The Birth of Fire

Before being color, this work is a breath. Before being form, it is memory. Before being a painting, it is birth.

It begins naked, like a body.

The wood welcomes it, like a spine.
Then come the first gestures, almost surgical: fragments of foam , rings, lines like veins.

The anatomy of the soul is established.

Then the flesh takes shape—with lively, nervous, pulsing putty.
Layers accumulate, hollows deepen, masses rise. Everything vibrates like skin remembering.

Then comes the breath: the color.

Above, the sacred. A red vagina, a womb, a hatching through love. The golden egg—original light—rests like a promise.

Then childhood bursts forth, in four inner faces:

Red : a nervous, spoiled, fiery being. Excessive love becomes a storm. Purple : sensitive sweetness, life through rose-tinted glasses, hope in bloom.

Gray : nothingness. A loss of bearings, a floating, dissolved soul.

Blue & Black : The abyss. Inner hell. A slow, silent, endless fall.

Around, the wooden circles become cells, imprints, memories frozen in the living.
The cloth is deposited there like a scar.
The stone weighs like truth.

Everything here is meaningful. Every material, every color, every shape is a fragment of existence.

It is not a figurative work.

It is an embodied work.

An intimate genesis, where matter becomes biography, where abstraction becomes body, where art becomes an act of survival.