About the Moss


One remembers that first object for an eternity, its details, and how it sparked the journey into a realm of freedom. For when one creates art, one is free; no one can dictate what is right or wrong, or rather, they might try, but no matter how hard they do, what one pair of eyes sees, another cannot bring itself to articulate, since no single work of art fits perfectly into two different minds.

That is why no artist can copy; whoever copies is not an artist, they do not experience the scene with magic, nor do they truly wish to express themselves. Their task may seem light, yet they carry a heavy burden because they lack a sense of freedom. They do not create, they do not process, and they barely even journey; they simply stagnate.

Yet the artist’s mission is to move toward something greater, something not yet defined, while remaining willing to lose everything or start over, provided it secures their freedom.


Square canvases, rounded ideas, unpainted corners, signatures brimming with pride. Smudging the neatness and laying bare the core idea.

For art to exist, there must be two things. The first is intentionality, planning and an idea, where the foundation and creation take place. This is the most important aspect for the audience. 
The second, and uniquely important, element is unintentionality: the realm where art actually happens through errors, the unplanned, and the accidents that infuse a work with artistry, without which it would not be art. It is the layer that reveals human clumsiness, marring a piece yet unintentionally making it beautiful.

It approaches the idea of the most perfect imperfection—one that allows itself to be molded—without knowing if each attempt will successfully recapture the same formula that brought success to the mind, alongside a certain sense of restlessness.

There is a profound link between time not spent waiting and results that were never anticipated. The concept itself is just as important as the timing of its application, which allows something new to emerge.
That time ticks down—it is a dwindling resource rather than an abundance—creating an anxious anticipation that gives rise to something that defies singularity.

My space is my temple. At first, it was a dream, having my own studio after so many years of improvising in different places, cities, and countries. There is no space that cannot be improvised. Then, it began to transform, filling every nook and cranny; in the midst of it all? 

Clutter, ideas scattered everywhere. Then came order, and an idea born of curiosity, a desire to see something through, that gradually took over the entire canvas. It grew just as we grow, as art grows, and as life forces us to mature amidst chaos and disorder, between intention and chance. It remains chaotic, for that chaos is necessary every few days to allow for self-renewal and to avoid stagnation; without that sense of things being "wrong," we lack the impulse to set them right.


Today, I see how that initial idea led me to what I have decided to christen my "first day of life." Yet, I realize this, too, may simply be part of an idea, and that a new "this" will soon emerge, though I hope not, for I madly love the journey leading up to the studio. That long, 68-meter corridor and the fourteen steps that prolong the anticipation of expressing not only what I want to convey but also what I don't. These are things that inevitably gain power and, without my intending them to surface, end up captured there all the same.


And then comes everything else—how to reconcile all that we wish to be with what we actually express. It is about how we try to express ourselves in the rest of life when there is no object to work on, to modify, or to decipher working on things that do not take shape in words and cannot be clearly labeled.


                                I am the Moss