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                                We know and feel that it is not just an inner call that makes you start
                                practicing art.
                                Late at night when, oblivious of the time, you talk about art, there are
                                moments when you realize with a sense of panic that you have conceived
                                and there is no way back, and you cannot think where the seed that fertilized
                                you may have come from. Moments of mystery when you try to trace
                                the provenance of a concept or a feeling, irrespective of its external features,
                                that is still in gestation and has yet to reach its final form.
                                That's where our contact begins.
                                The over-stimulation we experience at such moments becomes a shared
                                experience because we yearn to communicate, because I try to see
                                what you are thinking, see how you pulsate, and because you try to see
                                how far you have touched me.
                                The only medium of actual, tactile communication is ourselves as we are.
                                Our body attests to our existence. The way in which we exist is revealed to me
                                by your gestures, your communicative actions, the pulses emitted
                                from the depth of your subconscious.
                                You talk about an existence which you believe belongs to you, because
                                you take the liberty and the responsibility to remold it into a different form
                                from that attributed to you by conventional perception, because you 'absurdly'
                                transform the photograph on your social ID to look like one of your pulses.

                                Yet at the same time you know that you coexist with so many other beings,
                                all condemned to the illusion of a phony self-recognition in images made under
                                another's will and programming and are products of conscious compromise.
                                The knowledge and awareness of this is your artistic pedestal. Do you wish
                                to stand up on it and speak about all this in images, symbols or ideas?
                                No, you are afraid to create a world of foreign dreams which will bring
                                the other party to a condition of intellectual contemplation of you. You are
                                afraid lest it removes them from where you want to feel them;
                                from your guts, where a subconscious urge to express and create
                                is gradually gestated, formulated and finally released.
                                You cannot see your own pulse.
                                Now you know that the origin of the seed that created it is not exclusively
                                your own heritage.
                                It comes from a distant, unspecified time.
                                It is common heritage for anyone who wishes to keep it.
                                But how can you convince them that it is so?
                                In the middle of the night we continue to dream at will, no matter which way
                                the programmed evolution of the surrounding world may go.
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