...the colour of my dreams was never blue, a mironian reply to those whose goal is a unitary chromatism in the deep folds that define the devastated crust of the soul, what an improper orography of courses and accidents that eternally overflow from their beds. Though intense indigo is the locus of the perennial dreamy vigil, the cruel watchtower, from which we contemplate our eternal rise and fall, our infinite composition and decomposition, our tireless redemption which prolongs the eternal sentence. But the celestial place does not have to be the tired territory of unrest. Rather, it is the place of voluble and changing urbanism which, in each and every one of its infinite transformations, manifests the fever that eternalises the instant of the embrace between love and intelligence in the skin of the person it takes shelter in...




exhibitions: