I was born in Transylvania, Romania, to a beautiful family.
My father was a revolutionary, fought against the communist dictatorship.
He saved lives of people through his actions.
An artist himself, an intellectual, a bon vivant, an amazing friend,
and so, so much more in one word, a complete human being.
All my work as a visual artist comes essentially from stigmata
that's used here in the plural form of the word stigma.
It's not associated in any way to the Roman Catholic sense.
It is used as an anatomy which is a scar, a mark, or a trace.
Or in biology, it's part of the female reproductive part of a flower
where germination takes place.
What I found through this wound was a magical world of the Gypsies.
While they traveled, being that they were only legal while in movement,
the convoys maintained contact with the other bands of caravans of the same clan
while moving along separate bands.
They did that by leaving signs at crossroads,
twigs tied with a red rag, a branch broken in a particular way,
leaves left in a certain way, all through these signs, these symbols.
But they have no home, and perhaps uniquely among people,
they have no dream of a homeland.
Nostalgia for Utopia, it's a return home to no place, therefore ruthless.
That is my stigma.
I learned a different kind of closeness to nature.
I learned to look for treasures in the most unlikely places.
All I learned with them left indelible marks, stigma,
and I learned how to live with them.
Music, the most mysterious, intangible ephemeral of all art forms.
Each sound corresponding to certain ones of color and to a certain smell.
It is not art for art's sake, it is art for my life's sake.
But then what does it mean to see?
Who sees?
Who believes they know how to see?
