The inner image

There are moments when reality slips away from me.

I'm not looking at a landscape, nor a face, yet an image appears before me. I don't know where it comes from: sometimes it's a clear fragment, other times it's just a flash, a suspended color. I don't choose to see it, it chooses to reveal itself.

The process isn't immediate. It remains there, suspended, until I decide to take it seriously and give it space on the canvas. At that moment, a silent struggle begins: the internal image doesn't let itself be captured easily; it slips away, transforms, and becomes veiled.

I do nothing but chase it, accepting that the translation will never be perfect, but it will be authentic.

This is the most fragile and truest part of painting: when I do not represent what is visible, but what I have glimpsed, a flash that passes through me and asks to be welcomed.

I paint so as not to lose that vision, so as not to let it fade. The painting may never be "finished," but each brushstroke is a step closer to that subtle boundary between what I see with my eyes and what appears within me.