During the first period at the Academy, one day, I was assigned by my teacher the task of representing "the injury".
What kind of injury? How could I portray it?
In an attempt not to make a poor impression, I tried to draw a detailed and irregular “crevice”,
carefully sketched on the drawing paper, featured by hundreds of black and red Indian-ink marks.
With great patience, I made what I considered a well drawn , clean, very good work.
I showed it to my teacher, hoping he would praise me for doing such an accurate and painstaking job.
But he said: “Is that meant to be an injury? Does it really express pain? How long did it take you to make this?
Do you think you have obtained the result that you were hoping?”
Actually, however accurate that work might be, it did not say much to me.
It was aseptic. A good work with no soul.
Suddenly the teacher took a blunt pencil, clasped it as if it were a knife,
and started moving it all over my drawing, so strong as to butcher it.
My work was spoiled, but now there was a real wound.
That tattered paper, that uneven and torn cut, that sheet raped by a blunt pencil: all that really expressed the idea of an injury.
“Travis”
“The Knight”
“The Albatross”
“The Old Man”
“The Dog”
“J.M”
“The Unexpected 2”
“The Portrait”
