I open the closet, grab the box, the paintings, and the brushes´ plastic house, and meticulously lay all of the drawing pads and the sketchbooks. Different sizes and textures are confidently cataloged and placed on the floor, the pencils and brushes, gently arranged by size and type.
´Why do you spend so much time doing so, just to pick them up once finished?´ someone told me once.
´Because I have to´ Was my answer.
The studio needs these rituals, this natural, established order we can barely understand. When I started to observe all of this creation-related process as a career, it was too late already. Art has settled as part of my life.
Dare I say, my life.
Artworks are not only the finished piece of paper filled with scribbles and brush strokes. They are also the walk in the park, the salty smell of a city that lies deep in the remembrance, the last hug, the shared coffee, and yes, it all started by softly sharpening a pencil.
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