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Today, I can finally share some big news: the Caelis Gallery in Shanghai has officially confirmed my participation in the WestBund Art & Design Fair! Yep, I’ll be there, alongside an incredible group of Spanish artists, from November 7th to the 10th. It’s an amazing opportunity to show a series I’ve been pouring myself into all year: Moonlight Tales.

Moonlight Tales is, in a way, like a midnight journey—a dive into lights and shadows, into things that only come alive under moonlight.

Each piece in the series holds a story, a quiet moment, a little slice of introspection that only the moon can tease out of us when no one else is looking. Working on these paintings has been like walking down a path lit only by the silvery glow of the moon, with all its mystery and subtlety. It’s amazing what a bit of soft, indirect light can reveal.

The fair also brings another special debut: my book Moonlight Tales. This book, with its beautiful preface by the wonderful Sonia Borrell, doesn’t just capture the series; it captures its essence—the lines, the shadows, and the spaces in between. Every page is a chance to look a little closer, to linger with each story on the canvas. It’s an invitation to see these pieces in another light (or perhaps a gentler shade of darkness). Sonia’s words add an extra dimension to the experience, setting a reflective tone and inviting readers to explore the quiet, half-seen moments that inspired each piece.

So, off I go. My bags are packed, stuffed with dreams, canvases, and a lot of late-night memories. If you’re in Shanghai, come by and step into this moonlit world with me. Because that’s what Moonlight Tales is, really—a collection of those moments that can only be found in the spaces between light and shadow. See you in Shanghai.

People always ask me what a painting “means.” Like there’s a secret code hidden in there. They want the backstory, the hidden message, the grand idea. And it’s natural—art makes people curious. It opens doors. Some wide, some narrow, but doors all the same.

I get it. And most of the time, I love to answer.

In fact, I could talk for hours about my work. Hours. About colors, brushstrokes, that one splatter I added at 2 a.m. for “depth.” I can get so carried away, I forget what you even asked (I’ll just be rambling on about the history of cobalt blue at some point). But here’s the thing: I think there’s something even better.

Sometimes, I want to say: Forget what I thought. Forget my story. Don’t worry about my “meaning.” Just look at the painting like it’s a mirror—a mirror for you.

Because that’s the best part of art. It reflects.

The Reflection is Yours

Standing in front of a painting, it’s not just about colors or shapes or technique. It’s about feeling. (Yes, feelings.) A piece of art might make you feel peaceful, nostalgic, even a little moody. But that’s not the art. That’s you. That’s you bringing something of yourself to this thing on the wall. 

A landscape might remind you of that little lake you loved as a kid. Or it might make you feel restless, like you need to pack a bag and just go. A portrait might look lonely or haunted or dreamy, all depending on your mood. The art stays the same, but you shift. You’re bringing yourself to it, like a silent conversation.

And here’s the best part: the art doesn’t change. You do.

Art as Self-Reflection

Art has this sneaky way of pulling things out of us. Things we didn’t know were sitting there, just under the surface. You walk up to a piece thinking you’ll “appreciate some art.” But suddenly, a shade of blue pulls you in, or a certain line tugs at some old memory. A shape you can’t explain hits you right in the gut. 

And sometimes you don’t even know why it’s happening. You’re just there, feeling something, staring at a painting of all things (and trying to play it cool in the gallery). But that’s your soul talking. 

When you look at art, you’re seeing yourself. Sometimes it’s obvious—a scene that reminds you of a place you loved or a face that looks strangely familiar. Other times, it’s a mystery, even to you. There’s no need to explain it (or at least, not to me). Just let the art become a mirror, showing you something hidden within.

Giving Art the Last Word

I’ve come to believe that every piece of art is part mirror, part mystery. When you ask me what a painting “means,” I could tell you. But honestly? It might just get in the way. What you see could be more interesting than what I intended. More true, even.

Think of art like a conversation—except I’ve already said my part. When you bring your own story to a painting, that’s where the real magic happens. It’s not about my ideas; it’s about yours. Art isn’t there to give you answers. It’s there to give you a question, softly asking, “What do you see?”

I’ve watched people looking at a painting, and I see it on their faces. Thoughtfulness, confusion, surprise. Some people even look a little teary (not that they’d admit it). It’s fascinating—like they’re standing there, seeing something private. Something deep within themselves. 

And it’s never the same from one person to the next. One person’s joy might be another’s grief. One person’s calm might be someone else’s nostalgia. The painting itself stays the same. It’s the people who bring the difference.

 The Mirror That Never Lies

In a way, art is one of the most honest mirrors there is. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t filter. It just shows you what you bring to it. That’s why, when people ask me what a painting “means,” I sometimes just say, “What does it mean to you?”

