My Father, a line perfectionist, a compressed graphic designer, a nervous power, escapes in the creativity of travel. He doesn't paint, he doesn't draw, he invents. Reality is not painted since it exists, but thought sweats and surfs on his works. He composes by breaking down, looks while seeing, seeks balance, finds it in harmony. He is a quiet inventor who composes only for those who share his thoughts.

His painting comes from the mind.

Contact: no contact!