To paint the scent of sacrifices, perfumes of testimonies to offer up on the altar of holocausts.
Scent to atone for the deficiencies of sophisticated and presumptuous perfume, perfumes that accumulate commitments.
I believe the witness is impregnated with the aroma of landscapes fossilized with all of their living beings, the smell of cattle burned and converted into ash plus incense. All scattered on the canvas spattered with blood. The picture, why not? as altar of perfumes. Only pure aromas, the smell of constant contact with the earth, the nature that makes me drunk with its instincts, slowly forming me to put my own memory in order.
I admit feeling far removed from the Aromas that camouflage the sacrifices.
S. Moix