Since I made the first marks, in my early childhood, in my preschool notebook, in the nursery school I attended, created by the great painter Quinquela Martín in Buenos Aires, Argentina. And then, as time went by, I began to master the pencil and the brush with the intention of capturing the world that my eyes discovered, I felt that a dark and blind force imposed itself on me in the act of painting. A force so dark and so blind that it drove me more and more to immerse myself in the enigma of light and color with the hope, always failed and renewed, of apprehending in one or miles of images the secret of that force that sustains my existence.

Why do I paint? Perhaps to satisfy the curiosity of seeing what has fallen forever into the blindness of oblivion. Perhaps because of the attempt to recover lost memory and fix on the canvas what sustains us as a human being and capture in a stain a gesture that evokes and provokes the dormant consciousness. Or perhaps it is nothing more than a desperate cry in the deafening silence of lack of communication.

I owe a lot to the unknown painter who painted the painting - which was hanging in the living room of my childhood home - who brought me closer to the poetry of the light that illuminated the poverty of the hovel represented in the painting - And to the Fauves, Expressionists , Matisse, Klee, Van Gogh, Cézanne, Picasso, etc. But perhaps what I owe most genuinely are to the colors of the boats that slept their river dreams lying in the port of the La Boca neighborhood of Buenos Aires - where I was born - and to the primary and contrasting colors with which the people of that Buenos Aires neighborhood painted their poor houses and also their sadness.