El niño oculto Painting

It is in the street where we are with others, we cross paths, we compare, we test ourselves, it is in the street where those who have nothing sleep, it is in the streets where people collectively demonstrate, it is in the street where the artist, the worker, child, woman and man… they complain, shout or whisper… a ruminant murmur, continuous, that deafens their own mind. And there the city walls become the support for the most liberating exercise of expressiveness. Saying what we feel, what we think, what we want or hate, we sometimes say hidden in the night at the speed that pushes what should come out ... inscribed, pasted, scrawled, etched on the walls. Walk, see, recognize myself in the feelings of others. The voice of art, the most urgent, vital manifestation, the domesticated fury, in the gestures of so many, made me recreate, evoke fragments of these walls and silent words. A nail is constantly advancing along the wall, penetrating it, imprinting it. An atavistic gesture of this feeling that we recognize and that others silence under the pseudonym of order and harmony, absent harmony until the distribution of wealth is balanced. Fierce capitalism that cleans its walls, like Lady Macbeth, the blood from her hands. Paint! Paint the walls! It's a way to take them down.