5 · Closure and Distance: The Silence of the Work

The completion of a painting is not an act of will, but a recognition. When the piece finds its own balance, I stop. However, the process of closure is both turbulent and honest. Often, I push the work too far, deliberately breaking it only to rescue it from its own ruins; I want the work to be rich in nuance, possessing a complexity that makes it vibrate. In the studio, the ecstasy of fulfillment and absolute frustration coexist; there are days when I finish in total euphoria, only to find the result unbearable the next morning. This is why time is my only trusted judge.

I let the piece rest. I observe it in silence for two or three days, attempting to shed my identity as the author, as if the work belonged to someone else. It is during this interval that something almost mystical occurs: the painting begins to gain context, to absorb energy, and to age prematurely until it finds its own character. If, after that time, the piece still breathes and nothing feels extra, it is done. I do not pursue technical perfection, but clarity. For me, clarity comes from starting from something that, even if not scientifically proven, is certain and real to me; it is the moment when order and chaos stop fighting and begin to coexist.

Finally, the moment arrives to document and name the work. Although I work with the speed and objectivity required by the U.S. market, my emotions remain anchored in the light and strength of the Mediterranean. Documentation is the technical side—the recording of the object—while the name is usually a word evoked by the materials or the process. The title is not an imposition; it is merely a starting point, a thread for the viewer to pull if they wish to begin reading the work. With this act, I close the cycle. The story of this painting detaches itself from me and inevitably becomes the seed that will fuel my next quest.