There was a time as a writer when words failed me like water fails the desert. Empty like a seashell washed up on the beach on a cold autumn day, I took a therapeutic art course called “Mess Painting”. Raging with coarse brushes and dark colors on worthless newspaper, abusing the world's bad news as a surface, like in a feverish trance, I worked myself out of the darkness. It was a mess of colors and shapes, and I did not care to name it. There was only the act, the imperative: Don’t think—just paint, paint, paint!

Some weeks later, I found my inner voice again. The suffocating childhood mess had made it front stage. My paintings found brighter colors, softer lines. I guess every artist, whatever your art is, knows this process of living and dying. That's why we create, that's why we write, paint, sculpture.