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My studio is a war zone.

There’s paint everywhere. On the floor, the walls, my elbows (don’t ask). Sketches are scattered like fallen soldiers, some face down in puddles of turpentine. A tube of burnt sienna exploded yesterday. I haven’t cleaned it up. I probably never will.

And I’m thriving.

Because I’m working on the project.

It’s all I can think about. Morning, noon, and night. Especially night. I wake up at 3 a.m. and scribble ideas in the dark like a mad scientist. My notebook is a disaster. Half sentences. Doodles. Coffee stains.

I can’t talk about it yet. The gallery would kill me. (Or at least maim me. And I need both hands to finish this thing.)

But I can tell you this: it’s electric.

My brain won’t stop. Every second, it’s another idea. Another color. Another shape. I was making tea this morning, and somehow I ended up staring at the steam, thinking, That’s the texture I need. I forgot the tea.

I’m living in this project. Completely. My studio is chaos. My sleep is nonexistent. My diet is… let’s call it questionable. But none of that matters. Because right now, it feels like the work is alive. Bigger than me. Like I’m just here to follow it wherever it wants to go.

It’s messy. It’s exhausting.

And I love it.

Dear Old Brushes,

You’re all still here, aren’t you? Sitting in that drawer. Broken. Bent. Unusable. I know you’re angry. You should be.

You came to me full of potential. Ready for precision. Full of purpose. And what did I do? I ruined you.

Let’s be honest. I treated you badly. Really badly. I pushed you too hard (literally). I dragged you through paint so thick you probably thought it was cement. I shoved you into canvases like I was punishing you for existing. You weren’t made for that. None of you were.

Flat No. 10—you were a hero. You gave me clean lines. Strong strokes. But I worked you to death. I stabbed you into thick layers of acrylic over and over. Then, when you started to fray, I didn’t stop. Now you look like an old toothbrush (the kind no one wants to use).

And you, Round No. 2. Poor, delicate Round No. 2. You were made for fine details. Gentle work. And what did I do? I used you to mix paint. On the canvas. Your bristles bent, snapped, and finally gave up. Now you couldn’t paint a straight line if your life depended on it.

Fan Brush No. 6… Oh, Fan No. 6. You didn’t stand a chance. You were built for softness. Subtle textures. A gentle hand. But I treated you like a bulldozer. I crushed you into the canvas until half your bristles fell out. (The other half just gave up and drooped.)

And let’s not forget the water jar. That filthy, horrible water jar. I left you there for days. Weeks. Sometimes longer. I told myself I’d clean you tomorrow. (I lied.) By the time I remembered, you were already ruined. Hardened. Stiff. Unrecognizable.

The truth is, my style is heavy. Rough. Unforgiving. I paint like I’m in a fight. And you? You paid the price.

I’m sorry, old friends. Truly. You deserved better. But instead, you got me.

To the brushes I still have, I’ll try to do better. (No promises, though.) And to the ones I’ve destroyed… thank you. You gave everything.

Rest in peace, my warriors.

Sincerely (and a little guilty),
Your Heavy-Handed Artist

Yesterday…

1. I finished writing the text for

the first painting of my new series.

It felt like a solid start—a foundation to build on.

2. I realized the text wasn’t actually finished.

Apparently, it had more to say.

3. I changed the title.

Titles always seem easier than they are.

4. I added a short poem.

It felt like the right way to expand the idea.

5. I turned the short poem into a long title.

Because why not experiment?

6. I deleted the title and decided to leave it blank for now.

Sometimes, a blank space holds the most meaning.

7. I restored the short poem to its original form.

It worked better that way, staying true to itself.

8. I noticed a mold spot on the ceiling.

Spain’s heavy rainfalls had left their mark.

9. I went looking for a ladder.

A simple plan to deal with a not-so-simple problem.

10. I remembered the ladder was in the studio.

Of course, it wasn’t where I needed it to be.

11. I decided I was too busy to go to the studio.

The ceiling could wait another day.

12. I grabbed a kitchen stool instead.

It seemed like a reasonable alternative at the time.

13. I fell.

Not exactly part of the plan.

14. I almost broke my right leg.

Pain radiated through me, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how bad it was.

15. I sat there, struggling with pain.

Waiting for the shock to subside, trying to assess the damage.

16. I moved my leg and decided to wait before heading to the hospital.

It didn’t seem broken—just bruised, swollen, and sore.

17. I gave up on going to the studio.

The new series would have to wait.

18. I took some pain pills and slept for an hour.

Rest was all I could manage.

19. I woke up. The pain was still there but felt manageable.

The day wasn’t over yet.

20. I revisited my notes for the new series.

Inspiration doesn’t take breaks, even when the body does.

21. I infused the ladder fall—and its lessons—into the series.

Art has a way of absorbing everything, even accidents.

22. I spent the afternoon in bed, writing.

Quiet moments can be surprisingly productive.

23. I studied for a couple of hours.

Philosophy doesn’t wait, and neither do deadlines.

24. I called a beloved friend who’s also a doctor.

Their reassurance eased my mind.

25. I had dinner: tortellini in brodo.

The comfort food of choice for any Italian in recovery.

26. I sketched some drafts and made notes for the series.

Even in pain, creativity found its way through.

27. I studied a bit more.

Somehow, the day still had room for learning.

28. I jotted down a few great ideas for the series.

Pain sharpens focus—or maybe just the need to distract myself.

