About us

If we were in continuous metamorphosis like Gregory, the meaning of our stay on earth would be explained. Admiring, doubting and courting the sublime in the existentialism of the probus man. 

An oxygen machine for romanticism itself that constantly changes its face, that is formed and flakes to reach an impossible harmony and escape the arms of chaos because this brings with it apathy, narcissism and the fear (almost phobia) of being forgotten. 

Art is a desperate race to indelibly engrave on the metal the place in the world that belongs to the artist, who is not aware, however, that, like acid when it engraves in the plaque, it tears from the inside the bowels of the world itself shaking human nature. I am still afraid to look into the clouded and dark eyes in the shadow of a portrait of Rembrandt or into the honest and intimate scream of Goya because in them a piece of humanity is lost, because they paint a crevasse in the world. 

Art is a reflection of man and consequently this changes with it, it shows on canvas the ambition and fear of the individual and his metamorphosis..

Energy is not created or destroyed, nothing undergoes such an abrupt change. It is the transformative process that is shown as the empty space between two walls that gives sinister opportunities to philosophize without reaching any conclusion. 

Like Mantilla and the faces immersed in the clouds, nature, therefore the sublime, has full control over mortal lives. The power of change, reincarnation.

The void, however, is an abyss to be filled, it is not made to remain in harmony, nothing is. 

So, what is left for us men than to gorge pigs with art? 

"From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity."

Edvard Munch