That blank area open to the channel on its own, and going unheard, as in snow, a baby color, a color that Ethiopia, which sits on a line on a line on the run, the vibration of the visible in the eye of the beholder even absent. A long boom spills staining certainty, and brimming with light to germinate: dog, hand, flower, eye, lip, tool, child, everything about the bold white animal.
loves all tangible breath of those strokes that mate and breed as the origin of the world.
The look of the painting, workshop laborious. And from the look of the painter's heart blows the form of the intangible, the color of the underside of the things we lick and bark at us, ignore us or save us.
The painting, ruminating wakefulness to make up the wonderful mystery of the everyday.
Transformation, Metamorphosis, photocopying encouraged by the tireless fingers in his eyes. Humble, bold, stark in the workshops of dawn, in the background, further back, where shadows guarding all the light that hides his palette, made with raw tenderness maps of the soul, the soul of things, maps, paintings, even true for your little girl around the house, not just at home when your eyes which again deployed to watch, and time is yours, Nuestro, every time you referred
Then the blank area, open to the canal, itself, unprecedented and something happens, like the snow, drinking a color, a color that sink, which sits on a trait, on a line on the run, the visible vibration in the eye of the beholder still missing. A long stampede spills staining for sure, and germinate rebosante light: dog, hand, flower, eye, lip, hand tool, children, everything, everything about the bold animal blank. Every breath
loves these tangible traits that aparean and create as the source of the world.
The look of the painting, workshop laborious. And from this look at the heart of the painter blows the form of intangibles, the color of the envés things lamen or barking, or ignórannos save us.
The painting, Rumi the care to compose the wonderful mystery of everyday life.
Transformation, Metamorphosis, photocopies are animated by restless fingers of his eyes. Humble, bold, gaunt in the workshops of the aurora in the background, but at the bottom, where the shadows keeps all the light that hides your palette, draw maps with raw tenderness of the soul, the soul of things, maps, paintings, even Chiquita true to his walk home, and not just when your home look that puts us back the Mirales, and time is yours, ours, which increasingly includes
new paintings by Victor 
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