My Multidisciplinary Waster's statement

"I just vomit colorful felt"

This is the conclusion to which I should come if I could fly out of my body and contemplate from a more impersonal distance the path of my work.

It is, as if in an assault of anticonsumer Christmas anger, I run in a Toys'r Us store and devore the complete corridor of felt-puppets, jump out without paying and vomit forthwith all my stomach content in the center of the shopping-centre square.

"Oh, so nice!", would say a few older ladies who wanted to buy a PlayStation for their nephews, while they admire on the pavement the puddle of colorful felt, stumbles of Swarovski's crystals and spots of neon polyurethane, while a small girl release of her hand from the parents and runs to see the preciousness of that puke, removes it with a finger and take it to the mouth, justly in the instant when a Mc Donald's delivery truck run over her.

"Oh, so nice!" It is what I am often hear from the public, while I tread on the accelerator of the truck. "Oh, so nice!" Nevertheless, it is no nice. It is exactly the opposite of it, I just show the golden bundle around a rotten candy.

I use to work with representations that generate precious images, often located in a landscape of teenager dreams from which I have never be able -or wanted- to escape. But as René Magritte's pipe is not a pipe in "The perfidy of the images", my nice things are also not nice, although they function at first sight without the need of a previous explanation.

In a parallel world - the contemporary art world-, where the strange and incomprehensible thing is the norm, I will continue adorning their front windows with my fluorescent snots, between applauses and shouts of "Oh, so nice!".

And I will continue vomiting colourful felt.