time I begin a new work.
I need color.
Words are not enough to express what I have to say. Things come from my heart, my brain and are brought out by colored effects, until enjoyment, pleasure, until work of painting itself. I feel like being a medium, receiving and projecting warmth of his feelings.
I need to paint mine's fill.
I am a painter first of all. I work on surface and my countersign is color. Making a paint, giving hope. Cosmic shapes, fireworks, colored planets, light's contrasts : I talk about life. Infinity. Drawing line doesn't exist. Color brings the drawing, paint brings the wish of painting. A work inspires another one, there is a kind of complicity between them. Trying to touch the essential.