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To write about the intricacies of the inner self represents a real adventure for me for I must tell about myself. You, my reader, while skimming through these pages, be kind with this man so much in love with the absolute that he wanted to change his life, to present it as an offering together with everything dearest to him, his time, all his time to the works he meant to elaborate.
I started painting at the age of 29, only then did I really hold a pencil in my hand. My first drawing looked like a child's drawing both naïve and awkward. My determination was intermingled with a large amount of thoughtlessness, with an unbelievable bet for I was going to put my life at stakes in the name of a decision both voluntary and irresponsible. I just had to say "this is what I want". I was going to build my life on a problematical painter's career. That was the adventurous road I had chosen to take. It's only with that choice that my existence took a new dimension as if I was becoming the hero of my own life.
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Oh! that September day of 1973 when I arrived to Paris as a man moved by his departure towards precariousness and doubts. Of course my first move was to run to the Louvre eager eyed, yearning for beauty and tenderness. The junction took place, the exchange happened: Yes indeed that was what I meant by "the will to paint". But what could be the meaning of the word "will" when one had such unreachable examples? I want to jump over six feet… no nine… why not twelve… fifteen! It's only now that I realise what an amount of unconsciousness and blindness was mine in those days. Yes, without doubt that was folly, the folly of an innocent entirely inhabited by a dream, an ideal, that painting after the manner of the Masters of classical painting.
Why just that road, in our days fringing on obsoleteness?
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