In November, we want to become painters. So, we listen and let the materials and shapes come to us. The world is overflowing, taking with it the objects that populate our daily lives. The chambers vomit clothes, food and furniture into the streets. Tired mattresses wallow on the sidewalks, impregnated with the traces of dreams, sexuality, death and disease that have been deposited there. Pictures of life are there, available, worked by bodies that have become brushes. Just serve yourself. So, we pick them and drag them with us. They are perfect supports for our paintings. We sleep on each mattress to capture the energy it releases, and we augment it with our pictorial translations.

What is represented escapes us. We paint with the tendency to become only one person. We have no plan, we move forward in silence, letting ourselves be guided by the atmosphere that the mattress gives off. The subjects present themselves to us on their own, in fragments and fragmentary juxtaposition, influenced by our naps. So, we don’t paint our dreams, but we paint as we dream.

Picked up mattresses rest on the workspace. Everything is already in them but not visible. We need to reveal what they have to say. To become permeable to their songs we begin by lying our whole body over it, and abandon ourselves. Once our person is far away, dreams and mental images are formed. They set the tone, they dictate the mood. Do these belong to us or do they belong to the previous owner of the mattress? Surely they are somewhere in the middle. Numb and filled with this drowsy information, we perform the gestures that are dictated to our hand. We don’t think, we will observe what happened afterwards.