Yes, I know it sounds a little evasive (even mysterious, maybe). But honestly? I don’t want to trap you in my version. I want you to find yours. Because your story, your view, your reaction—that’s as real as anything I thought when I made it. Sometimes even more real.

You don’t have to analyze it. You don’t have to “get” it. Just let yourself see it. Let yourself feel whatever you feel. Let the painting show you something unexpected.

Letting Go of “Meaning”

So the next time you’re looking at art, don’t stress about “getting it.” Let go of the need to “understand.” Just stand there. Look. See what comes up. It might be familiar, or it might surprise you. It might even make you uncomfortable. But that’s where the beauty is.

Sometimes, art just gives you a feeling. A flash of memory. A quiet, strange pull. And sometimes, it’s like looking in a mirror that shows you things you didn’t know you needed to see.

So don’t worry about what the painting means to me. Worry about what it means to you. That’s the true beauty of art—it’s an invitation to see a part of yourself you may have missed. Or forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, were looking for all along.

After attending Sonia Borrel’s group show in Paris, I took a familiar journey—back to Italy. A trip to visit family and old friends. But this time, something felt a little… off. Not in a bad way, just different. This time, I was seeing it all through my partner’s eyes. Fresh eyes. “Foreign” eyes (which sometimes made me wonder if they were seeing the same country). It’s funny how that changes everything. What once felt so familiar suddenly becomes new and strange. 

You start noticing things you never cared about before. The texture of the cobblestones, the way people’s voices rise at the end of every sentence (are they always that loud?), the random quirks of a place you used to call home. You become a tourist in your own memories. And the strangest thing? Memory and reality don’t exactly get along. (They’d probably argue over whose version of events is correct.)

Memories are like canvases, aren’t they? Blank spaces that you fill in over time with colors, shapes, sensations—maybe even some imagination. You think you’ve captured it perfectly, stored it in your mental archive forever. But then reality shows up with its imperfections, and suddenly, the colors don’t quite match. You find yourself standing in a place you’ve held in your heart for years—and it looks nothing like what you remember. There’s a crack in the canvas.

Meeting up with old friends? That’s a whole different experience. You think, Ah, here we go, it’ll be just like old times. And it is… until you look around and realize their kids—kids you remember as tiny, sticky-fingered toddlers—are now towering teenagers with opinions about politics. Or worse, adults. (Yes, they drive cars. No, I don’t know how that happened either.) You smile, you laugh, you share stories, but there’s this little voice in the back of your head whispering, “Wait, did I just blink and lose five years”?

And then there are the places. Oh, the places. The streets where you played as a kid, the café where you once wasted hours talking nonsense. They’re either gone or completely transformed. The corner shop that used to sell candy? Closed, and now it’s a vegan smoothie bar. (Progress, I guess?) It’s disorienting, like someone rearranged your life’s backdrop without asking for your permission.

This is where I started thinking about art. (I know, weird transition, but stick with me.)

Art is strange in that it doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t age the way buildings or people do. A painting won’t suddenly decide to be a vegan smoothie bar. But it does something weirder—it grows with you. At least, that’s what it feels like. 

You see, a work of art never really changes. The brushstrokes are always where the artist left them, the colors don’t fade (unless you’ve been hanging it in direct sunlight—don’t do that). Yet, as the years go by, that same piece of art seems to shift. To evolve. It grows up with you, like an old friend you think you know everything about—until they surprise you by becoming a world-class pastry chef or deciding to run a marathon. 

You hang a painting on your wall, live with it for years, and think you’ve figured it out. It’s nice, maybe even beautiful. Then one day, out of nowhere, it speaks to you in a different way. Maybe it’s not just about beauty anymore. Maybe it’s about loss, or change, or how time is actually a sneaky thief in the night (seriously, where did those years go?). You spot a detail you’d missed before, and suddenly, the painting is telling a new story. A story you weren’t ready to hear until now. 

That’s the magic of art. It stays the same, but we don’t. We evolve, we grow, and art grows with us—or maybe, we grow into it. It becomes a mirror of where we are in life. What we’re ready to see, what we need to hear. 

And maybe that’s why art survives the passing of time, while so much else fades or transforms. A city can change beyond recognition. Friends can drift in and out. Even the places we hold closest to our hearts can vanish without warning. But art? Art stays, steady as ever, whispering new things to us when we’re ready to listen. 

In the end, we don’t just grow with the art we love—we grow into it. And perhaps that’s the truest mark of time’s passage: realizing that what we saw years ago isn’t what we see now, even if the object itself hasn’t moved an inch. (The real trick is remembering where you hung it in the first place.)

