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One day, alone in a cafe my hand guided by boredom began to scribble on a blank sheet. So years later on a canvas and a notebook with colors and a pencil, I signed my new birth. I paint what I see, I write what I feel, what I breathe. Life is full of battlefields absurd that mankind sows and painfully resonate with me. Does an answer exist to all these barbarities? I was looking for the reason, but neither I nor anyone else found it. And yet this same humanity was able to build Persepolis, the Greek columns, draw the beatiful faces of Renaissance, travel the air space, to save lifes trough heart transplantation.
