Portraits are portraits, nothing more than portraits, doesn’t matter if they are painted by Hans Holbein or if they come out of Cartier Bresson’s camera.
It’s likely that they represent the objects they retract, projecting references in search for meaning. The humanity doesn’t live without the meaning’s tyranny. The one who wins is always opinion, never the truth.
Maybe a portrait also represents the inner look of the one who compose it, allowing a few grams of aesthetic singularity, even if this fellow and his look never escape completely of the tutelage from the Zeitgeist that perverts them.
My portraits comprise the taste of a coffee sift for the second or third time – its originality can be precarious. What is worthwhile about them is the enjoyment and uncertainty on their conception. The finest mined field. It is a shoot in the dark every time.
It’s possible that my portraits are anthropophagic. I eat what talks to me. Within my pagan imaginary, Nicolau Romanov flirts with Stalin and vice-versa. From A to Z. Life is excessively short to waste time and space with ideological prejudice or intellectual hemiplegy. What matters is the pursuit for the beauty never found, thought supposed aesthetic effects. May the more skilful prevail, even if his moral is just occasional.
Portraits are portraits, nothing more than portraits. Its meaning, its applause, its stoning and banishment belong to the beholder’s taste and sensibility.
I wash my hands!
Be welcome to the Exposition.