This story is about the paintings Mr. Chappuzeau paints.

I could say, I paint, then exist or, write then exist.
The truth is that this would be in case of an exclusive dedication, which for the time being is not so, even though there is a decision and an effort in that sense.
Painting is up to now, a way of externalizing this concern I spoke of, which needs to be manifested in colors which in some way are visualized in my imagination and I play with them around a theme, until I eventually distribute and arrange it on the stand, be it on canvas or wood.
This divertissement which in itself is a demand to become independent and manifest itself freely, without ties/chains etc. This then becomes an unavoidable need, visceral: to be given the possibility to exist on its own.
This is what I call the game, because it has a character in either of its stages: when the "click" takes place as it is forming.
Now then, having established a prime idea, something incredible and unexplainable takes place;
it demands and forces a series of small changes or variations which one could say, come to me above or beyond the first idea, and I feel almost a medium which transports this passenger with a certain but unknown destiny.
The colors begin to take the locations, they balance out among themselves playing with each other, accomodating within the bidimensional space where they find their proper place and are part of the form in which one had a not so independent and free participation as one might think, because in some way one has been "forced"..............."