Marco Grechi


Writing something about one’s own life is not easy, but I’ll give it a try.

I find myself curious to make new discoveries. Like a child playing with the earth and kneading it, so too, when I look, I see my hands and clothes smeared with colors. If this had happened years ago, I would have gone home to change; now, instead, I keep going where I was headed, even if I notice my pants are stained with paint.

What I share about myself might even spark your curiosity. Colors—along with paper, wood, and so many other materials—have taught me how to live, to allow time for the canvas to dry and for my feet to stay grounded. My eyes, on the other hand, I let wander—they fly, then return, only to set off again, free like kites, to see the world, life, with renewed simplicity.

All of this tells me that we are not made in series—we are made with seriousness. And in the search for what dwells in the spirit, lines sometimes confused emerge, forms that journey from chaos toward new spaces, seeking a place to pause before setting off again.

We are not mass-produced—we are made with purpose.

Previous
Previous

María Aparici

Next
Next

Bukola Dagiloke