Untitled n°117

This work abandons the slow grammar of the artist's other series. Here, there are no transitions. There is only gesture — direct, embodied, unapologetic.

The painting is built through pressure. Black calligraphies cut through the canvas with the assurance of muscle. A burnt orange rises from the lower right like a low heat. Pinks emerge wet, almost flesh-like, against passages of cool grey and ash. Each mark is a decision, made and not reconsidered.

The composition is openly virile, in the oldest sense of the word: it carries the weight of presence, of contact, of having been made by a body that knew exactly where to press. Nothing apologizes. Nothing softens itself in advance.

And yet, alongside this force, the painting holds a distinct sensuality. The colors meet the way skin meets skin — pink against grey, black against the warmth of orange, dense pigment against the breathing of the canvas beneath. There is no eroticism of subject here, only the more primary eroticism of paint itself: matter touched, pressed, marked, allowed to remain wet on the surface.

The work asks to be looked at with the same directness with which it was made. It does not seek interpretation. It seeks recognition — the kind of recognition that happens, briefly, between two presences that meet without explaining themselves.