ABOUT ME
As a child, I drew, painted,
and wrote.
I simply liked creating something t
hat hadn't been there a moment before.
As I grew up, that part of me found different places.
I studied communications because I wanted to work in film and television. I wasn't particularly interested in being in front of the camera. I was fascinated by what happened beforehand: the moment someone imagined something that didn't yet exist and then found a way to make it happen.
I worked in television, in the corporate world, and in sales. I built projects, coordinated teams, and achieved goals. All the while, painting remained in the background.
For me, painting was this.
It didn't have to solve anything. It didn't have to make me better, teach me something, or take me somewhere.
It was a space that was all mine.
In a life where suddenly almost everything carried weight—decisions, fears, the people I loved—I could choose a color simply because I liked it.
It was no use.
And perhaps for that very reason, at that moment, it was sorely needed.
At first, it was enough for me.
Then, without really noticing it, something changed.
I no longer wanted to just paint.
I wanted to see how far I could go.
And I have come much further than I had imagined.
That space, which at first belonged only to me, gradually began to open up to others.
The first exhibitions.
The first people to stop in front of a work of art.
The first to decide to take one home.
And something happened that still surprises me today.
Someone looks at something
I made and sees something in it
that I hadn't seen.
It is probably the part I love the most.
For every piece, I know where I started.
I can tell its story—what was going through my mind as it came into being.
But I do not want to explain to the viewer what they ought to see.
Then that work leaves my studio.
It enters a house and remains there while life unfolds.
It witnesses mornings, dinners, people arriving, children growing up,
and years passing by.
At that point, I am no longer the one writing his story.
For a long time, I used color to tell things I couldn't express in words.
Then I discovered that perhaps I didn't have to choose.
Color and words are two different languages, but they stem from the same place.
From within me.
Because there is something else I have never stopped doing.
Writing.
With color, I often start without knowing exactly where I’ll end up.
Something very similar happens with words.
In both cases, I look, step back, shift things around, erase, and start over.
Until what was in my mind—or something very different and better—finally takes shape.
Perhaps, in the end, this is what I’ve always loved doing.
Creating something that didn't exist a moment before.
It’s just that today, finally, it’s also my job.