White canvas, rolled up. A light and very dry wood. Stretcher. I assemble the grid, staple the linen. “She” looks like a drum. I look at “her” in profile: I don't want hidden wrinkles or folds on the plain white. I smell it with a deep delicious and wistful inspiration, and let my fingertips run free on this vegetal skin. I take measures with my eyes closed, by heart: I hug “her” tenderly.

She is now on the floor, waiting for me with the excitement of a lover. I grab the oil tubes of the colors that are burning my in heart, and squeeze them, with lust, into a bottle where I add the seminal essences needed to artistic conception, and fertilize it with a manly, orgasmic, natural, spontaneous gesture. The various colors I choose spread in spasmodic convulsions, in a wild ecstasy, announcing a kaleidoscope of infinite combinations in all chromatic shapes and sizes. I then purify everything with water and walk away, wheezing. I say goodbye to this dripping achievement, reluctantly though, and wait a few hours / days until the act dries up and gains consistency.

I return back to “her” with so much nostalgia that I quick start scanning “her” body, shamelessly, in the four possible ways allowed by the rectangular or the square where “she” lays: I rotate the canvas on the easel. Up, down and sideways.

I do not know what I’m looking at. I almost close my eyes and try to have a glimpse through my eyelashes. I allow perception and synthesis to work together…and suddenly I see! There it is, right in the middle of everything, disguised by deceptive border colors.

I discovered the theme of my new painting! I discovered the design of it!
Now I have to isolate it, integrate it on her’s colored siblings. I grab the brushes and stroke the contours. I develop the theme until it grows older: it speaks already.
I then take her to the old Masters school and hide her from the tempting dangers of easy fashions along the way. I give her a name and I hope she will get married. If necessary, I expose her to the world.
This is VISIONISM.