Yesterday, I had one of those unexpected moments that stick with you. I spent a couple of hours with Sonia Borrell in Paris. (Yeah, the Sonia Borrell.) It was right before the launch of her book Art in Real-Time: Collecting Tomorrow’s Master and the opening of “La Vie est Belle” at the Zberro gallery. A double-whammy of art world buzz.

Now, let me tell you, Sonia is a force. The moment she walked into the bar where we met, the air changed. (Seriously, the bartender perked up like we’d just stepped into a movie scene.) It wasn’t just her presence—it was this magnetic energy, a cocktail of passion, humanity, and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe art fumes? Whatever it was, she had it in spades.

Talking to Sonia feels like being inside her book. One moment we’re discussing up-and-coming artists, and the next she’s interrupted by a call from a legendary gallerist. No big deal. Or, casually, an audio message from a world-renowned artist. This is just Sonia’s life. She breathes art. Lives it. (Honestly, I think she is art.) You don’t just chat with her, you absorb her stories—her whole journey.

Halfway through our conversation, I realized something—this book she’s written? It’s only the beginning. If you think Art in Real-Time dives deep into the art world (it really does), there’s still so much more bubbling beneath the surface. Her knowledge is beyond vast—it’s like she’s mapped out every corner of the art engine, from the tiniest cog to the biggest gear. Every mechanism that makes the art world spin? She knows it. (Intimately.) 

That’s why, if you have even the slightest interest in art, you’ve got to read this book. Whether you’re a new collector trying to figure out where to start, or a seasoned one navigating those big six-figure purchases, Sonia lays it all out for you. It’s not just a guide; it’s an invitation. An invitation to step fully into the art world—into the mind of a true collector. You’ll learn how to spot trends, build relationships with galleries and artists, and understand the often-unseen forces that shape art as we know it. 

But let me add something crucial here. The book isn’t just for collectors. As an artist myself, I devoured it. The perspective Sonia offers is one we don’t often get—a view of the art world from multiple angles, some of which we artists tend to overlook. Her insights into the market, the gallery systems, and even how collectors think, gave me a broader understanding of the whole ecosystem we work in. It’s like a backstage pass to the inner workings of a machine we’re all a part of but rarely get to see in action.

Honestly, I could’ve stayed in that bar forever, listening to her. But alas, the show (and the art world) had to go on. But lucky for us, her book is out there. So, go grab it. Dive in. It’s time to fully step into the world of contemporary art collecting—and who better to guide you than Sonia Borrell? Whether you’re a collector, an artist, or just someone passionate about art, this book will give you a fresh lens to view it all.

It’s a funny thing, contradiction.

You’d think it would ruin a piece, wouldn’t you? But it doesn’t. Not at all. Instead, it’s what gives it life. Look at any great painting—a Bacon, a Bosch, or even a Caravaggio. There’s tension, a sort of unresolved push and pull that draws you in. The conversation between light and shadow. The friction between elegance and grotesque. It’s the unease, the off-balance, that makes it hum with energy.

My own work is full of these contradictions. (Sometimes I wonder if they’re even more important than the figures themselves.) Like the piece I did of a dragon—not your typical, mythic creature but something far more absurd. This one didn’t have the massive, leathery wings or scales glistening in chiaroscuro. No, this one had something almost goofy about it: a long, toothy grin set against a background of bright, chaotic swirls. 

It’s a dragon, but also not. A hybrid, almost cartoonish in its simplicity. The eyes are wide—more curious than menacing. And yet, despite its playful, almost childlike appearance, there’s something unsettling about it. (Those teeth are a little too sharp. That gaze a little too fixed.) And that’s where the contradiction comes in: it’s humorous, but it’s not entirely safe.

Maybe that’s why I painted it the way I did—blue skin with these odd, thin stripes, as if it’s been bound by something unseen. Because it’s not just a dragon; it’s an exploration of what a dragon could be. Something hovering on the edge of two worlds. Playful and threatening. Silly and serious. I remember finishing that toothy smile, stepping back, and feeling the weight of its strange duality. Was it a predator? A trickster? Or just some harmless creature, grinning for no reason at all?

That’s the thing about contradiction—it’s a reflection of how we actually experience the world. Conflicted, unresolved. We’re filled with opposing forces every day: fear and hope, rage and gentleness, strength and fragility. It’s what makes us human. It’s also what gives art its depth.

So why fight it? Why not lean into the contradiction, let it spill out across the canvas? Trust that these tensions will create something true, something that resonates. I don’t try to tie it all up neatly. I let it be messy, let it contradict itself. Because that’s where the story is—in the shadows. In the spaces between the scales, the stripes, the teeth and the smile.

And that’s where the beauty is, too.