Saturday. The mechanical cry of the alarm-clock gives me a powerful reminder that I am alive. It is painful.  It's 5 AM. I have slept at least three hours. The journey of the artist. A painful, unknown journey that I walk even in my sleep. Searching the undiscovered colors in my dreams to bring them back to share.

Sharing. A week ago I unveiled  a new body of work. My way of sharing. Colors from my dreams finally visible for others. I remember the color green at the National Institutes of Health. The green walls and scrubs. I could not touch your face, because of the risk of infection. Cancer, they said.

A few months ago I began working on a new body of work. I entered and re-entered into the life of people affected by disease and brought forth new images. My act of compassion. My way of to suffer with. I shared my memories and the new visions of health and healing. I created icons, sacred doorways and I was awaiting for people to enter.

Friday night. Opening night. Light rain in Florida. I see the face of my wife as she looks out from the gallery's window. A few people lingering. Every passing minutes gives a painful reminder about the journey of the artist. It is a painful, but beautiful journey. At least, our friends came. No sales. And it did not matter that it was benefiting for people affected by cancer. My wife tries to hide her tears. She has been working on the preparation of this exhibit for weeks. She has not been sleeping much lately.

We walked in the Florida night in silence and searched for words of comfort. I could not sleep that night. But I was awake at 5 AM. I went to the farmers' market and set up my stand among vendors of produce, flowers and vegetables. As a part time employee at a local glass studio I experiment with glass and I have made a few plates and jewelry. So I put up my little plates of fish and tribal faces and I breathe the fresh morning air of sea salt, tomato and fresh cut flowers, knowing that I am still on the journey of the artist.

I think about my paintings at the gallery. The morning pain turns into new strength It's enought to take a leap of faith. The gallery opens at 11. Can I invite you in?

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