29. I took more pain pills.

A practical end to an impractical day.

30. I fell asleep. Some pain lingered, but it had been an extremely creative day.

Life Is Imperfect. Life Is Beautiful.

Some days, chaos and creativity walk hand in hand. Injuries heal, mold gets cleaned, but the ideas born from these moments are what truly linger.

Art is a conversation. (Sometimes a weird one, but still a conversation.) At its core, it’s about what the artwork says to you—and trust me, it always says something. Even if that “something” is, “Move along, I’m not for you.”

Take The Healer, one of my own artworks, which I presented at the Westbund Art & Design Fair in Shanghai. Bold, vibrant, and deceptively simple, it inspired a wide range of interpretations. I’ve collected some of the most interesting ones from conversations during studio visits, chats, and even casual remarks.

Because I love working with archetypes—they’re such a useful way to make sense of things—I assigned one to each person based on how they described the piece. These aren’t rigid labels, just a playful way to group their perspectives.

I hope you enjoy this introduction to how I engage with others about my work. It’s always fascinating to see how one piece of art can mean so many different things to so many people.

1. The Optimist

“Oh, it’s such a happy piece! Just look at that smile—it’s so full of life. They look like they’re carrying something really special, maybe a treasure or a pot of gold. The colors are so bright and joyful. It just makes me happy to look at it.”

2. The Symbolist

“That necklace—it looks like an eclipse, doesn’t it? There’s definitely something cosmic about it, like they’re a spiritual guide. And the pot—it feels like it’s holding something symbolic. Maybe dreams, or memories, or even hidden knowledge. It’s so meaningful.”

3. The Child

“Wow! This is like a superhero! Look how big and happy he is. And he is carrying something cool. Is it candy? Yeah, I think it’s candy. And the colors are awesome—it’s like a big party! I’d want to be friends with him!”

4. The Intellectual

“There’s a striking tension here. The bold colors and shapes evoke a childlike simplicity, yet there’s a ritualistic quality in the figure’s pose and accessories. It’s as though the artist is exploring the balance between innocence and tradition, between play and purpose.”

5. The Pragmatist

“This looks like someone who works hard and takes pride in what he has accomplished. Maybe he is a farmer, carrying a harvest, or someone returning from the market. It’s straightforward and honest. I like how it feels grounded, even in such a surreal setting.”

6. The Minimalist

“I love how pared down this is. The shapes are so bold, and the colors are raw and direct. There’s no clutter—everything is exactly where it needs to be. It’s all about presence, and that’s what makes it so powerful.”

7. The Art Historian

“This reminds me of tribal masks, particularly in the exaggerated features and ceremonial feel of the figure. It feels like a modern take on those traditional forms, blending folklore with contemporary aesthetics. It’s rooted in history, but still fresh and new.”

8. The Empath

“The smile is so sweet, but it feels like there’s more to it. It’s almost like he is carrying something heavy but choosing to stay positive. There’s a resilience here, a kind of quiet determination that really touches me.”

9. The Dreamer

“This feels magical, like they’re a guardian or a traveler from another realm. The pot—it could be full of stardust, or wishes, or something wonderful he is bringing to the world. I imagine him walking under a sky of falling stars, spreading light and joy wherever he goes.”

10. The Critic

“There’s a lot happening here. The playful colors and shapes give it a childlike quality, but the exaggerated features feel deliberate, even satirical. It’s almost like the artist is critiquing how we balance the mystical and the mundane. It’s whimsical, but it has an edge.”

And there you have it—ten wildly different ways to interpret The Healer, each as unique as the person behind it. What does that say about the artwork? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

For me, this is the beauty of art: it doesn’t just reveal the artist’s vision; it reflects something back to every person who sees it. It’s not just about the work itself, but about the conversation it sparks—and the parts of ourselves we discover along the way.

So, which perspective resonates with you the most? I’d love to hear your thoughts. And I hope this playful look at The Healer gave you a little insight into my process, and how I try to navigate the endlessly fascinating relationship between art and perspectives.

After a couple of spectacular days of installation, the Westbund Art & Design Fair in Shanghai has finally opened its doors. And I’m standing here, surrounded by my newest series—a full year’s worth of work—now hanging on the walls, meticulously arranged by the incredible Caelis Galería team.

Proud? Yes. Satisfied? Absolutely.

And that’s rare for me to say. I’m usually my own harshest critic, constantly convinced a piece is never truly finished. But today? I’m looking at this 4-by-4 grid of paintings and, to my surprise, I’m smiling. There’s something satisfying about seeing it all laid out, each painting in its place, each brushstroke exactly as I intended (or close enough).

What’s even more remarkable is watching people interact with my work. There’s something magical about seeing a stranger, camera in hand, pausing to capture a moment with one of my paintings. They smile. They seem genuinely thrilled. And that thrills me.

It takes me back to the beginning, when I first had the idea for this series. Years ago, I started with a simple concept: to bring art brut—raw, unfiltered, almost primitive art—out into the light. Year after year, I built on that idea, layering in new elements, evolving styles, each experiment a step closer to…whatever this is now. And now, here it all is. Years of practice, bold choices, happy accidents, all suspended on a wall in Shanghai, casting a bit of color (and maybe a bit of joy) into people’s lives.

And do you know what?

Today, for once, I think I’ll just let myself enjoy it.