The artist is an artisan - the artist is a poet
I grew up seeing my father building things from scratch, creating... putting together things, wood, metal... random material combined to give life to an idea - an object that would become part of my daily life. An artwork by my aunt - she never went to art school, in fact she had basic studies all together- is a first memory of something beautiful: she worked at a local pottery factory, she painted plates and other products for clients to buy, for people to love. In my kitchen one of her works... just a window open to somewhere else.