Sometimes, surprised, I find myself a traveler through my own memories. As an explorer who is moved to discover what the sea of memories has washed up , in the form of memories, on the shores of the present. Memories, some vague, others broken, almost all of them incomplete and a few, a mere few, so clear that it would seem as real as the air breathed. But all of them, clear and cloudy, timid and intense, one after another, places on the map of what I have experienced what I am accepting as the profile of my existence. A tangle of paths that intersect that twist in an apparent chaos but that point to a single reference direction, that of that lost Ithaca that is childhood, and that with my work I try to rescue from the mist of oblivion. A territory irretrievably lost but that I feel occupies, invisibly, the marrow of my bones and perspires, in the form of nostalgia, through a whole constellation of small objects and endearing images that I treasure as doors to the past, as a balm with which to make myself and my time more livable.