Philosophical Masturbation Painting

My name is Adilson Fernandes, I'm 35 years old. I was born in Cape Verde (Santiago Island) but grew up in Portugal, a fact that gives me dual nationality and which can well translate my identity, in symbolic language, into the following words: Cape Verde represents my roots, everything that I tend to crystallize; Portugal, my wings, everything in me is scattered. However, I am neither my wings nor my roots, but the precarious gap that connects them, the perpetual movement that keeps them interconnected. I have a degree in Languages, Literatures and Cultures and a postgraduate degree in Comparative Studies from FLUL (Faculdade de Letras Universidade de Lisboa. About my art: In truth, I studied to save my art, wich is for me, a step to climb higher descend deeper, go even further... even if it doesn't save me back. It's the fair price to pay. I consider my plastic arts "textured paintings", and since modernity demands a label, I will place them between painting and artisanal collage. Painting allows me to pour my discriminated taste for colors on paper; collage allows me to incorporate textures as a way of highlighting the composition, giving them a more organic value. They hurt those who touch them, but illuminate those who let themselves be caressed by their flames. About me: I am the result of what I was: an unconditional lover of anonymity. I was then a drop - an insignificant drop of tears, sun, salt, sweat and blood - in an ocean thirsty for love. I was also the ocean and, above all, the thirst. Anonymity, a familiar place where I could dream and create. But time passes and takes its toll. And the greatest of all, are the dreams he sacrifices to the "holocaust" of creation. Today Schödinger's cat only lives, breathing outside the box. Not from the world. In this regard, I consider myself no less a philosopher than an artist: the artist is a marble stone, sometimes black, sometimes white, fixed on the limit between me and the creator. When I finish sculpting it, it will be the image, I hope, of the creator I aspire to be. Because I love many artists who are not creators, but I have never met a creator who was not an artist. Besides, what am I missing? Time. A time that was like the sea, more than a place of refuge, the only place where time does not pass.