I walk into a Museum, navigating infinite halls, hanging there everywhere, undeniable pieces of Art. I walk the city streets, its walls covered with infinite languages of stickers, posters, graffiti, murals, ready made multiform undeniable pieces of Art. I see dancers, musicians, magicians, a plethora of artists live and death, famous and unknown. Some street pieces belong to museums, for future generations, some museum pieces belong to the streets, to the ephemeral. Who I am to decide that?

When I wanted to professionalize my work everyone, professors, schools, and galleries asked: what kind of art you do? Are you a painter? an illustrator? an sculptor? a designer? Figurative? Abstract? Conceptual? What are you and what is your style? You are undefined..

After all this years unable to answer these questions, I happen to think that there is no answer. I only have an statement: “I’m a non style artist”. I belong to the streets, to museums, to the abstract and the figurative, to the analogical and the digital, to the visceral and the conceptual, to the collective and the individual, the present and the future, to everyone and nothing. But mostly, to the stubborn type of artist that doesn’t care about it. I do. I create. Take or leave it. I do, with hearth, guts, brain and blood. I do. Sometimes a lot, sometimes nothing at all I undo too. Sometimes I undo, I really like it too, but just sometimes.

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