I was born with given parameters, inherited codes, ready for everything and nothing, managing my mind and disposition, foolishly, letting the minutes and the years go to waste. I give the impossible a possibility on the secret paths, the compassless journey. Watching myself and others, I am astounded by the decisions we make which initially seem rational but later look meaningless. I become aware how amidst our desperate struggles we tend to forget the very purpose of those struggles. Stumbling along in obscure crowds, carrying undeterminable burdens, we fanatically dig deeper and deeper, creating weird memory-creations of persons, situations, places, events, great expectations, illusory window displays, defeats, disappointments, minor victories. It is such recollections that constitute the backbone of my painting. I oddly wobble along amidst hazy memories and images with the compass clutched in my hand, without poles, on the path that leads to the unknown and the impossible. I unsentimentally familiarize myself with the truth, ripping off the wrapper, bluntly deforming the package. Perhaps I might learn something, something real, the naked truth that might help me find my bearings. The places I work in are simple and derelict, illusory and poetic: hangars, cellars, cinemas, underground stations, ransacked flats. All full of vibrating statement-gasps. The most real locations possible for painting- naked, undisguised, low-life reality. Clever as it may sound, it is true that all that exists reveals its essence when it perishes. Assessing whether the secrets confided to each other can withstand the cruel selection of remembrance is left to the future.