The wine alone is flowing in the ink of Carmen. And 'the wine of Baudelaire, but proud of its decrepit cenciaiuoli, murderers, lovers who, like two cherubim, they set off for the plane journey. His painting is poetry and vice versa. It 's a continuous exchange of vital information, is a continuous succession of bursts of words, color jets. Every brush stroke is the flap of the wings of an angel that blows away the seed of life. And 'the nemesis of maudit, the manifesto of a rebellious person that lives on the margins of our society and that, nevertheless, the frequency with bulimia of good and evil.
Carmen, in his artistic journey, takes a deep dive into the bowels of the darkest depths of our soul. Breathe a mixture capable of ensuring the right lucidity when the canvas is immaculate white and screams the need to know their fate. His blood is a 'trimix' of feelings and her nerves are tense and compact. E 'sharks and dolphins at the same time, prey and predator, victim and victimizer. His weapons are words. The cradle as children and as a modern Medea, causes, volunteering, getting out of hand to let them kill themselves, which smaterializzino that drag Executioner and guillotined in the depths of the seas. The brush is the coral that is broken between the fingers, is the lure of the siren, and Thanathos Eros is in a constant game of references.
Carmen lives two lives, maybe a few more. Live life as a woman and child, mother and daughter, a wife and mistress, a woman and a man. Angel. Only those who can open like the wings of a manta and sail the ocean of the wicked smallness of our lives, can afford to play with the verb, with color, with light. With life.