From the series “Point me at the sky!”, oil and pencil on paper, 35.5 × 24 cm.
When I was a young boy I danced like a madman following the tune of an old vinyl of my parents, “Point Me at the Sky” by Pink Floyd. I didn‘t understand the lyrics, I didn’t know that the song told of a pilot that crashes for a fault to his plane. I figured it was an exhortation to take the flight. In the bright contrast of the hot summer afternoons, I saw the black silhouettes of the birds flying against the backdrop of a clear sky. I saw the leaves of the plants filtering the sunlight, and revealing the consistency of their veins and in some cases the shadow of a small frog, motionless, resting on them. To the tune of that song, watching some fishes caught in a basin of zinc, I imagined them free and strong in their river, darting happy in the glow of the August sun.
These works are a sort of declaration of love and servitude to this instrument of representation.
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