When I am out for a walk, I can’t help noticing the branches on tree and looking at the ground, at the remains of fallen leaves, fruit and petals. Sometimes I discover the odd different form shaped by the whimsy of nature—a curving branch, a leaf whose sections create an unexpected sculptural shape, a flower hiding a unique microcosm…—that prove irresistible to the tools of my hand, pencils.
I admit that sometimes I pick them up, pull them out, keep them and take them away from their natural environment and make them mine in my studio, yet not with the collector’s obsession to own them but rather as a source of inspiration for my work.
They become part of my life, not as chosen plants, but as thoughts creating illusions in my brain, trapped on a clear, bright horizon. A space in which I raise myself up, letting myself swing high above the material dimension, where I can create my work.
This place is so beautiful that, over and over again, I keep searching for it and, astounded, I discover that when I can’t find it, it comes looking for me … and so, together we make the road by walking, as the poet would have it.
In order to pod the seed of the initial insight, I examine the tiny structures it is made of, discovering the parts that are invisible to the human eye and which, without the appropriate magnification, would remain on the surface.
Now we are actually navigating through the millenarian tunnel of evolution in which the grand intelligence and the incomparable design of natural knowledge converge, to, at any given time, place me in front of a new experience.
The roles are inverted, and nature guides me, and that first form that made such a big impression on me now takes on a new meaning.
In this dialogue between the chosen subject matter and the parchment paper I use for my drawings, I discover a new reality without violating the anatomical integrity of the model, until managing to create a new setting built without any pain, where the work is enveloped in a limbo-like clarity.
The days pass, and then the weeks and even the years, and I keep on patiently adding thousands of lines, starting off with the clear and neat profile of an “F”, only to end up stub to stub with the soft but powerful dark of the “9B” pencil.
Flowers and plants that are reinvented in posture and size, demand a new space in the process of creation in order to position themselves in that critical moment when I am nothing but their scribe. In this process I am faced with the dilemma of whether I have to add yet another line, and I am concerned with modifying that reflection that is the counterfeit shadow of its shadow.
And that is how I humbly follow the paths of art and the knowledge of nature. The essence and the impulse of my vocation remain and, with the passing of the years, the expression of the chosen language becomes real in this space and I feel it powerfully pulling and tensing the extremely fine thread that places me before the unique fact of creation.