• 4 Canvases 2(90x90), 2(80x90)
• Egg tempera, oil paint and vinyl paint on wood plate
• 2017

Why the hell carving the faces of presidents on the side of a mountain? That must be what a lot of senators did say in the American congress when the Rushmore project was unveiled. But of course there is indeed an answer for almost every question, including the reason of why to paint four portraits on the hillside of the Rax mountain range of the Austrian Alps.

There is a path that spreads from one side of the canvas to the other and that it has two doors as our lives. It is as transparent as the lack of memories that were never forgotten. Translucent like events that happened but from which we can never have any remembrance although they passed through our bodies.

We know very well which one is the door in the shadows. It is made of countless generation debris. Memories that we leave behind and that accumulate through millenia generation after generation. Very few memories prevail from most of us. Like corals and as in sedimentary rocks our fickleness, our ideas, our victories and our horrors get stacked together in this ebony wood from which the black door is carved.

In between, the live of small pebbles unravel in the cold air of the Rax. It is the path that goes from one edge to the last. Upon them, the structures of people develop, in the school, at work, on the child production. It is what gives the track it's coherence. Every year this path has to be looked over, repaired. After every winter, after each storm. Because coherence does not belong to the mountain and probably also not to the ones that travel through it. Nevertheless there is someone never seen and who is in charge of this. They climb with shovels and small rocks with similar sizes. And they repair it. One year, and the next one and another one more. One generation and the next. I ask myself who are this people that with their generations engendered ours? Which is the kind of consistency they have? Why did we never meet them?