Your husband Diego commented: I, paint the world in my eyes, and you, paint the world in your heart.
Drink water when you are thirsty and draw when you are sleepy when you are in pain, so the best you can draw is always a self-portrait. Although none of the self-portraits has a regular sketch, it is the montage-like fragments that image a three-dimensional and real you, your pain and sadness, your loneliness and helplessness. How can a work drawn with such an attitude only belong to you? Everyone in this world suffers the same pain, and only you dare to cut them open for everyone to see. A work must first move oneself before moving others. You deserve Picasso's praise: I will never be able to paint a self-portrait as good as her.
You are like a butterfly in everyone's life, enthusiastic and unrestrained. In the face of your romantic and derailed husband, you open up about your bisexual tendencies and make no secret of dating multiple lovers. You lie in bed dressed up for your art exhibition, ask the doctor for permission to drink a glass of tequila, and you say, just one, and I promise not to drink at your funeral. This is your attitude towards death, and that's what makes you charming.
In contrast, why can't we with able-bodied limbs live a life of indulgence? Are you ready to try it at your own funeral? There is nothingness outside of life, and the world you live in is heaven. Don't have superfluous fantasies.
I first learned about Mexico because of Luis Barragan, who was attracted by the heyday of colors. Today, I was once again shocked.
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