I started drawing as soon as my heart was broken. There's one thing that happens when you feel that your life is stolen from you - an emptyness, like a vacuum, a void, a heavy space inside yourself. With me was in my hands.  I'd look at it and, as I still do, remember my grandfather voice, while my grandmother lied behind a hospital door, after a minor brain stroke at the age of 85, and he grabbed my hand, his hand shaking with fear, and said - you have such a beautiful hands, so beautiful nails, just like your grandmother. And they were empty, loose. The nails were still polished, like my grandmothers - they were never like hers, I have scars from cat bites, and small cuts from kitchen accidents, burn marks and, to be honest, I inherited my father thick working fingers that I disguise under red red nail polish, but they were open, no musle force, laying on my lap. Empty hands as a witness of an empty heart, empty brain. Not nervous, not restless. Just a gigantic black hole with 10 fingers with no hope to create anything - dead extremeties hanging loose. That's when I started drawing, when I became unable to spread the butter on the bread, when the musle loss gave me corps fingers, when I knew they were already useless, I invented them a new function. I never draw before, never knew how to, was never good at it, and then, the fingers, my fingers, as born to a new.life after death, decided to go restless and today, everyday, this is what they do.