In my 25th birthday I began carrying a notebook in my pocket to learn to draw. Progress was very slow but the notebook made the pocket its home and became my cruel mirror, showing me at every moment my crude and desperate reality. As close fellows, we end up hating each other. By the time the notebook had several hundred pages, it couldn't stand me and one day it committed suicide, set itself on fire, and goodbye.

It was a hard blow for me. The notebook was a loved one, it was myself. I had committed suicide myself.

But not everything disappeared, only the outside, the leaves. Yes, the invisible, the root, undertook a transformation that gave rise to the notebook's rebirth. We reconcile. And it offered me magnificent flowers and fruits. Thanks to it I painted lots of canvases and watercolors, made thousands of drawings ... I got a worthy artwork and the feeling of being in peace with myself and with the world. The notebook is still in my pocket. It keeps my drawings and my drawings are my breathing.