We do not see the world as it is. We see the world as we are.

A work of art does not exist simply because it has been created.

It exists because someone observes it.

Until that moment, it remains matter, light, form, and silence. It is only a possibility. It is the act of looking that activates the experience and transforms the object into a relationship.

I believe that no work possesses a fixed meaning. Its significance emerges through the encounter between what the artist offers and what the observer brings with them: their memories, emotions, references, doubts, and silences.

Every gaze creates a different work. Not because the work changes, but because the observer is never the same.

To observe is a creative act.

We do not passively receive what we see. We construct meaning through our experience. Perception is not a photograph of reality; it is an ongoing interpretation. The world we believe we see is, to a great extent, a reflection of the structure of our own consciousness.

That is why I am less interested in what a work represents than in what it awakens.

A line can be a boundary or a path.

A void can be absence or freedom.

A shadow can conceal or reveal.

None of this belongs to the work itself.

It belongs to the encounter between the work and the person who contemplates it.

My works do not seek to lead the observer toward a conclusion. Instead, they suspend, if only for a moment, the need for immediate answers. They create a space where attention can slow down and where the gaze recovers its capacity for discovery.

Perhaps that is the true purpose of art.

Not to teach.

Not to persuade.

But to restore our ability to observe before we interpret.

When that happens, the work is no longer simply hanging on a wall. It begins to exist within us.

In that moment, artist and observer no longer occupy separate roles. Both become participants in the same investigation.

Because a work of art does not end when it is completed.

It is reborn each time someone truly chooses to look.

To see is not to receive the world. It is to construct it.

From the very first moment of our existence, we learn to believe that what we see corresponds to reality.

But is it really so?

Perception is not a mirror of the world. It is a process of continuous construction. The brain selects, organizes, interprets, and completes what the senses merely suggest. We see less than we imagine, and we imagine more than we see.

Each experience transforms the way we perceive the next.

Memory reshapes the present.

Expectation alters meaning.

Emotion reorganizes the gaze.

What we call reality is, to a great extent, a composition of what exists and what we project onto it.

Perhaps that is why no two people ever experience the same work of art.

Nor the same world.

Art interests me precisely because it makes this process visible.

When a geometric composition appears to move without actually moving, when a void acquires greater presence than matter, when a single line transforms the perception of space, we begin to understand that reality is not fixed. It is an experience in constant transformation.

My works seek to inhabit that territory.

They do not aim to represent objects.

They seek to reveal the invisible mechanisms of perception.

I use geometry because it precedes language. Before words existed, there were already relationships, proportions, rhythms, and tensions. Geometry is a silent grammar through which we organize space and, often without realizing it, organize thought itself.

Each work thus becomes a perceptual experience.

An exercise in attention.

An invitation to slow the gaze until what once seemed self-evident no longer is.

At that moment, the work ceases to be merely an aesthetic object.

It becomes an instrument of inquiry.

It does not investigate the work.

It investigates the observer.

Because what we see always reveals as much about ourselves as it does about what we are looking at.

Perhaps the greatest illusion is not what our eyes show us.

Perhaps it is believing that we see reality as it truly is.

Art opens another possibility.

It reminds us that every act of seeing is also an act of interpretation.

And that by transforming the way we see, we inevitably transform the way we inhabit the world.

Why I Use Geometric Forms

Geometry precedes language.

Before words existed, there were already relationships. Before narratives, there were proportions. Before culture, there was nature.

A leaf is organized according to invisible geometries. Trees grow through rhythms. Crystals form in patterns. Orbits follow precise trajectories. The human body continuously seeks balance between symmetry and asymmetry.

Geometry is not a human invention.

It is a discovery.

It interests me because it represents a universal language. It does not belong to a particular era, religion, or culture. It belongs to the very structure of the world.

In my work, geometry never appears as decoration or as a formal exercise.

It is an instrument of thought.

Each line establishes a relationship.

Each plane defines a tension.

Each void creates a space where the eye can breathe.

I work with elementary forms because I believe that the more reduced the visual vocabulary, the greater the possibility of creating profound experiences.

To eliminate is not to impoverish.

It is to reveal.

Just as, in silence, we hear what noise once concealed, simplicity allows us to perceive relationships that complexity so often disguises.

Geometry offers order.

Consciousness offers meaning.

It is between the two that the work comes into being.

From Idea to Matter

No work begins with matter.

It begins with a question.

I do not seek to illustrate predefined concepts. Instead, I remain within uncertainty long enough to allow the research itself to reveal its own form.

Drawing is the first laboratory.

It is there that relationships begin to emerge.

Lines come together.

They move apart.

They repeat.

They disappear.

The process is rarely linear.

It moves forward.

It moves back.

It simplifies.

It becomes more complex.

Every decision eliminates hundreds of invisible possibilities.

Matter does not execute an idea.

It transforms it.

Wood, metal, paper, paint, light, and shadow each possess their own intelligence. Every material responds differently to the same intention, requiring me to negotiate continuously between what I imagine and what can actually come into being.

It is through this dialogue that the work finds its identity.

Technology is part of this process.

Digital drawing, three-dimensional modelling, CNC cutting, laser engraving, and printing coexist with the human hand. I do not see an opposition between tradition and innovation.

I see continuity.

The tool never determines the work.

It simply expands the possibilities of the investigation.

When a piece appears to be finished, what may be the most important phase is only just beginning.

To observe.

To wait.

To listen.

Because finishing a work does not mean bringing an idea to an end.

It simply means interrupting a process at a particular moment in time.

The Relationship Between Artistic Practice, Design, and Research

I have never truly distinguished between art and design.

Both seek to understand the relationship between human beings and the world.

For many years, design taught me how to solve problems.

Art taught me that some questions are not meant to be solved.

They are meant to remain open.

It is at the intersection of these two disciplines that I found the core of my practice.

The methodology of design offers rigor, structure, and the ability to synthesize.

Artistic practice offers the freedom to question what appears self-evident.

Research brings the two together.

Each work is a hypothesis.

Each exhibition is a laboratory.

Each observer becomes a participant in the experiment.

I do not create series in order to repeat solutions.

I pursue successive investigations into a single subject: human consciousness and the ways in which we construct meaning.

The work ceases to be merely an aesthetic object.

It becomes a vehicle for knowledge.

I am less interested in producing answers than in cultivating better questions.

I believe that art has a unique role.

Not because it explains the world.

But because it makes visible what science measures, philosophy contemplates, and human experience feels, yet what we rarely perceive directly.

To conduct research through art is to accept that some discoveries can only emerge through experience.

Why a Work of Art Never Ends

We tend to think that a work of art is finished when the artist signs it.

I disagree.

At that moment, it merely changes its state.

While it remains in the studio, it belongs to the process.

Once it is exhibited, it belongs to time.

Every person who encounters it adds another reading.

Every space transforms its presence.

Every era reshapes its meaning.

A work never remains the same because the world itself never remains the same.

Nor do we.

What we perceive today as form may reveal itself as memory tomorrow.

What appears to be silence today may become a question tomorrow.

Works of art age.

Materials change.

Surfaces breathe.

Light never falls in quite the same way.

Nor does the observer ever return as exactly the same person.

That is why I believe a work continues to be created long after it leaves the studio.

It lives in every encounter.

In every interpretation.

In every silence.

Time does not wear a work away.

It continues to write it.

Perhaps that is art's greatest quality.

To remain unfinished.

Because everything that is truly alive remains open to be discovered again.

And perhaps that is precisely why I continue to create.

Not to complete a work.

But to begin a conversation that may continue far beyond my own existence.