I cross the curtain to sit on the parquet floor putting the soles of my feet together and holding them in my palms. I start moving my knees up and down to be part of the individual warming ups taking place on the floor. I look around and enjoy watching my shadow enlarged on the opposite wall, where photos of dancers cut from black and white newspapers are plastered. My shadow tangles with other peoples’ shadows once one of the choreographers comes forward and tells us to walk around the dance floor in order to become acquainted with the space.
My corner in my studio is not a mere corner. It is me. I am born every time my brush touches the palette and caresses your body to fuse my inner self in you. You are born every time I am born. Every time I pour my sentiments on you. You become real and you become me. I become you.
I am not the painter, I am my painting.
Pour my glass and get me drunk with every gulp which brings me to you. I will forever die in this corner, forever live, relive, be born, become you.