The Tables of the Moneychangers and the Seats of Them That Sold Doves
It is said that whoever knows how to draw no longer knows how to do so: technique robs us of the freedom to roam within the limits of the mark. I believe, however, that a man endowed with great technique is merely more exacting regarding his own afflictions.
It is here that I ought to emphasize my words, to write that much-sought-after "statement", a request always made to modern artists. But this would be a paradox. I am not the Sunday nonconformist, the bourgeois dressed in black. Do not hold it against me, but you will find my answer in the weave of the words, not in the words themselves.
It is the very same way I have traced the emergence of faces from their chiaroscuro: one works by layers, yet a definitive line is never drawn. We are not lines. Why, then, let my being be a line?
They ask for an artistic commentary, but my commentary, in order to be such, is empty, like identity, like the revelation that behind the 'I' lies merely a tale, and little else. They want a collection of tales, and here it is: