We constantly search for beauty, that divine entity that’s unreachable. We want it so, yet we cannot reach it. What’s godly is not for us to behold, our eyes are not made to see it. We look at the sun and it blinds us, it burns our skin, it is precious and unattainable. In “Retratos” (Portraits), the represented figures are the unreachable ones, their memories altered by time. Groucho Marx is no longer Groucho, Norma Jean is no longer Norma and so on, so on. These are our gods, dead or alive they are our wishes and dreams. No longer human, they hunt our minds.

By taking advantage of their holiness, a new object was born, new images have rose, distorted beings begging to be released.