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THE BOOK OF ILLUSIONS


THE BOOK OF ILLUSIONS is a new subject for me on making a several art works of beauty silliness, nothing to really talk about. Nothing to explain. Not great art. Is only a pretext for making jokes in images, is experimenting by the laugh. By being unmeasurable. Well. You can say that’s everything and nothing at the same time. Yes it is. Why? Always why. Because without an explanation what’s instead? Something that… Oh well, people think - this is gone a stop sometime - but oh no, there it isn't. It will never's gone a stop. All this things flying over around. All this madness waving around. And ourselves feeling comfortably numb wether if we're gone a die someday. The book of illusions is expecting to see what we couldn’t see. What it is impossible to see. Why our eyes doesn’t see the essence of life, things, or nature? Why does our eyes only see a part? Why this miracle of life is limited to a convenient coherence or a normality convention? A kind of illusion in communicating our thoughts. Why our thoughts are identified with ourselves, with what we previously think we are? Why we adjust reality to ourselves? It isn’t a kind of stupidity that guide us?

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