Perfectly laid plans and fixed ideas always put me on guard.

Those plans that some, more determined, can follow with sanctity, without questioning them and without the fear of being diverted. I immediately become a rudimentary when faced with advanced technology because,

I must confess, it somehow fascinates me. But most of the time, these plans make me feel like a child with dirty hands in front of a white shirt. The rule says I need it, but the dirt under my nails doesn't want it. What is this, fear? Most likely. Courage? A drop too. I'm thinking about rebellion, submission, rigors, the unexpected, possible mistakes. And so I try to accept: my mind is not a starched piece of cotton, but a carnival banner carelessly cut from a patchwork throw. When I get down to work, all the layers of my ideas go into Brownian motion and organize themselves as they will - a chaos that unabashedly wears the badge of freedom. But what comes out of all this chaos is much more honest and closer to me than what I would put forward when guided by norms. The meaning of my work is hidden in the paper glued in oils, the conclusions are also there, within the colored stencils. It shows me as a mirror would; one where you can see exactly

who we are, without artifice. Because, more often than not, we are who our community says we are. We are who the genesis says we are. We are

who our senses say we are, and the list goes on. I am only looking for this stripped "I am". I don't expect to find it, I just have it. Instead, I would like to remember it more often, because I seem to forget it too easily.

So I will continue, without perfectly laid plans, to cut carnival banners. Who knows, maybe they'll find a good spot right next to yours.