“At some point, his work entered an inevitable phase, a period of transition to something more coagulated, the matter had to “clot” into “humanized” forms, at a time of searching for the coordinates of his most profound self. This is when he stopped painting. He wrote, especially poetry, even if he knew he was destined to be a painter. He read, he watched, he listened. It was a necessary phase when nothing was lost, when he accumulated, waited, “prepared” himself to be given the signal, to feel that the moment has come to paint again. The “miracle” only happens if the ground is ready, filled with the already accumulated wealth; taking place only for he who knows to wait, as there is no contradiction between the enhancement and the expansion of the self. And the artwork is the very place where frankness meets assurance, confidence, rebellion, candor, and force. What matters is that the cry that proclaims you, like the crowd that rejoices and suffers along, to possess you in the personal style by which an artist forges himself and is defined.””