SPRING
This year, the blossom was exceptional. Brief as always, yet of rare intensity, almost unreal. The almond trees filled the landscape—not as a motif, but as a presence.
White and pink masses, crossed by light, resting on the still fresh green and the yellow ridges of the horizon. I sought less to represent them than to retain their essence:
the vibration, the dust of color, that suspended moment when nature seems to reach its own paroxysm. As often, the material imposed itself. It fragments, disturbs, recomposes. It reveals the blossom not as a clear image, but as a sensation.
A memory rather than a landscape.