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Since relatively recently, my work begins an exodus to the bottom of itself, plunges into the depths, dives.

Under the impulse of this turn, she undresses, orphaned by the characters that used to inhabit her and, shaking off the tacit precepts that seemed to govern an idea of composition tight to the needs of those little stories that painting proposes, she gains freedom.

The work balances color and movement: two keys that flash like beacons in the night of styles and where, a long time ago, I found my place. The abstract torsion grows, a kind of backwater to which I return and return for ages; sometimes per day. But recent abstractions are not isolated; they insist, they proliferate, basking in the pure delight of color, defining a territory.

The fabrics are almost empty of narrative, barely wrapped in what the scattered pigment decides to do with it. Color advances and recedes from contact with other colors. Covered in their different forms of dissolution (water, oil, etc.), they wage a fight that results in marbled surfaces, sometimes opaque, sometimes shiny. It is the war between substances that meet, are recognized and do not merge.

The canvas carries the drama of that impossibility.